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megwritesriddles · 28 days ago

Text

Sweetest Nectar ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Being at Hogwarts at university-level had it's perks, such as unsupervised days in the greenhouse with Neville. Reader finds herself in an unfortunate position thanks to a flower in the greenhouse and Neville has to figure out how to help while being a gentleman and preserving their friendship.

Tags: Sex pollen, Mildly dubious consent, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sex, Begging, Friends to lovers, Minor yearning, HogwartsUniversity!AU, Post-war/Eighth year, Virgin!Neville (he just is, I don't make the rules), Too much backstory, Sentient Hogwarts, Silly fluffy ending.

Word count: 11.1k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: Can you see why I've been gone so long??? This had zero business being 11k words but I'm a chronic overexplainer so here we are!! Skip the first 9 paragraphs if you don't care about any worldbuilding. Continuing my 'Neville gets muscular as he gets older' agenda as per. The last line is so dumb... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

P.S. this is technically day 23 of my kinktober but it's january so lets not talk about that

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Hogwarts worked in mysterious ways, with its own indecipherable motives. This much had always been true but was especially recognised lately. Once rebuild efforts had concluded after the war, Professor McGonagall, like every headmaster before her, bar Severus Snape, had sent out invitations to recent graduates to join the Higher Education program, a two-year program that would prepare its students to become a professor in any chosen field, subject to meeting entry requirements of the course. Demand for this program was higher than it ever had been, so many recent Hogwarts graduates felt like they had missed so much time at Hogwarts, that they were willing to come back on the program just to make up for lost time. At first, McGonnagal thought of shutting the whole thing down or at least raising entry requirements for joiners; there wasn’t exactly enough room in the designated Higher Education quarters for all the applicants. And though the regular student population had dwindled significantly over the course of the war (best not thought about too hard), it seemed wrong to try and room adults with 15-year-olds just to fit everyone in. The night before she intended to send out the letters of amendment to the required marks, McGonagall felt bizarrely compelled to go on a stroll around the castle, feeling drawn down a route she didn't often find herself going. There, she found a brand new door, behind which were brand new living quarters, just big enough for all the applicants. Although she should have been relieved, McGonagall was initially rather frustrated by this. Why now did the blasted old castle decide it could build, when nearly all summer long volunteers had been slaving away to restore the castle? The windows glittered as if to wink at her, she decided that the daft old thing must have liked the attention. McGonagall found herself relieved, she too felt that the recent graduates were not ready for the career world quite yet, having had not only their final year of study lost to the war, but the years before that tarnished by looming threats and incompetent bumblers. Also, there was an urgent need for qualified teachers of magic, so the more the merrier, even if most of them would only use it as a springboard into something else.

You had always been a shoo-in either way, although you never got to sit your NEWTs, the honourary grades you were given were stellar, supported by fantastic results in your OWLs and overall fantastic conduct in class. The blemishes on your record from the Carrow's note-taking were wiped, leaving your record squeaky clean. You received your acceptance letter and list of supplies and felt like you were eleven again. Everyone was required to specialise in a subject, and while you'd had a couple in which you had adequate grades which you might have chosen, you went for Herbology in the end, as it was something you loved. In all honesty, you liked Professor Sprout the best and were eager to train under her.

As soon as you received your letter, you wrote to Neville. There was no doubt in your mind that he would be studying under Professor Sprout alongside you, despite not even knowing if he had applied to the program initially. He quickly confirmed this suspicion when he wrote back to you, saying he had a sneaky feeling about you as well. The two of you had become fast friends in the sixth year, both being in Advanced Herbology. You'd known each other a little here and there before that, but in this class, your friendship truly formed. The class was very small, as the interest in Advanced Herbology was low, most careers only required a decent grade in standard Herbology, so even those with interest had to prioritise other things for the sake of their future, such as Potions or Charms. There were only the two of you and a pair of Slytherin girls who, despite seeming genuinely very passionate about the subject, refused to converse with the two of you and whispered amongst themselves all the time. This was fine with both of you, as you had each other, taking time to study together, walking to and from class, and working efficiently during any pair work. The two of you had been ripped apart during the war, you had to steer clear of Hogwarts for your safety, and Neville, being intensely monitored by the Carrows at the time, refused to write to you and risk revealing your location to them, so you had been out of contact for quite a while. You wrote to him again on his birthday and had been corresponding a little since, but things felt slightly stunted. You hadn't seen each other in so long and Neville was never the best when it came to socialising.

Arriving at Hogwarts once again had been intensely bittersweet. So many good and bad memories to try and process all at once, it felt overwhelming. You'd had to step outside during the sorting but found yourself far from alone out there. So many people were broken. You apprehensively made your way over to Hermione and said hello. She pulled you into a tight hug, as you hadn't seen her for a long time either. You listened as she explained about Harry and Ron, that they didn't want to go into teaching, and though she'd explained over and over that most people that do the program don't end up teaching, they'd still refused to come. Trying to make the most of it, she tells you it'll be nice to spend time with other friends for once and you nod along. She is somehow specialising in three subjects, she'd wanted to do more of course, but it hadn't been allowed. Trust Hermione to work herself to the bone happily. You'd made it to your room later that night, a private room with an en-suite, which felt awfully fancy for Hogwarts, and settled in. Being back was an odd feeling, you could see the cracks in the stone everywhere you looked, there was pain everywhere, yet so much good to try and find.

To your complete relief, when you started your first day in the Greenhouses, things fell back into place with Neville instantly. At first, you'd greeted him with a hug, which had been awkward as he hadn't been expecting it, but very pleasant once he figured out what was going on. Soon after this though, as Professor Sprout set you her first task (to prepare some plants for her third years), things were back to as they were, perfect. You worked together well, talking and laughing easily, and though occasionally the chat went sour and the mood fell, this was happening with everyone lately, a byproduct of the war, there was so little to talk about that wasn't tarnished that it was a wonder the two of you were able to laugh as much as you were. Neither of the two girls from advanced Herbology were there, and although this initially saddened you both, you conceded that there could be many reasons for it. There weren’t many Slytherin returners, there never had been, but after the war especially, the turnout was pathetic. Most Slytherins avoided their peers after the war for fear of ostracism, which was fair as people had some pretty bad opinions on them but sad because there were several Slytherins who hadn’t been on the wrong side of history who were still facing hostility.

The course was a lot of independent study of assigned texts and essay-writing, but all day on a Tuesday and half a day on a Thursday, the two of you were in the smaller greenhouse behind the ones for teaching, working on various projects, which also sometimes required your attention out of teaching hours. This greenhouse was set aside initially for research purposes at Sprout’s predecessor's request, but now was being used to train those in the higher education program. Despite this greenhouse being smaller than the two nearer the grounds, it was still fairly large and complex. Upon entering, you came into a little cloakroom, where you would have to don your aprons and gloves before entering, with a sink in the corner for washing up when leaving and entering. The next room was the main growing area, growing various plants that weren’t dangerous but were still perhaps best kept out of the reach of the younger students. There was a long wooden workbench in the middle of the room for potting and taking notes and whatever else you might need to do. Off of the opposite end of this room, there were three doors, one that led to a small room which was always kept humid and at tropical temperatures, one which was always kept cool and dry and one lockable room in which more dangerous plants were kept, such as venomous tentacula or fanged geraniums, only to be accessed with Professor Sprout supervising.

Professor Sprout would only tutor the two of you on Thursday, so with the exception of the first few weeks, the two of you were entirely alone from 9 am to 4 pm on a Tuesday. Although it sounded a little salacious when you told friends, the truth was that most Tuesdays you were both too busy for anything to happen. Not that anything would of course, but certain assumptions were made when people heard you were alone together for hours with what they assumed was an easy subject. Mostly your days were full of tending to the plants, having to frequently refer to your notes for how each should be cared for (how much water? what temperature should the water be? do they require singing to?), observing any plants that were the subjects of your essays and preparing plants so they would be safe for lessons with younger year groups.

It’s a Tuesday like any other. Neville is carefully planting some seeds across the workbench from where you’re delicately pruning a particularly active flitterbloom bush, setting the clippings aside to send to the potions department later. One of Neville’s research subjects is observing what methods of growth acceleration work the best and cause the least damage to the plants they’re applied to. He has been planting, growing and replanting dittany over and over for weeks now, but was still gathering more data as he came across more and more methods to test, and each had to be tested several times over to rule out external factors.

Your research was on the merits and drawbacks of pruning, and which plants took best and worst to the practice. Pruning was useful as it allowed more ingredients to be obtained from individual plants for potioneering purposes, but generally was thought to be harmful to the overall health of the plant. You were attempting to write a definitive list of which of the 25 most common plants used in potions could be pruned and which couldn’t, which to your surprise had hardly been researched before as the belief of its harmfulness had permeated the field since 1870 and most Herbologists had steered clear of it since. Your research seemed to be proving it wasn’t nearly as harmful as thought.

The two of you chat idly as Neville uses a pipette to apply various growth potions to the soil of his newly planted seeds and you carefully measure the regrowth of a stem of the flitterbloom bush that you pruned a few weeks ago, struggling as the stem swayed about.

“I can’t believe Hermione talked Ron and Harry into actually joining the course next term,” Neville hums, extracting exactly 5 millilitres of potion from a bottle with his pipette. You scoff.

“For real this time? They keep saying that yet nothing ever comes of it,” you shake your head, scribbling down your measurement on the parchment beside you.

“Yes, really, two new rooms have appeared in the boys' dorms with their names on them, if Hogwarts knows, it must really be happening,” his tongue sticks out slightly between his teeth as he concentrates on dropping the liquid right in the middle of the little pot. Not wanting to throw his research, you wait until he’s done to reply.

“Perhaps Harry and Ron don’t even know it themselves,” you joke, making Neville chuckle.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle decided it for them,” he carefully pushes the cork back into the top of the potion bottle. “The castle is quite odd lately, perhaps it has whatever its equivalent of brain damage is from the war, it’s acting much more blatantly,”

“How so?” you tilt your head in his direction, soothing your finger over the agitated stem that you just had to hold taut for measuring.

“I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories of people getting stuck in rooms with the people they like, doors literally disappearing until they confess or otherwise!” Neville laughs, carefully moving his pots back to their designated spot on the windowsill. With his back turned, you can’t help but glance at the door despite yourself, wondering if it’s still there. It is. You quickly avert your eyes from the door as he turns back toward you. “It’s why there’s suddenly all these couples popping up, sure the castle has always been a little cheeky, but never so obvious before, it all started with the higher education wing appearing overnight and it’s seemingly been madness since,” he shakes his head, picking up another batch of pots containing little sprouts at various heights that he has to measure.

“It’s sweet how many people have liked each other and not even known… has it always been people who like each other stuck together?” you ask, stroking your quill, feeling the soft tufts beneath your fingers.

“As far as I’ve heard, each time it’s happened it’s ended well,” Neville shrugs, rifling through his bag for his measuring tape. You glance at the door again, seeing it still there. Unrequited, you figure, that door will stay right where it is.

“I wonder where the brain of the castle is if it even has such a thing… it is sentient in some ways, so there must be an equivalent right?” you ponder as he loudly removes his books from his bag and thuds them onto the workbench.

“The room of requirement? For some reason that comes to mind… a fire in your brain can’t be good,” he chuckles, his voice slightly strained as he peers under the table for the offending measuring tape.

“You can borrow mine,” you suggest softly as he comes up with nothing.

“No it’s fine, you need it,” he waves his hand dismissively, standing up from his stool. “I’ll fetch mine from my room, I’m fairly certain I know exactly where it is on my desk, can’t believe I forgot it again,” he grumbles the last part to himself. “Be back in 15, watch my plants,” he smiles, although you can tell from his sheepish look that he’s embarrassed to have forgotten something yet again. Luckily, you could head back to fetch things at any time at your level, no longer having to ask to go to the toilet or anything like that. There was no one here to ask. You smile back, watching as he enters the cloakroom. A few moments later, you see his heavily blurred figure heading up the hill through the heavily rippled glass of the greenhouse windows. In the newfound quiet, you return to your work, hearing only the spray of simulated rain in the tropical growing room.

Finally finished with the flitterbloom, you stand to retrieve your next plant, a valerian bush, for pruning. As you move to stand and step forward, you feel an odd pressure at your ankle. Stepping forward anyway, you realise too late that your foot is hooked on a support between the legs of your stool, sending both you and the stool off balance and toppling over toward the room-length counter that holds all the various plants. Reflexively, your body twists and your arms come up to shield your head as you thud loudly into the solid wood surface, causing a choir of wobbling pots, luckily with no ensuing crash of broken terracotta, you had to count your blessings somewhere. A dull pain throbs through your body, starting from the side that crashed against the counter. Thud! A yelp rips from you as the stool, still twined with your leg, falls onto your thigh. Luckily, it is only light and will leave a small bruise at most, your side colliding with the counter on the other hand…. You shut your eyes tight, feeling utterly embarrassed about what just happened despite being alone. You weren’t normally this clumsy and you were sure you looked a mess, an undignified heap on the floor, too shocked to stand up or even open your eyes yet. In the permeating silence, you sit on the cold stone floor and try not to cry, from the shock more than the pain.

A violent sneeze overtakes your body, the action of it hurting your side. You sniff and cough, dust seemingly surrounding you. You must have jostled some old dusty plants that hadn’t been touched in a while when you collided with the surface. Surrendering to the coughs and sniffs that wracked through your pained body, you wait it out until the dust subsides, grabbing your bruised side as you double over with violent sneezes and sputters. Finally, a deep breath of clean air, you sag against the counter and try to gather yourself now you can breathe properly once more.

“It was exactly where I thought it was…” The door from the cloakroom creaks open in the silence as Neville enters, clutching his measuring tape. “I can be so scatterbrained,” he huffs, his eyes sweeping the room at the height he expects you to be. In embarrassment your eyes squeeze tighter, not wanting him to see the mess you’d gotten yourself into. Upon not seeing you, he glances around for any evidence you might be in one of the back rooms, though not thinking of a reason you would be.

“Down here,” you squeak, your voice hoarse from coughing. The words itch your throat and you splutter slightly once more as he rounds the workbench and spots you on the ground. You give a sheepish smile, finally having opened your eyes. It’s painfully obvious from your stool-adorned leg what happened, you just hope he doesn’t think any less of you. He shouldn’t, he has a reputation for being clumsy himself, but you can’t help but worry. “I fell,” you rasp pathetically.

“Are you alright?” he surges toward you and kneels, immediately examining your head for any bumps, rubbing over your scalp gently. The action makes your cheeks heat up, but you try to ignore it.

“I’m okay, I landed on my side,” you reply as he carefully removes the stool from around your leg and stands it back up beside the workbench. His arms wrap around you and he carefully lifts you to stand, you yelp as the movement stretches your side and he shushes you gently.

“It’s alright, there we go… just—,” he holds you steady until you’re stable on your feet. When he lets go of you, it feels oddly painful deep in your stomach, but you brush that off.

“Thank you,” you whisper shyly.

“Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?” he asks, bringing his hand up to feel your skull once more, worrying over whether you might have been badly injured. You lean slightly into his hand without meaning to.

“No I promise, it was just my side and my thigh,” you insist, inwardly wishing he’d brush his hand against those spots to check them. For a moment his hand moves like he might, but he stops himself.

“If you’re sure,” he inspects you once more, hovering behind you as you sit back down on the stool, trying to brush past this whole incident. “Can I grab your plant for you?” he offers. “Which were you going for?” you want to complain, but his eyes are wide and earnest and you know he wants to help.

“The valerian… and could you pop the flitterbloom back for me?” you request, hesitantly testing the tender skin where the stool collided with your thigh, wincing at the throb of pain that followed your touch. Neville dutifully returns the flitterbloom to the counter, then places the valerian bush before you. Behind you, you hear him gently pushing some of the pots that had moved when you smashed into the counter back into place. You flush and keep your head down, pretending to inspect the valerian bush but not being able to focus. Your brain feels a little fogged up, you assume from the shock of the fall. Not wanting to alarm Neville in any way, you grab your tape measure and pretend to measure the leaf regrowth. He quietly moves around the workbench, bringing his pots over to your side of the bench and sitting down beside you to resume his work, his brows furrowed in concern for you. “Really, I’m okay,” you chuckle, but the weakness of your voice does little to reassure him.

“It’s better if I sit here, just in case something happens,” he says, more firmly than he usually says anything. That side of him was new since the war, this ability to stick up for himself in smaller situations. He’d always known how to stick up for the greater good, but little things like this, he would allow himself to be walked all over, too scared of losing a friend. Now that he has more confidence, he’s not so afraid to dispute his nearest and dearest, knowing you’re unlikely to end your friendship with him over this. And if you did, it would be weird and not his fault anyway. The tone of voice is also on the newer side and it stirs something in your belly.

You sit side by side working on your respective projects. Well, Neville is working, you’re more just going through the motions while your mind hovers elsewhere, not allowing you to focus on what you’re meant to be doing. Maybe you were concussed… but you hadn’t hit your head during the fall, so what was wrong? You take a few deep breaths, trying to slow your heart which still seems to be beating slightly fast. Slowly but surely, your body starts to feel a little warm. You glance to make sure the door to the tropical room hasn't opened as your cardigan starts to feel a little stuffy. No matter where you look in the room, you can’t find any source of excess heat. A puff of breath breaches your lips, you’re growing uncomfortable now, the heat only seems to rise and rise. With great unnecessary difficulty, you wrestle yourself free of your cardigan, throwing the wretched thing on the ground beside you with a grunt. Neville gives you a confused look, but not yet seeing anything obviously wrong with you, returns to his measurements. There is relief from the warmth that was engulfing you, but only for ten minutes at most, as soon you are sweltering once more. An awful voice at the back of your head tries to convince you to throw off all of your clothes, but you keep it together, merely squirming in your seat, rubbing your thighs together to try and quell the growing ache in your belly that your mind isn’t quite registering yet. In a last-ditch effort, you sip some water from your lukewarm water bottle, the relief it provides is even shorter than before. Your head whips around now, searching fruitlessly once more for the source of this despicable heat, but finds nothing. Neville is unfazed beside you, still wearing his sweater and looking perfectly comfortable. The only thing you can think of is that Neville must be radiating the heat, as nothing else could explain your sudden discomfort. You reach your hand out toward him, trying to gauge if it gets warmer the closer it gets to his side. This finally catches his attention and when he looks up, he’s met with your flushed clammy face and dilated pupils.

“Whoa! Is everything alright?” he sputtered, leaning back slightly as if worried you’re contagious. This upsets you and you let out an unseemly whine.

“I’m hot,” you huff, pushing your hair back from your face to get more cool air on your skin. “Really hot,” Neville’s eyes brush over you for a moment as he considers just how hot you are, before promptly snapping himself out of it.

“You do look a little… feverish,” he agrees, reaching out and touching the back of his hand to your forehead. You lean forward into the touch, moaning softly. Your skin is burning and slightly tacky with sweat, which makes Neville frown deeply. How could you have suddenly developed such a terrible fever? He pulls his hand back, but you immediately whine and claw at his arm to pull his hand back. Too baffled to protest, he lets you pull his hand to your cheek and watches you lean against it happily. He gently runs his thumb over your cheekbone before catching himself. “Are you alright?” he enquires once more, keeping his voice soothing.

“Don’t stop touching me,” you pout, looking up at him through your lashes with a look that is wholly inappropriate for an academic premises. He swallows.

“Wha-what?” he stammers, watching as you nuzzle against his hand.

“It helps the heat… don’t stop,” you whimper, reaching out to try and pull him closer by his sweater, but not being strong or focused enough to do it. This failure pulls another whine from you. Neville’s mind reels completely and he has to look away from you to compose himself, though he keeps your cheek cradled in his palm. What was going on with you? Were you ill? His eyes find the spot where he’d found you on the floor just earlier in his attempts to avoid the sultry unexplainable look you were giving him. “I need you to touch me,” you mewl, making him shiver.

“I’m not sure that’s–” he cuts himself off when his eyes land on the plant on the counter above where you fell. Lamprocapnos libidinosus, also known as the dripping heart, a magical relative of the bleeding heart flower in the muggle world. A common ingredient in lust potions and aphrodisiacs, highly dangerous in the wrong hands due to the potent amorous effects of its spores. Neville vaguely remembers Professor Sprout's warnings that one of the PhD students was being allowed to grow it for research and to steer completely clear of it. A warning he’s sure you would have headed if you hadn’t been tumbling toward it. Even from afar, he notices a couple of burst spore pods. “Oh no…” he mumbles to himself, dropping his hand from your cheek. You immediately protest but he stops you short. “When you fell… you didn’t happen to breathe in any dust, did you?” his voice shakes slightly, this cannot be happening to you. He always thought they shouldn’t have the plant growing in this greenhouse, even if only experienced herbologists were allowed in. Accidents happened as he knew all too well, and now his vague fears had become a biting reality.

“Yeah, why?” your voice is soft and sweet as you paw at him, trying to get him to hug you, or presumably something more. Neville flushes brightly and shoots upright, making a mad dash for his textbooks, still on the workbench from when he’d been searching through his bag. You wail at his absence, feeling the heat that had reduced to a low simmer return to a full boil. “Please…” you sob at him, not even knowing why you want what you want. “Just hold me, comfort me,” The look in your eye has him breaking, and if he remembers what little he’s read about the plant, you must be rather uncomfortable right now. He returns to your side and allows you to cling to his arm, bumping your head into his shoulder like a loving cat, while he frantically searches for the information he needs to help you. After several panicked flick-throughs, he locates the page.

Lamprocapnos libidinosus; also known as the Dripping Heart or the Flower of Lust.

At the top of the page is information entirely useless to this cause, the best season to plant, how much light is needed, etcetera, but finally Neville finds what he’s looking for under the ‘uses’ section. It’s tough to focus on reading when you’re practically trying to get under his sweater with him, pushing the knit material slightly up his side, your fingertips brushing his abdomen and making him jolt. He pushes your hand away but pulls you into a hug to silence your outcries, which you’re more than happy to sink into. He’s hugged you plenty of times so he pretends this is perfectly normal as he wills his brain to digest what's in front of him on the page. It’s hard to keep this pretending up as he can hear you sniffing him and moaning deeply at the smell of his shower gel, mixed with just a hint of sweat, which in this state only fuels your arousal, acting as a pheromone, worsening your need.

He skims the section frantically. Inhalation of the spores will lead to overwhelming feelings of lust even in small doses, however, the dose may affect who this lust is directed toward. Smaller doses will only worsen lust toward people already lusted after by the infected person, while larger doses will cause these feelings of lust to latch onto whoever is around, no matter prior relationships. The infected person will pursue their object of affection at any cost, they will be unable to focus on anything but the lust that has overtaken them. These feelings of lust, if left untreated, can cause extreme discomfort in the infected person, high fevers, intense symptoms of arousal (such as fluid secretions), shivers, brain fog and other symptoms varying by person and dose. The only way to cure the infected person of these symptoms and return them to full faculties is to have them reach climax.

It seems that you have chosen him as the object of your affections. Neville looks down at you as you hug him tight, continuously trying to slip your hand beneath his jumper. Out of selfish curiosity, he heads for the plant to try and determine how large of a dose you got and whether you may have already experienced feelings of lust toward him before the effects of the plant. When he moves away, you practically sob.

“Please don’t!” you wail, diving for him and into his arms once more. For now, you seemed to be mostly content just being held in his arms, and it’s clear you find it painful when separated from him for even a moment, so Neville has to relent. He delicately lifts you, and although having you wrap your legs around his hips hadn’t been a part of his plan, he supposes it does help keep you steady. He blushes brightly as he walks over to inspect the flower. He’s never held anyone like this, so intimately. Your skirt rides up where your legs wrap around him and he has to tear his eyes away before his thoughts become too inappropriate. You like the sight as much as he does. “You’re so strong,” you purr in his ear, your voice much lower than normal. He shivers and you feel it, the knowledge you’re having some effect on him overtakes your lust-addled brain.

“Th-thank you, I’ve been exercising a lot since the war,” he mumbles, counting all the burst pods on the plant. He counts five, but he’s not sure if that’s considered a large dose or not. Probably, but the pods do look rather small.

“Mmm, it’s so hot…” you purr, trying to wriggle against him. Neville’s face turns red and he practically drops you, but holds you steady so you don’t fall once more once your feet touch the ground.

“Don’t say stuff like that!” he yelps.

“It’s true,” you pout. “I need you,” you try to hop up into his arms again but he holds you firmly on the ground, practically shaking. Really, this should’ve been a dream come true for him, he’d had feelings for you practically since the day the two of you met, but he felt disgusted with himself for every wave of excitement that passed over him. You were burning up, your cheeks brightly flushed, a deep ache at the pit of your belly and an ever-growing wetness in your underwear. All you could think about was how it might feel to have Neville soothing the fire inside you with deep strong thrusts, you moan aloud, if you focus enough you can almost feel it. “I bet you’re big, I bet you’d fill me up so well,” you murmur, looking up at him seductively.

“I- Merlin…” Now Neville feels overheated, he tries to push you away a little but you aren’t letting him. The image of filling you up won’t leave his head no matter how much he commands it to. It doesn’t help that you’re now trying your best to reach his jaw to kiss it.

“Please…” you beg once more. “I need it so badly…” his resistance crumbles for a moment and his hands drop from your sides, allowing you to rush forward and attach your lips to his jaw. His eyes slip shut and he whimpers as you hold him close and lavish his neck and jaw with attention. His arms wrap around you, hands gently skimming your back as you continue to pepper him with kisses. “Please,” you whisper against his skin, your hand dropping to the buckle of his belt. The feeling of you tugging at his belt makes his eyes shoot open. He realises in a sudden flood of shame what he’s allowed you to do. You’ll hate him for this once you’re back to normal. He grabs your shoulders harshly and pushes you away. You squeak as he sits you on one of the stools, your eyes filling with tears at the rejection. You’d been so close to what you needed, and now with this newfound distance from him, you were in pain once more, a horrible throb in your stomach.

“Listen to me,” he breathes shakily. “We can’t do this, you’ll regret it as soon as it’s over,”

“No, I–”

“You’re not in your right mind, you don’t know what you actually want,” he asserts again, reminding himself more than anything. He takes a deep breath and thinks. The only way to cure you according to the textbook was for you to reach climax. In colloquial stories about the plant, he’d always heard that orgasm would have to be reached with the help of another person, but the book didn’t stipulate this, maybe this was the answer. You could do it alone. His cheeks were flushed bright red as he opened his mouth once more. “What you need to do is… er… I’m going to take you into the cloakroom, alright?” he swallows, cautiously pulling you up from the stool onto your feet. You would need to sit somewhere to do this presumably and sitting on the stool or the workbench in here could lead to falling and disaster all over again. The best place he could think of was the bench in the cloakroom where people could sit to remove their shoes. You would have the wall to lean against and wouldn’t be sitting on the cold stone floor. Beneath you, he lays out a towel and then helps you to sit down on top of it. The towel was intended to make you more comfortable, but he considers with a blush that it might be necessary for other reasons also. He clears his throat. “Now, you have to… er… get yourself… uhm…” he can’t seem to make himself say the words. With a soft tug at his sleeve, you pull him to kneel between your legs, your faces nearly level given how much height he has on you.

Before he can stop you, you kiss him. His brain stops functioning for a moment, all he can do is wrap his arms around you and kiss back, so intoxicated by the way your lips move against his. He didn’t have much experience with kissing, but there was no doubt this was the best kiss of his life. You moan against his mouth and it sets all his nerve-endings alight, making him push even closer to you in desperation. For you, the kiss is a sweet relief, cool water washing over your overheated body, but even so, you need more. There’s an incessant throbbing between your legs, a horrible feeling of emptiness that you know only Neville could fill. Trying to urge him on, you brush your tongue against his lips, hoping for entry. You’re allowed in for one tantalising moment before he pulls away with a start when your tongues graze against each other. The whine that rips from your throat is downright pathetic, but you don’t have the faculties to care at that moment. You look at him through your lashes, watching as he fights to regain his composure, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Never in his life has he felt as weak as in this moment, rendered so malleable by his desire for you. The two of you are friends. How will you react when you come back to normal and discover he let you kiss him in this state? That he’s allowed his selfishness to get in the way of what’s right? He jumps to his feet, ignoring your cries and protests as much as it pains him to do so.

“Look, the textbook says that the only way to cure you of this is… a uh… a climax,” he blushes and chokes on the words slightly. “I’m going to keep watch outside that nobody comes in, all you have to do is… you know…”

“Get myself off?” you supply in a sultry voice.

“Yes, exactly,” he clears his throat, turning to leave you alone.

“Nev, please… I need your help… I don’t want to do it alone,” you plead, your voice soft and needy.

“No, you can do it alo– oh… wow,” he exhales heavily as his eyes reach you once more. In an effort to persuade him, you’d pulled up the hem of your skirt and spread your legs, revealing your thighs and your soaked panties to him. The cold air makes you shiver but doesn’t actually cool you down in the slightest. It takes a great deal of strength to keep Neville from lunging himself at you. You look positively delicious, the wetness of your panties allowing him an outline of your most intimate areas, the skin of your thighs soft and plump and enticing. If he was even a slightly feebler man, he’d already be on his knees, devouring you through the thin, damp fabric. Just imagining how you might taste has him weak in the knees. “Oh Merlin…” he breathes, feeling his erection, which has been slightly present for the last half-hour or so, straining painfully against the zip of his jeans. The needy seductive look on your face almost breaks him, he takes a step toward you, causing you to light up, before he stops himself and just stares. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, unable to help himself. He watches you squirm in response.

“Please, I need you,” you beg, unbuttoning your shirt as he observes. The garment falls to the ground, leaving you in your plain bra. Neville doesn’t seem to mind how simple the garment is in the slightest, his breath hitching as you reveal yourself.

“I really shouldn’t” he tries again, but he cannot rip his eyes from your body.

“I can’t do it alone, I feel so empty,” you whimper, spreading your legs further. “Please, fill me, I need your cock,” Neville nearly faints at those words, at the pleading way you say them, at how desired you’re making him feel. His legs carry him forward before his brain can catch up and he sits beside you on the bench. His brain finally does catch up just in time to stop you from sitting in his lap.

“Maybe I can help a little, but we can’t… I can’t uh… I can’t ‘fill’ you,” he gives in, despite knowing he probably shouldn’t. He had heard many times that another person was needed to reverse the effects of the Dripping Heart, so it was likely he did have to help, given the fact you hardly seemed satisfied with the idea of getting off alone. He could still be as much of a gentleman about it as possible. He knew the both of you had limited sexual experience, he himself was a virgin and though he wasn’t sure about you, he would guess you were in the same boat or had only had one partner before. With both of you having so little experience, he didn’t want to go all the way, as for you it would likely be regrettable. You plead with him softly, trying to climb into his lap still, despite his strong arms holding you at bay. Each plea weakens his resolve and he knows you know it because you’re babbling now.

“Please, please Nev, I need you inside me, to fuck me, I’ve never needed anything so badly, please, I know you want me too,” he deserved a medal for being able to resist you for this long, most other boys would have given in the second the girl of their dreams said something even remotely flirty, but he was somehow just barely resisting your pleas to have sex with him.

“Sit down,” he implores you, and you quickly obey, batting your lashes at him. “I’m going to help you, okay? But you need to stay still and just… take what I give you, don’t ask for more, okay?” These words seem to excite you, you squirm and nod, eagerly allowing him to spread your legs. His shaking hand rests on your bare thigh for a moment as he takes a few composing breaths. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, it was something he had dreamed of incessantly, but now it felt like it could ruin his life if he wasn’t careful. You tug softly at his arm, trying to get his hand where you want it, bucking against the air.

“Please…” you sob, clenching around nothing as you look at his large hand against your thigh. He shushes you gently.

“I’m about to, just give me a second,” he stammers, trying to sort through his brain for any information he has on how to do this. He averts his eyes, figuring you wouldn’t have wanted him to see you so intimately, even if the damp fabric of your panties had already given him a pretty good look. Slowly, he places his hand on the apex of your thigh, shivering at the damp warmth he can feel radiating from your core. You mewl. Despite the pain in his neck from the position, he keeps his eyes locked on the wall behind you, pointedly ignoring how arousing the sounds you made were. Gathering his courage, he carefully slips the tips of his fingers past the fabric of your underwear and groans aloud at how wet you are. Your nectar gathers on his fingers and for a moment he just gently swipes them up and down to gather as much as possible, hearing your desperate moans as you lean your head on his shoulder. He never knew a woman could be this wet, and sure perhaps the flower was exacerbating it, but the thought still had him unendingly aroused. The angle wasn’t quite right, so he removed his hand, whining in unison with you at the separation. Your essence dripping down his fingers was like a siren song, trying to lure him to lick his fingers clean and finally get a taste of you. How could he ever explain that to you later? To his infinite regret, he doesn’t bring them to his mouth, sliding his hand into your panties once more, now from the top. This angle works a lot better, your hips immediately buck as his fingers slide over your clit.

“There, please, right there,” you beg, and he’s glad for the advice. A little unsure but determined (no point backing out now, at least he might be able to cure you), he relocates the spot that makes you shiver and whine. Your reaction tells you exactly when he’s found the little bundle of nerves once more and he takes a deep breath, before gently beginning to circle his fingers around it. It’s something he remembers hearing in the common room, and it seems it was good advice as soon you’re panting in his ear like a dog in heat, mewling his name softly. He can’t believe the noises you’re making, the sinful way you’re saying his name, it’s like perfect torture, it takes a lot out of him not to look. “Yes, fuck… Nev…” you whine, feeling the syrupy pleasure coursing through your body. “Yes, yes! More!”

“More?” he croaks, unsure what you mean by that. As a guess, he tries circling faster, and though you definitely seem to like it, your hips canting up into his touch, he can feel you shaking your head against his shoulder.

“Need you inside,” you cry, making his cock twitch in his jeans.

“We- we can’t do- that,” he stutters, although he’s never wanted to more in his life. He wholeheartedly agrees with your pained sob in response, but he knows it’s for the best. “How about… er… my fingers? Inside?” he gulps, flustered that he’s even in a situation where he can ask such a thing.

“O-okay,” you whimper. Neville fumbles around for a moment, trying to figure out where to put his fingers. It would be much easier if he could see what he was doing, but he’s already decided he shouldn’t. The fact that he touched you will no doubt be mortifying enough once you’re back to normal. With a little guidance from you, he very slowly and cautiously presses two fingers into you, making you gasp in pleasure. You’re wet and warm and tight around his fingers and he practically drools imagining how you might feel around his cock, almost cumming on the spot just thinking about it. Merlin, he was such a pathetic virgin, maybe he should be taking the chance and losing his virginity now, but it just doesn’t feel right when he doesn’t know how you’ll feel about it afterwards. He presses his forehead to the cool wall to calm himself down and prevent him from looking at how you took his fingers in, withdrawing them just slightly and then pressing them back in. The sound that comes from you makes Neville’s heart skip, so lewd and sinful and full of ecstasy. He wants desperately to kiss you, but he knows he shouldn’t.

At your renewed pleading, he starts up a steady pace, thrusting his fingers in and out the way he wished he could with his cock, feeling filthy for even thinking it. The wet sound that each thrust made, accompanied by your wanton moans makes him feel like he’s the one who has been infected by the flower, so crazed with desire. Could there have been some pollen on you that he inhaled when he helped you up? It didn’t seem impossible, but he was also a young man, they weren’t exactly notorious for being level-headed when it came to sex. You lean heavily against him, gasping against his shoulder at each press of his fingers, the coil in your belly twisting tighter than it ever had before. You mumble incoherent pleas and he simply shushes you, not trusting himself not to give in to you if you keep talking.

“Thumb,” you breathe between vulgar moans and though it takes his sluggish brain a moment, he realises what you want. He presses his fingers deeper, fumbling a moment before his thumb grazes your sensitive bud, making you sob in pleasure. His large deft hand pleasures you like it was made for it, all you can think of is the bliss he’s giving you as he hits all the right spots over and over. Your hand flies up, nails digging into his arm as you realise you’re dangerously close to exploding, despite the bite of your nails, he doesn’t let up his pace, too addicted to the sound of your moans to slow down now. “Nev… I’m–” you cut yourself off with a shout, pleasure shooting through your body like you were struck by lighting. Your muscles tense and tremble, your eyes rolling back in your skull, walls contracting around his fingers hard. The pleasure goes through you in strong waves, drowning you in it, not allowing you respite from shivers and moans for even a second as it wracks through you. You’d never felt anything so intense and all-consuming before. Neville feels your essence gush onto his fingers and though he should be relieved it’s over, he finds himself disappointed that he has to stop doing this, hearing those bewitching sounds. Gently, he removes his hand from you and guides your skirt back down your thighs so he can finally look toward you again. His fingers are covered in your essence, creamy and mouth-watering, the only thing that’s able to stop him from having a taste is your hand still clinging to his arm. He waits for you to gather your breath, silently smug he was able to help, but also petrified of what happens next.

“Are you alright?” he asks delicately, shifting his erection away from your back now that you might actually register it. You open your eyes and look up at him, which immediately makes him frown. Your pupils are still almost comically dilated, your cheeks still pink and clammy, and though it could just be from the aftermath of your orgasm, he immediately knows something is still wrong.

“I feel better… but not entirely,” you whisper and Neville bites his lip. Great. He stands to wash his hands in the sink, and during that brief period of absence, he watches you become consumed by the effects of the flower again, pleading for him to come back. He splashes water on his face and takes a deep breath. You had reached climax, he may not be an expert in female orgasms but he knew what he just saw and felt, so what was wrong? Was the plant in the greenhouse genetically modified in some way? Would he have to call Professor Sprout to ask for help? How exactly could he explain that he’d already given you an orgasm and it hadn’t worked? Looking back, he should have taken you to Madam Pomfrey the second he’d realised what had happened to you, but he thought you would have found it too embarrassing. Now things would be infinitely more embarrassing for the both of you if you sought out help. Lesson learned, just because he’d survived a war it didn’t mean he could deal with anything life threw at him alone. He feels you approaching from behind and turns around, allowing you to sink into his arms. “Stay with me,” you plead, holding him close.

“Okay,” he sighs, because what else can he do now? “I’m here,” He caresses your bare back and tries to forget what he just did to you, but he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, kissing your forehead without thinking. “I’ve made a mess of things, we did all that and you’re not even cured,”

“Why won’t you fuck me?” you whimper. Your boldness doesn’t even surprise him anymore.

“Because it’s not what you really want, you’d never forgive me once things got back to normal, I was just the only person around for the pollen to latch onto,”

“But that’s what the pollen wants, maybe that’s the only way to cure it, I don’t just want an orgasm, I want you inside me,” you suggest. He’s glad you’re slightly more lucid from the relief of your climax, but you’re still not entirely yourself, your voice slow and sluggish like wading through water when trying to formulate logical thoughts. He can’t deny the way his cock, which had softened slightly, was coming back to life at your words. “Please…” you nuzzle against his chest. “I promise you, I want this even when I’m not… whatever I am right now,” you chuckle. He sighs. He doesn’t quite believe you but he’s running out of ideas of what to do, and your friendship is presumably ruined anyway. Maybe he’s making excuses for himself, but it feels more and more like there’s only one thing for it. He prays you’ll remember how much you begged and how hard he tried to be a gentleman and not hate him, even if you avoid him for the rest of your life after this. “I need you,” you whisper and he gives in.

“Forgive me for this,” he pleads, before lifting you into his arms and moving back over to the bench, sitting down and letting you straddle his lap. You smile at him softly, fluttering your lashes. At least the orgasm before made you a little calmer and more agreeable. If nothing else, if he gets you to orgasm again, you might be even closer to normal. He pulls you to his chest taking a moment to embrace you for what he worries may be the last time. You nuzzle into him eagerly. “I’m a virgin, you know?” he mumbles into your shoulder, not knowing why he feels the need to say it. Those words seem to embolden you, you paw at his chest.

“I promise it’ll be good, please…” you purr. He wonders how you might have reacted if you were your regular self. Would you have found it sweet? Would you have pitied him? You probably knew, everyone knew, but you never mentioned it to him. He allows you to pull off his sweater, lifting his arms and watching you discard it across the room. When you lean in to kiss him, he doesn’t even pretend to put up a fight, holding the back of your neck and kissing you back, pouring all his unspoken feelings into it. He tries to keep it slow and gentle, but you’re far too eager, and the heat starts mounting fast. He pushes away all his doubts, telling himself he can enjoy this, or else it would be even more of a waste. The t-shirt that was under his sweater is next to go, as he pulls away to allow you to rid him of it, he studies your face, still flushed and feverish, but so beautiful, full of lust. His hands fall, one to your waist and the other to your cheek, pulling you back in, pressing his lips to yours and sliding his tongue between them. You moan against his mouth, whimpering a soft sound, a thank you or a plea for more, it’s unclear. He groans back in agreement with whatever it was you intended to say. Your tongues languidly swirl together, caressing one another affectionately. Feeling your warm hands on his bare chest makes him shiver, feeling as you explore the newfound definition of his abdomen, only light, but still a change. In turn, he presses a few kisses to your chest, shakily reaching up to rid you of your bra. It falls away and his cock twitches at the sight of your bare breasts, his breath hitching. He could have never hoped he could see you like this, could have never hoped for any of this, and yet here you were, whining and guiding his hands under your skirt. He runs his hands up and down your thighs as he kisses and sucks at the supple skin of your breasts, giving himself some time to enjoy this despite your hurry. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have left a mark and asked you to give him one in return, but he knew this was crossing a line as if a million lines hadn’t already been crossed today. At this thought he changes his mind and sucks a tiny mark into the centre of your chest that he’s sure will fade in a few hours, staring at the light pink mark a little wistfully. “Need you inside…” you whine, despite enjoying his affection. There’d be time for that later, but right now it felt completely imperative for him to be inside of you, fearing you might explode if he didn’t give you what you wanted.

“Alright, I get it,” he sighs, placing a few more lingering kisses on the swell of your breasts. Your hands find his belt buckle and without him stopping you this time, they make quick work of it. There’s an awkward shuffle as he helps you lower his jeans around his ankles, but once you’ve settled back in his lap, you take in the sight before you. He looks big even through his boxers, just like you predicted, thick and slightly longer than average. Just the thought of him inside you makes you moan and claw off your skirt with no regard for whether it survives the encounter. Neville’s overheated back presses against the cool wall as he leans back to watch you. He doesn’t bother feeling insecure, as you look like you’ve struck gold as you drool over his length, he supposes in this state you would have been happy with anything. His hands slide up and down your sides, being gentle, taking in the sight of your body, so perfect. He wishes in the back of his mind that this won’t be the last time he sees it, but hope feels too dangerous given the circumstances. He helps you slide your panties down, groaning softly as he spots a string of arousal fluid connecting you and the fabric for a while. You want him so badly. His boxers soon follow and he hisses loudly as your hand wraps around his length. “Oh Merlin…” he whimpers, bucking his hips into your hand. “Fuck, I need you,” he parrots. The ghost of a smile crosses your face as you recognise the words as your own.

“You have me,” you whisper, shifting your hips so you’re above his cock, holding him steady as he twitches. Deep brown hooded eyes stare into yours, he can’t believe his luck. Unable to wait any longer, you sink down onto him. Neville’s eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and he grabs your hips to slow you. You feel perfect around him, warm and silky and inviting, engulfing his whole being in sickly-sweet pleasure. He pulls you close, embracing you as you moan in his ear. Slowly, he lowers you down the rest of the way until your hips are flush with his. For a moment, he simply hugs you and kisses your neck.

“Feels so good,” he pants in your ear. “So good,”

“You fill me perfectly,” you whine, squirming in his lap for friction. “So big…”

“Yeah?” he coughs, trying to sound smooth but failing, causing him to chuckle nervously. “I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he rubs his hands up and down your spine. “I wish this could last forever,” He lets go of you and leans back against the wall, his hands settling on your hips, taking a moment to admire the sight of you on top of him, him inside you. You feel him twitch within you. “Take what you want, love,” he encourages you to move. There’s no point in him trying to remain in control, all he cares about is that you reach climax, he’s bound to anyway. The nickname makes you even needier somehow, the way his voice is deep with desire. Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, eyes meeting for a moment. You’re both flushed and blissful and the look in his dark eyes shoots a jolt through you. He’s always been attractive, but to see him like this, vulnerable, needy, chest-heaving, it was something else. On his advice, you begin lifting yourself up and lowering yourself down onto his cock, moaning unabashedly with each motion. He stretches you open in the most delicious way, exactly how you’d been picturing all day, or for several years really, perfectly endowed. He relaxes and closes his eyes, groaning and whimpering as you move. Every rock of your hips stokes the flames in the both of you, sending you both toward a common end faster than you regularly might.

“Thank you,” you purr between moans. “I’ve needed this so bad,”

“I know,” he chokes out with a tired smile. “I’ve needed it too,” he gently massages the fat of your rear as you ride him, watching in bliss as he disappears inside of you over and over. Your moans rise to a fever pitch, your pace faltering slightly as your climax approaches.

“Yes! Yes!” you practically scream, all your senses heightened as you slam your hips down against him. His face scrunches up in pleasure.

“I’m going to– Ahh!” he grunts, body trembling as he releases thick ropes inside of you, whining with the aftershocks as you continue using him to chase your high. It’s so close, you can’t give up now. Neville’s hands weave into your hair, pulling your face down to his to kiss you. Your tongues meet messily as you struggle to focus on the kiss, preoccupied with your orgasm that is on the tip of your tongue. Heat pools strongly in your abdomen, and you feel the familiar ecstasy of the coil snapping in your belly. Your movement immediately ceases, walls spasming around his length as you moan loudly into his mouth, grabbing him and holding him as close as possible. Your vision whites and your brain goes blank, your whole body twitching violently. He tries his best to soothe you through it, but the pleasure isn’t allowing a single thought to form in your mind for several moments. Finally, your muscles relax and you collapse against him heavily, chest heaving with effort, skin slick with sweat. You vaguely register him removing himself from you and wiping you with a towel, but the corners of your mind are fuzzy and you just cuddle closer to him. You sit in silence for a long while and you nearly fall asleep against his shoulder when he speaks up. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you hum. He tilts your chin up towards him.

“Open your eyes, love,” he implores softly, to which you flutter them open. He sighs a great sigh of relief, seeing your pupils shrink as they react to the light, dilated now a regular amount, and the flush on your cheeks is much less than before. “Do you still need me?” he asks.

“Don’t go,” you panic, holding him closer, but then you realise what he means. “Oh… no, all I want is to maybe have a nap,”

“Thank Merlin, I couldn’t have gone for another round,” he jokes stiltedly. You giggle, cuddling closer once more. “You don’t hate me then?” he mumbles, as if worried he will have reminded you to hate him, gently pushing some hair from your face.

“No, you… saved me,” you shrug.

“Saved seems dramatic,”

“Well, who knows what would have happened to me if you’d just run away and left me alone? You didn’t have to do what you did, but you did it for me,” you lean up to kiss his cheek. “You gave yourself to me completely, just to save me from discomfort,”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” he laughs nervously and you gently swat his chest. “I’d do anything for you,” he whispers, kissing your forehead with a barely contained tenderness.

“Yeah, you’ve proved that,” you grin, kissing his cheek again. “And I for you,”

“You’d have had sex with me if I’d been the one to bump into the plant?” he prompts, sliding his hand up your bare side affectionately.

“Of course, I’d have done it way sooner too, not wasted time being a ‘gentleman’,” you tease. “Thank you for that though, it was sweet of you, even if it was unnecessary because I don’t regret it one bit,” you promise him, kissing his lips tenderly. He embraces you tighter for a moment and then loosens his grip.

“We should probably leave, I bet it's past teaching hours now,” he sighs before helping you up and to dress. Your panties are well and truly ruined, so you’re forced to go commando under your skirt. Neville wraps his sweater around your hips to help prevent it from flipping up as you walk through the grounds back to the dorms. He finds it difficult to dress himself as you keep eagerly kissing him, but finally get himself presentable, only to be pulled into another kiss. It’s not desperate or lustful like before, more playful and excited, and he’s happy to accept them. “I take it you like me,” he chuckles as you hug him tight, his arms around you in return.

“Loads,” you sigh into his t-shirt.

“I do too,”

“My room? I promise we can just cuddle and sleep,” you suggest, smiling up at him.

“Hey, give me a few hours, I might be raring to go again,” he jokes.

“Well then definitely my room so I can help you out, I owe you one, don’t I?” you giggle and wink. He blushes slightly and shakes his head.

“That plant has made a monster, come on,” he takes your hand in his. “Let’s go before someone notices and starts asking questions,” he opens the door into the greenhouse, accio-ing both of your bags over, as well as the open textbook from the workbench. “Stupid inaccurate thing,” he grumbles, stuffing it in his bag. You merely giggle at his frustration. As you turn to leave, you’re met with a gleam of magic, the door to the outside of the greenhouse rematerialising. The two of you exchange a look, neither of you had realised the door was even missing amidst the whole debacle, but it must have been, or else it couldn’t have reappeared. Hogwarts had forced the two of you together, it was likely your fall hadn’t even been organic in the first place. You knew you weren’t usually so uncoordinated.

“Huh,” Neville blinks, checking that the door now works, wondering when exactly it disappeared and how he had missed it. You scoff and shake your head in disbelief before the both of you laugh earnestly.

“Hogwarts is a total perv,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

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solelifauna · 18 days ago

Text

Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Invincible & Reader)

Pt.5

Guys, I'm cooked. Anyways, thank you for all the kind words!!! Also Y/n's cooked too...anyways! Enjoy!

ALSO!! EVERYONE THANK @oof-spoof!! THIS SERIES IS NOW BASICALLY DEDICATED TO THEM!!! Thank you @oof-spoof for supporting me!

The group fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words sinking in as if the world itself had pressed down on your shoulders. It wasn’t just about stopping Omni-Man and Invincible or sending that crucial tip to the Guardians of the Globe—it was about surviving long enough to make any of it matter.

The irrefutable fact lingered in the back of everyone’s mind, unspoken but looming: you might be killed again.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the memory of your father’s hand crushing your skull replaying in vivid, excruciating detail. The sound, the pressure, the blinding pain—it haunted you in ways you couldn’t even articulate. And if not that, then what? Would it be a more horrific death this time? Burned alive? Torn apart?

You looked around the table, the same realization written on the faces of your friends. Hallie was biting her lip, staring blankly at the table as her fingers drummed nervously. Connor’s jaw was clenched, his fists curled tightly on his lap. Weston was silent, his expression unreadable, but his tired eyes betrayed him.

Finally, Weston broke the silence. “I’ll figure out how to send the tip,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. His gaze shifted between each of you before landing back on his hands. “You guys focus on keeping our… other obligation in check.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about the Demogorgons. Those damn things hadn’t been on your radar for the past few days, but they were still out there, roaming the town, lurking in shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Judging by the groans and sighs from Connor and Hallie, they’d forgotten too.

“Everyone still has their things, right?” you asked, already mentally cataloging what you had at home.

Hallie sat up straighter, brushing her hair out of her face. “Got my pump action and bolt action in my trunk and in my closet,” she said, her voice steadier than her posture.

Connor leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Got ammo and a G-48, Haymitch's axe, and the machete,” he listed off, his tone bordering on exhaustion.

“I still have the smoke bombs and my dad’s rifle he thinks he sold,” Weston added, his voice low but firm.

You nodded, storing the information away. “Good. We’ll need all that and more.”

The silence that followed was thick with understanding. You’d fought these monsters before. You’d survived the impossible. But this time, it wasn’t just about survival. It was about holding the line, balancing the dual threats of the Demogorgons and the looming Viltrumite takeover.

"I say we prepare for the worst," you finally say, your voice cutting through the silence. "Stock up on ammo when you can, supplies, canned food, and whatever else we’ll need. We have to be ready in case everything goes to shit again, in case… in case what we do doesn’t work—"

“Don’t.” Connor’s voice cuts you off, sharp and sudden. “Don’t say that, (Y/n).”

You flinch at the rawness in his voice, the sheer force of his words.

“Connor—” you start, but he barrels forward, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking.

“It has to work!” he says, his voice trembling. “It has to, or else—” He looks away, jaw tight, his hands clenching into fists. “Or else that means we fought for nothing. That means all those people who died—who are going to die—died for nothing. That means we came back for nothing.”

His words hang in the air, raw and painful. You feel them hit you like a punch to the gut.

Your lips press together tightly as you try to find something—anything—to say. Connor was always the "strong" one of the group, the silent type, the brash one who rarely let anyone see how deeply he felt things. He was the backbone, the shoulder everyone else could lean on when things got tough. Seeing him like this, unraveling, hurts more than you want to admit.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Connor,” you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes watery as he scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “You—you’re just doing what you always do, trying to keep us alive. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize, Con,” you say quickly, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “I—I get it. Really, I do.”

The tension around the table is palpable. Hallie and Weston exchange uneasy glances, their worry for Connor evident in the grim lines of their faces.

“Connor,” Hallie starts gently, her voice low and careful, “nobody’s saying what happened before will happen again, but—”

“I know,” he cuts her off, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He lets out a shaky breath and sinks back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. But we have to consider the high chance it will.”

The stakes couldn’t be higher, and the thought of failing—of going through all of it again—was unbearable.

But you didn’t have a choice.

You glanced at each of them in turn, taking in their tired faces, the fear lingering in their eyes. They were your family, your only anchor in a world that felt increasingly impossible to navigate.

“We’ll make it work,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the storm inside you. “I don’t know how yet, but we will.”

You don’t know if they believe you, and honestly, you’re not even sure if you believe yourself.

Weston’s hand comes to rest on Connor’s shoulder, rubbing little circles in that gentle, soothing way he always did to calm the group down. It was such a Weston thing to do—he had always been physical with his care and affection, expressing his love in small touches and gestures that reminded you all you weren’t alone. You see Connor’s shoulders relax just slightly under Weston’s touch, though the tension doesn’t completely leave him.

You shift closer, moving to sit beside Connor, offering your silent presence as support. Across the table, Hallie slides her water bottle toward him, her brow furrowed in worry. “Here,” she says softly. Her voice doesn’t waver, but her eyes betray the depth of her concern. Connor takes the bottle with a small, muttered “thanks,” and sips from it, his gaze distant.

The weight of the moment settles over all of you, thick and suffocating. No one says anything for a while, and for a brief moment, the only sound is the distant hum of chatter from other tables in the courtyard.

Then the lunch bell rings, cutting through the stillness like a knife, signaling it’s time to go back to class. The sound sends a jolt through you, and you see the same dread reflected in everyone’s faces. None of you want to go. Yet, there was nothing you could do.

You all stand reluctantly, gathering your things in silence. Before you split up, you squeeze Connor’s shoulder gently, hoping it conveys what you can’t find the words to say. He offers a faint smile.

You walk into the crowded hallway, your mind scrambling as you try to recall your next class. What was it? You swear you knew just minutes ago, but now the information is gone, like a wisp of smoke slipping through your fingers.

You glance around desperately, hoping to recognize a familiar face, someone who might share the class with you. But the sea of students around you is a blur of faces you barely recognize. Who the hell are these people? You don’t remember their names, their voices, their stories. They’re strangers, even though you know you should know them.

Panic creeps up your spine as you weave through the hall, your breathing growing shallow. You’re losing it. You’re losing yourself, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. The realization claws at you, sharp and unrelenting.

You hate this. You hate what this world, what this second chance, has reduced you to. What it’s reduced all of you to.

Your hands tremble as you tighten your grip on your bag, willing the shaking to stop, but it doesn’t. You pass classrooms, peeking inside, hoping something will click—a desk, a teacher, a face. But nothing does.

The hallways start growing emptier as students file into their classrooms, the bustling energy fading into a deafening quiet. You glance around, the panic tightening in your chest. Where the hell were you supposed to go?

Your mind scrambles, trying to latch onto something—anything—that will tell you your next class. The answer eludes you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You fumble with your phone, attempting to log into your student portal. At least that would show your schedule, right?

Except the password isn’t auto-saved. Of course, it isn’t.

You sit there staring at the login screen, willing your brain to remember your credentials, but nothing comes. It’s just another blank void. Great. Now you can’t even see your schedule, let alone your grades. Not that grades should be at the top of your concerns right now, but still, the thought gnaws at the back of your mind. You’re so screwed.

You lean against a row of lockers, the cold metal biting into your back as you let out a frustrated sigh. What the hell do I do now? Asking the front desk for help is out of the question. It’s the middle of the school year, and no one forgets their schedule this far in. It would raise questions. And why couldn’t you just look it up yourself? The idea of facing that judgment makes you cringe.

No, you can’t do that.

Instead, you resign yourself to staying in a random, empty hallway, slumping down against the wall. The quiet envelops you, a brief respite from the overwhelming noise in your head. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around you. God, you didn’t realize how much your eyes were burning, how much your body ached.

The idea of just staying here, hidden and still, is so tempting. Maybe you could just chill here for a while. Yeah, that sounded nice. Just a little break.

You don’t realize how much time passes as you sit there, your mind drifting between the chaos of your thoughts and the exhaustion weighing you down. For a brief moment, you feel the smallest sliver of peace.

Until a voice shatters it.

“Playing hooky, (Y/n)?”

Your stomach drops. No. Not him. Not now.

Mark’s voice carries that unmistakable mix of smugness and sharpness, the tone that always made you want to squirm. “Tch, Mom and Dad are not going to be happy. Especially after the last meeting your counselor had about your little habit of skipping classes.”

You open your eyes, and there he is, standing over you with a smirk that makes you want to curl in on yourself. His eyes bore into yours, sharp and calculating, as if he’s dissecting you piece by piece.

“W-what? When did—oh shit,” you stammer, the memory hitting you like a brick. He’s talking about the meeting. You’d skipped a bunch of classes last semester to deal with the Demogorgons. Sure, you kept your grades up, but that didn’t stop the school from calling your mom. And to say she was upset was an understatement.

Mark’s smirk widens as he watches the realization dawn on your face. “Ah, there it is,” he says mockingly, leaning against the wall. “I’m sure Mom will love hearing about this. You know how she feels about second chances.”

You glare at him, the panic in your chest now mixed with frustration. “Mark, I—look, just don’t. Please.”

His expression softens, but only slightly. There’s still that edge to his voice, that unnerving mix of concern and menace. “Don’t what? Tell her? You’re not making this easy, you know. Skipping class, hiding out like this… It’s like you want her to freak out.”

“I just—” You falter, your words failing you. The exhaustion, the stress, the sheer overwhelming nature of everything—it’s all too much. You can’t think of a good excuse, and Mark’s gaze feels like it’s cutting through every lie you might try to tell.

He crouches down, leveling his eyes with yours. “What’s going on with you, (Y/n)?” he asks, his voice softer now but no less piercing. “You’ve been off. I know you’re not telling me everything.”

You look away, unable to meet his gaze.

Mark’s words linger in the air like a trap, waiting for you to fall in. “Are you depressed or something? Maybe it’s a boy? I don’t know, (Y/n), but something’s off. I know it is,” he says, his tone dripping with faux concern. “Just tell me. Tell your big brother, and I can make it go away.”

The irony of it all hits you like a freight train, and you can’t help it—you huff, then giggle, and then it all spirals out of control. A laugh bubbles out of you, wild and uncontainable, quickly escalating into full-blown hysterics. You’re wheezing now, clutching your sides, and you know you must look insane. Maybe you are. How could you not be?

It’s funny, really. The idea that he, Mark, could fix your problems. That he could “make it go away.” It’s laughable because a massive chunk of your problems is sitting right in front of you, watching you unravel with that same calculating smirk. How utterly absurd.

Your laughter devolves into choked breaths as your chest tightens painfully. The tears come next, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. You’re sobbing now, loud and ugly, your body shaking uncontrollably.

Mark’s expression shifts, surprise flickering in his eyes. Then something darker takes hold—something intrigued, almost amused. He wasn’t expecting this, but oh, was he glad. He leans in closer, his lips curling into a softer smile. There was something seriously wrong with you. He knew it now. And that knowledge only made him more eager to figure out what had happened to his weak, adorable little sister.

“Oh, (Y/n),” he coos, his voice deceptively sweet as he cups your cheek with his large, warm hand. His thumb brushes against your tear-streaked skin, wiping away the evidence of your breakdown. His touch is firm but gentle, an unnerving mix of comfort and control.

You try to flinch away, your instincts screaming at you to get out of his grasp, but your body betrays you. Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into his hand, your head tilting slightly as if seeking solace. You hate it. You hate yourself for it. But you’re only human, and his warmth feels like the only anchor keeping you from completely spiraling.

“St-stop this,” you choke out between sobs, your voice barely audible. “Puh-please.”

Mark tilts his head, his expression almost mockingly innocent. “Stop what, (Y/n)?” he asks softly, his voice laced with feigned confusion.

“This,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “This—what you—you’re doing. Please, it—it isn’t fair.”

His hand doesn’t move from your cheek, and his thumb continues its slow, deliberate motion, wiping away fresh tears as they fall. His smile softens further, but his eyes remain sharp, predatory.

“Fair?” he echoes, as if tasting the word. “Oh, (Y/n). Life isn’t fair. You know that.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “But you don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to worry about anything. That’s what I’m here for.”

You shake your head weakly, your sobs growing quieter but no less intense. “You—”

He interrupts you gently, his voice soothing but utterly condescending. “Shh. Just let me take care of you.”

The words send a chill down your spine, the weight of his intent pressing down on you. You know there’s no escaping him now, not when he’s latched onto you like this. Not when he’s decided you’re his problem to solve, his little sister to protect—even if it means breaking you further in the process.

Mark’s gaze lingers on your trembling form, his hand still cradling your cheek. He studies you with a mix of curiosity and calculation, the wheels turning in his mind as he contemplates your place in all of this. Maybe he could make something useful out of you. Maybe you could be shaped into something worthy of the Viltrumite cause.

But as he takes in your tear-streaked face, the way your body shakes beneath his touch, he doubts it. You’re too weak. Too small. Too soft.

It’s almost pathetic how fragile you are, how human you are.

Still, the thought lingers—what if? What if you could prove yourself? What if, against all odds, you showed even the slightest potential? Perhaps then he could convince their father to keep you after the takeover. It would be difficult, of course. Nolan had little patience for weakness, and you were the embodiment of everything the Viltrumite race despised. But if you somehow managed to prove your worth, there was a chance.

Mark’s lips curve into a faint smile, the thought of sparing you for his mother’s sake bringing him a strange sense of satisfaction. You weren’t ideal offspring, no, far from it. But you were her daughter. Debbie would appreciate having you around, he’s sure of it, especially when their father inevitably takes her away from Earth to shield her from the chaos of their conquest.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Mark murmurs, his voice low and smooth. His thumb pauses for a moment, pressing lightly against your cheekbone as his eyes bore into yours. “If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t even consider giving you a chance. But maybe… maybe you’ll surprise us.”

You blink at him, your chest tightening as his words sink in. “A-a chance? Mark, what are you—”

He cuts you off, his smile widening slightly, but there’s no warmth in it. “You’ll see,” he says cryptically, pulling his hand away and standing to his full height. His shadow looms over you, and for a brief moment, you feel like you’re shrinking under his gaze.

“Just remember, (Y/n),” he adds, his tone shifting to something colder, more deliberate. “This world isn’t kind to people like you. But you’re lucky to have me. I’ll make sure you don’t get left behind.”

The words feel like a promise and a threat all at once, leaving you frozen in place as he turns and walks away, his presence lingering long after he’s gone.

You’re left alone in the empty hallway, your breaths shaky and uneven, the weight of his intentions pressing down on you like a vice. Lucky, he said. But you don’t feel lucky. You feel trapped. And no amount of tears can wash that feeling away.

You sit there, slumped against the wall, trying to process what the hell Mark was talking about. “If it weren’t for Mom?” What does that even mean? Why would she have anything to do with whether Mark decided to “give you a chance?” What kind of chance was he even talking about?

Your mind spirals as you try to make sense of his cryptic words, the unease clawing at your insides. The idea that your mother somehow factored into whatever twisted plans Mark had for you only made the knot in your stomach tighten. What was he planning? What did he mean by not getting left behind?

Your thoughts race, one question bleeding into the next as panic wells up inside you. You can’t piece it together. You don’t have enough information. But the way he looked at you—the cold calculation behind his eyes, the way his words felt like a threat wrapped in false care—it makes your skin crawl.

You bury your face in your hands, your breathing shallow as your mind loops through the interaction. What the hell is going on?

Meanwhile, Mark is on his way out of the school building, his phone already in hand. He dials the familiar number, his expression cool and composed. The phone rings only twice before the unmistakable voice of his father, Nolan, answers.

“What is it?” Omni-Man’s voice is gruff, direct, as always.

Mark leans against the wall outside, his tone calm but tinged with a quiet urgency. “It’s about (Y/n),” he begins, cutting straight to the point. “There’s something off with her. More than usual.”

On the other end of the line, Nolan sighs. His voice is bored, disinterested. “Mark, your sister has always been like this. Emotional and a bit erratic. It’s nothing new.”

Mark clenches his jaw but keeps his tone steady. “No, Dad, this is different. She’s acting weird—like, really weird. Come’on, I’m sure you’ve noticed how she’s stopped constantly asking to go out with us? Or how everytime she looks at one of us, her heart rate always increases, hell, I could smell the adrenaline rush that gets triggered.”

Nolan’s silence stretches for a moment. “Dad, why is she having a fight or flight, fear response triggered, huh?”

“Of course I’ve noticed, Mark,” Omni-man sighs out. “If it’s worth worrying about, I’ll handle it. But until then, she’s just…” He pauses, and Mark can practically see the look on his father’s face. “She’s still a human.”

Mark exhales sharply, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to push Nolan when he’s like this. “Fine,” he says, his voice tight. “But if I find out something important, I’ll let you know.”

“Do that,” Nolan replies curtly, and the line goes dead.

Mark slips his phone back into his pocket, his expression unreadable. He’s not entirely satisfied with his father’s response, but he’s also not surprised. Nolan has never had much patience for what he considers “mundane human nonsense.” If (Y/n)’s behavior didn’t involve anything worthy of the Viltrumite cause, it simply wasn’t a priority to him.

Still, Mark can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this than his father realizes. And if Nolan won’t take it seriously, then Mark will.

#neglected reader #platonic yandere #yandere invincible #yandere omniman #yandere mark grayson #yandere nolan grayson #debbie grayson #mark grayson #nolan grayson #omni man #invincible x reader #invincible

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watsittoyah · 7 months ago

Text

The Devils Playpen

A Obsessive!QIMIR X BLACK!FEMALE OC STAR WARS SMUT FIC

This is complete fiction, I do not own any characters of the star wars franchise however I own all characters of my own creation, as well as plot.

That being said, the themes will be dark, Qimir will have obsessive and possessive qualities. This story will be borderline grey morals, there will be trigger warnings in the beginning of every chapter that will be gruesome/sexual.

You’ve been warned little flower if you’d like to continue, please read forward, if not put this work of fiction down and go read the holy word…welcome to the Devils playpen…

Chapter 1) When The Predator Becomes Prey…

(Song: Obsession By Exo)

Warning: Mentions of suicide. Stalking, choking of non sexual nature. Oral sex, shibari, threats of r*pe, Light Saber play (don’t be dumb you know what that last tag means)

I walk past a woman with long and short locks but she brings no excitement to my inner beast.

How lucky she is.

I hiss internally as I walk inside of the apothecary. Once I’m inside I inhale deeply, letting the poison I desire call to my senses.

However I smell something else. Something sweet? Sticky? I let my eyes fall onto a man hunched over in a corner. I don’t bother with manners of averting my eyes.

My curiosity has a scratch and I want it itched.

“Hello?” I call out to him in a soft voice. The man appears to be sleeping and I walk closer but keep my distance. His scent still smells sticky and sweet. Like those man eating plants over on Plexart.

“Hello, sir? I’m here to buy some supplies.” I say as I stare at his sleeping form. I flick an empty bottle over and it shatters causing him to finally stir from his slumber.

“Oh, sorry.” He stretches and does a big yawn before he looks over at me. When our eyes meet, he runs his fingers through his mop like hair and gives me a lazy smile. “Oh, hello. And you are?” He asks as he stands fully.

I take note that we have a significant size difference. He looks to be 5’11 while I stand at 5’4.

“I’m here to buy supplies, unless you aren’t the owner of this shop.” I ask in a gentle yet bored tone. He clears his throat and nods. “I am, I am. So what can I get for you? Ah, pick your poison.” He jokes. I however don’t laugh or crack a smile.

“I just needs a few things on this list. Whatever you don’t have, I’m sure I can find on my travels.” I hand him a piece of paper and our fingers brush against each other. He feels cold to the touch.

Interesting…

“Hm, this is quite the list. Might I ask what are all of these for?” He asks as he looks at me.

No, he’s studying me. Which makes my inner beast stir.

“Just some tools on helping me hunt. Nothing major. I don’t mean to be rude but I do need to be on my way.”

“Right, I will get on this for you now.” He starts on my list and I decide to look around and figure out if I’m going to kill him or let him live since he brings a spark of something out of me.

“Can I ask you a question?” The man asks, which causes me to give an internal sigh. “What is your question sir?”

“Qimir, you can call me Qimir. Anyways my question for you is, what methods do you take to hunt your prey?” This question peaks my interest because the way he says prey I think he knows I hunt a different kind of species.

“There’s many ways to do that. Poisons, bare hands, even a simple isolation tactic. But the best method…is simply a mental attack. That works on any kind of prey.” I say with a hint of a smile on my lips. I look up and see Qimir staring at my lips.

I bite my plump bottom lip, which makes his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows.

“Forgive me for prying, but the items on your list, they are interesting. Bunta Root? That grows-”

“In one specific place I know, but I figured this place would have it here..” I look away from him and glance out the window.

In a matter of days, I will be at her door and I’ll she can’t escape me. I can’t wait to see her eyes widen by surprise. She’ll think how did a beast like me, hunt her down to the very last of her days.

Will she beg for her life?

Will she plead that I do it quickly?

The possibilities will be endless when I finally get my hands on Zen.

Zen…

She was once a great ally to my people at least until she got them killed.

Genocide, her and those moral less Jedi committed genocide to my people and I need to make sure they pay. She’s the final one and I just know, she knows I’m coming for her. Especially when the word went around on how her partner’s body was discovered.

I’ll never forget how his eyes had ballooned in his skull after I cracked his head open. I can almost picture his head hitting the concrete over and over and over. His brain matter was all over my hands, staining my nails with his blood.

If I close my eyes tonight will his ghost haunt me?

Will his soul ask me why I took him from his lover so soon?

I blink and I’m no longer in that glorious gruesome memory.

I turn and Qimir is standing close to me, almost making me flinch. “Excuse you.” I snap at him. He looks me up and down and cocks his head to the side.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…you remind me of someone I once knew. The resemblance is just uncanny. You look…exactly like her.” He whispers softly as he takes in my entire appearance.

Instead of stepping back, his scent makes my stomach grumble which makes me flick my split tongue against my inner cheek.

“Trust me Qi, if you knew me…you wouldn’t be standing so close.” I say to him letting my split tongue slither past my full lips. I notice his eyes darken from my movement for a split second.

“Why is that? I find you quite the interesting creature.” He says as he reaches out to touch my coiled curl. I jerk my head back not from his attempt to touch me, but from his scent.

I want to split my jaw open and take a chunk out of him. His scent had changed somehow. He smells like spiced sweet fruit.

I see a smirk on his lips and I want to bite him. I want to bite his flesh and rip i-

“Excuse me?” We break eye contact and I see a woman, she looks exactly like the woman I had passed when I came in here but her hair…it’s short. And she smells… sour.

I grow bored with her and move away from Qimir. But as I move away he grabs my wrist. I look down at his hand and then at him. “Don’t go anywhere. I’d like to finish this.” He lets my hand go and he moved away from me swiftly.

I narrow my eyes at his back as he talks to the woman. As I glance at her with boredom I can smell that she’s anxious? Scared?

Oh, maybe I can have some fun with her after all.

As Qimir talks to her, which tells me something is going on, I run my hand along the counter and ‘accidentally’ bump into her, causing her things to clatter to the floor.

“Oh I’m so sorry, Miss. Do forgive me I am not myself.” We lock eyes and in that moment, she’s frozen in place. Her pupils dilate. I can hear her pulse quicken. “I..it’s okay.” She stutters as I hand her her things.

“You are so pretty.” I say as I take in her whole face. I see her blink a few times and I study her presence.

She’s nervous, hmm her body is smart to be nervous, but is her brain?

“Oh! I’m sorry, I give compliments before I even give my name. I’m Akasha. And you are?” I see the apple of her cheeks deepen in color after I compliment her.

“I’m-” She looks away from me and at Qimir but I clear my throat and she looks back at me, trapped in my spell. “I’m Osha.” She whispers with a small smile. “Such a pretty name. I don’t mean to over step, but would you like some company on your travels?” Before she answers me, Qimir clears his throat.

I cut my eyes at him and he’s staring at me, in a way that makes me want to challenge him. “I thought you wanted your things in a hurry, Akasha.” He says my name as if he’s accusing me of something .

“Suddenly I am in no rush, especially when it comes to making new friends.” I stand as well as Osha and I step towards her. Inhaling her fear.

Her scent is starting to ripen, oh I need to sink my teeth into her, before she spoils. Before she-

“Mae, if you don’t mind. I’m just handling this customer and then I can get back to you.”

Mae?

I look back at the woman and she looks down at her fingers, fidgeting with them.

“Okay, Qimir.” She says with hesitation in her voice. She looks at me and I wink at her. “So, pretty one, might I ask, what brings you to an apothecary?” I ask as I lean against the counter, looking her up and down.

I wonder how her teeth taste.

“I’m just here to thank Qimir for the item he gave me. It helped me greatly.” I listen to her pulse and it quickens.

Oh you little liar.

Now I’m excited to know why she’s lying so much.

“You’re welcome. I hope I can help anyway I can to help you please your Master.” Qimir says as I feel him behind me. I look back and he was leaning forward, playing with one of my curls.

How did I not notice him this close to me?

I flick my hair from his touch and he sniffs his finger tips.

Did he just sniff his fingers?

“Akasha, since you’re making friends, how about being my friend?” Qimir asks as he stares me deep into my eyes.

Hmmm…

“I like being friends with girls, Qimir. They’re are nice and sweet….” I look at his lips and I can imagine biting them.

“But with boys? I tend to be a bit too rough with them. And you?” I look him over his slim athletic build. “You look like you break easily.”

I see him lick his bottom lip and I swear I hear a slight groan in his throat. He then lowers his voice so only I can hear.

“You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Akasha. I tend to play rough with my things. Sometimes they break and sometimes they…turn to ash in my clutch.”

Excitement licks my veins as I inhale his scent.

Mmm it’s mixed with sweet, spice and arousal.

“Sounds like a threat, and a fun time. Maybe…” I lean in close to his ear, as he leans in to hear me. “…I can teach you how to play with your toys nicely by making you my new toy. Would you like that, Qi?” I flick my tongue against his ear and I hear a deep groan vibrate from his chest.

He’s about to answer me but Osha/Mae clears her throat and I feel both Qi and myself glare at her.

I look away and take a deep breath. “How about you talk to her and I’ll be back for my things. I have something to grab on that list that I know you don’t have here.” Before he can stop me I leave the shop and place my hood back upon my head.

••••

“I need Daroon moss for my special powder. Maybe if I’m lucky I can find some on the outer banks of this place.” I mutter as I continue to walk further into a crowd but my muscles tense as I feel I’m being followed.

Who would be stupid enough to follow me?

I decide to cut the chase short and duck further into the crowd.

They continue to follow me and that’s when I notice his scent.

The sweet spicy arousal.

I slip into an alleyway and I stand there counting as his scent get closer. That smell. If I were an addict, I would beg for a hit of that scent on a daily.

As soon as he is in arms reach I snatch him in close then push him to the ground. I then quickly take my boot and press it firmly against his throat.

“I don’t know about your other customers but I don’t like to be followed around stores or crowds.” I press down with a bit more pressure, just so he can answer me.

He winces in pain. “S….sorry. But I did…tell you I wanted…to finish this.” I go to step down harder but he grabs my ankle and twists, causing me to lose my footing.

He then pins me under him and I feel his full weight on top of me. “Get off of me.” I hiss. “Not until we finish this, conversation.”

“This conversation is over!“ I scream at him. He looks deep into my eyes and he gives me a wicked grin. “I’m sorry, but you seem to still think you have control of this situation. When clearly I’m the one on top. But I’ll be nice. The conversation will end after I tell you this…I’ve decided that I want you to be my new toy. And when I want something I take it.” I see a flash of something wild in his eyes as I feel his hands go for my throat.

His strength takes me by surprise as he starts cutting off my air supply. “Let…me…go!” I scream knowing it’ll cause at least someone to come find out why I’m screaming.

But…

No one comes.

Not even a curious onlooker.

He squeezes tighter and I try my best to fight him off. But it’s like an animal is wearing his skin and attacking me. I can feel him clearly aroused as he chokes me out on the ground.

Wait no, it can’t end this way.

I can’t die this way underneath this sick son of a bitch.

My vision starts to blacken around the corners. Qimir slowly starts to fog up into darkness, and just when I’m about to pass out, I hear him say these haunting words to me.

“You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for, Akasha, why would I ever let you go?”

•••••

I jerk awake and cough to clear my throat. I go to move except my body is tied up. But in a way that makes me look spread out like some attraction.

I glance around and see I’m somewhere unknown. And I’m completely naked. The panic starts to set in but it stops as soon as I smell his scent.

“QIMIR!” I scream his name as my eyes try to look for him. “I know you’re near! I can smell you! Show yourself!” I scream, in hopes that someone will hear me.

Someone did…

He did…

“I see you’re awake. Good.” Qimir says with a soft smile on his face. “What the fuck is going on! Where am I? Why and I here!” I shout at him, ignoring the cutting sensation from the ropes.

He pulls up a chair and sits down right in front of me. He stares at me as if I didn’t just ask him a barrage of questions. “You know you are a heavy sleeper. It was like I was dragging a dead body in here. Oh! This is my place by the way. It’s on a remote island so no one can disturb us.” He smiles big as if kidnapping me was something to be proud of.

“Why am I here?” I spat at him. Qimir looks at me as if I’m a piece of art to be gawked at. The way the ropes bite into my skin, I know they’ll leave marks and burns.

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re here because I want you here.” He brushes his thumb against his bottom lip and continues to stare…study me. I begin to feel uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Why am I tied up like this? I’m not some prized piece of meat!” He leans forward and strokes his hand against the fatty flesh of my thigh. “Because you look pretty….You are a female Venus Fly. Rare even when your people were alive and thriving. What was the ratio? For every fifteen boys, only three girls would be born. And I do like to collect rare things. But you? You, Akasha not only are you rare but you’re deadly. I have great use for you.”

I give him a bewildered look. “You’re fucking craz-” He gets up knocking the chair over and he had his hand gripping my jaw. “Don’t call me that, I’m not crazy. I see we have to start some lessons on teaching you how to have manners and respect for others.”

“GET OFF OF ME YOU BASTARD!” I scream at him, but all he does is smile. “You know now you’re screaming and yelling but soon you’ll worship me like a God. And I’ll be sure to reward you.” He takes his other hand and he trails his three fingers down my bare flesh, slowly getting closer to my exposed pussy.

“Stop.” I say as I feel him near my pubic hairs. “Do you know how much restraint I had to have, tying you up like this? The temptation I had to open this pretty little thing and slide anything it in just to watch your reaction?” He parts my wet lips and I feel my clit spasm.

“You wanted to sodomize me? You’re no better than-“ He makes me eat my words when he slides his middle finger inside of me while he uses his other two fingers to rub my lips.

My body responds to his touch which makes me angry. “S…stop.” I stutter to him. He leans in close to my ear. “Your lips are telling me to stop but these sets of lips seem to be telling me another story. As a matter of fact, how about her and I get better acquainted.”

Qimir slides his finger out of me and my pussy misses the violation. I see him get on his knees for me and he looks up at me, as if I’m a deity of some sort and he’s is there to worship.

I watch him lean in close to inhale my sex and I want to shrink back from him but in my attempts the ropes dig deeper into my skin.

“You smell so sweet, I wonder if the taste is the same.” He leans in and I feel his tongue flicking across my clit.

I clamp my lips shut to keep from moaning but he makes it a challenge as he grips my roped hips and buries his face deep into my pussy.

My eyes roll back as I feel his tongue twirl and flick across my clit. He presses his tongue flat against my pussy and my body tries to rock to find more friction.

“Careful, one false move and you could cause more rope burn, Akasha. But you like a little pain and pleasure don’t you?” Qimir asks as he opens my lips wider and slides his tongue deep inside of me.

This time I let the moan slip out. I feel him smiling against my sex and I don’t care. I need a release. I need to use his face.

“P…please.” I moan out as I look down at him, eating me out. He shakes his head and now he’s only using the tip of his tongue. “If…you…want something…then…say…Master.” He says lazily twirling his tongue.

“Please Master.” I whine. “I need to come.” He gives a deep guttural chuckle. “Look at you, moaning like a bitch in heat. I won’t forgive you for calling me crazy. But I’m not that cruel of a master.” He gives a hard suck to my clit causing me to groan and then he gets up off of his knees.

I was breathing heavy as I watch him grab something from his table.

A light saber.

My body tenses from the memories in my past of how much damage something like that can cause.

He lights it and the hue is blood red. He brings it close to me and I fight the urge to flinch. The heat from the saber could melt even the finest hairs on a person or animals skin.

“Don’t worry, my little flower. I’ll never use this part on you…just this part.” He turns the saber off and flips it so the handle it near me.

“Tell me, will you let me be your master? Will you let me teach you how to be the perfect predator?” As he asks me, I feel him rub the handle of the saber against my swollen clit and I shudder as I stupidly nod.

I don’t say a word from the fear and in his eyes I can tell he knows I’m afraid of the saber. “Akasha…you had a lot to say earlier. Why aren’t you being so colorful with your words now?” He slides the handle in slowly causing my eyes to roll back but my body stiffens again.

“Does this scare you? Does this give you pleasure?” He strokes the handle against my entrance and I let a nod go. “Pl-”

“Ah, what do you say?”

“Master…please. Don’t do that.” I moan out as he slides the handle in slowly. “Don’t do what? Slide the handle of my saber inside of the needy plump pussy? You don’t want me to make you feel good?” He whispers against my ear as his hand finds my throat.

The fear I have gets clouded when starts to slowly fuck me with the saber. I feel the build up in my lower stomach as I moan.

“See? Your body likes to feel good. It likes when I do this, but imagine how it’s going to feel when I use the real thing. When my cock is penetrating deep into your walls.”

He goes faster and my moans become more lose my from lips. My thighs burn from the rope and from the tension I have in them.

You can hear the wet noises coming from my soaking wet slit and I don’t care. I want a release.

“You’re taking it so well, my little flower. I bet you want to come don’t you?” I nod quickly as he slows down the pace. I try to buck my hips but I can’t from my restricting position. He raises a brow at me then. “Yes! Yes I do Master. Please!” I beg and plead.

He loosens his grip on my throat and he fucks me harder with the saber making my climax about to hit the tipping point.

“I’m gonna come.” I breathe out as I feel the anticipated tingle. But he stops, he yanks the saber out and tosses it across the room and I give out a shriek of frustration.

“Now would a crazy person deny a creature such as yourself the pleasure of coming? Don’t answer that, you might tell me the wrong answer and piss me off-” He grabs me by my tangled curls and yanks my head back, causing the rope around my shoulders and shoulder blades to tighten.

“You belong to me now, Akasha. Your pleasure, your pain, your very existence is mine. And when I see fit to let you come, it will be on my cock, my mouth, or my fingers. Do you understand? You can speak.” He orders as he looks me in my eyes.

“Yes.” I say through clenched teeth. “Yes what?” He asks with a raised brow. “Yes master…”

“Good girl.” He lets me go and kisses my temple. “Get some rest, we have some training to do tomorrow.” He lets me go and simply walks away, leaving me strung up like some prize that’s been won.

The very second I get the chance, I’m going to kill Qimir. I should’ve known that his scent would lead me to the devils playpen…

#wattsittoyah #the devil’s playpen #qimir the acolyte #manny jacinto #Qimir #qimir x reader #star wars #Qimir x Black!female reader #Qimir x Akasha #star wars smut #qimir smut #manny Jacinto smut

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notquitecanon · 1 year ago

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Call Me... // Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: You're the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's favorite late night nurse, but he's been avoiding your fire escape since an unfortunate accident. You both miss each other just enough for some emotions to slip through the cracks. You don't even know his name, but you'll settle just to know he's alright.

TW: blood, canon typical injuries, kind of hurt comfort, Matt's a self sabotaging martyr as usual, kinda sunshine!reader??? maybe if you squint

Bolded line is from a prompts list from several months ago so I lost the link. If it's yours let me know and I'll link it!

"I haven’t seen you in weeks… I’m worried you’re in another dumpster somewhere. Just call me back…please?" You whispered harshly into the phone’s receiver, burner cell jammed between your ear and shoulder as you fumbled with your keys.

It was true. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen hadn’t graced your apartment in weeks after three months of near nightly visits. At first it was serious stuff, stab wounds and splinted bones. It took two weeks for him to crack a joke. But once that stone cold exterior cracked, it was shattered. He was kind, sweet even. Every few visits, he’d bring by supplies to replenish your kit and, usually, with a bottle of wine in the bag. Emergencies turned to what he called ‘urgencies’- wounds just barely deep enough to justify stitches and dislocated joints. Which then turned into stopping by at the end of his nights for a ‘check up’, where he took advantage of your central heating, warm beverages, and warmer presence. Then, some Yakuza jackass appeared on your doorstep three weeks ago, fortunately your devil hadn’t been far behind. He took care of him, and you figured the thug, now minus fifteen teeth, would have a hard time telling anyone where to find you. Nevertheless, you found the ‘available apartments’ section of the newspaper taped to your seventh floor window. That had been the last night ’the devil’ had paid you a visit.

"Anyways… I guess I'm asking for a sign of life? Something? Please? Bye." You pleaded, voice kinder this time as you managed to finally unlock the door and slip inside. Locking the knob, deadbolt, chain, and newly installed jam that had been mysteriously delivered not too long ago. With a huff, you discarded your keys, and bag in the entry way before delving deeper into your dark apartment, flicking lights on as you went.

"You really need to start locking your windows." A deep voice sounded as you rounded the corned into your living room. Heart jumping to your throat and stomach dropping, you let out a yelp as instinct took over. The familiarity of the voice didn’t register as adrenaline flooded your system.

"SHIT!" You shrieked, flinching backwards so fast that the hallway runner rug caught under your feet, sending you careening into the wall. Without thinking, you put the Yankee’s starting pitcher to shame as you pitched your phone at light speed towards the voice. Of course, the shadow effortlessly caught it.

"Shit!" The intruder mirrored at your fall, and it was then that you realized who it was. As you collected yourself a slew of curses slipped out, looking into the dim living room to find the Devil of Hell’s kitchen slowly rising off the couch, he was already sans black shirt and mask, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you."

"Yeah, well, mission failed." You muttered, pressing a hand to your chest as if that would still your pounding heart. Slowly, you finished your shuffled into the living room, flicking on the overheads as you went. "Shit, you could have called. Sit back down."

You could have used the heads up, the gash across his chest looked serious, and not in the cute excuse to see each other way ’serious’ had meant last month. He breathed a sarcastic laugh, tossing your phone back to you before producing a shattered burner cell with a… bullet hole?

"You have a funny way of saving my skin when I least expect it." He tried a cheeky smile. You rolled your eyes, picking up your pace as you retrieved your first aid kit from under your kitchen sink, "Consider this a sign of life?"

"A sign of barely alive, more like." You answered, rounding back around the couch to sit across from him. Harshly pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and splaying out an array of supplies both his lap and yours. "You’re unbelievable. Almost a month of no contact and then you just appear and leak blood on my couch."

"I’m sorry." He breathed, face angled to where your knees now touched. You rolled your eyes, ripping into a packet of gauze and setting to work dabbing the blood. And he sounded sorry, pitiful even, looked it to. His unseeing eyes stared straight past you and yet somehow straight through you at the same time, mouth settled in a puppy like frown. He told you once that he was catholic, and you now wandered if that’s why he was so good at looking guilty.

"If it wasn’t for the newspapers, I would have thought you were dead." You drove your point home, with a small voice, too angry to be a whisper and yet too concerned to be a hiss. The evidence of his activities was written across his bare torso in older cuts, new and fading bruises, and a couple of bandages that he’d obviously applied himself, "And you’ve obviously been busy."

"Figured out how the Yakuza found you. Handled it. Didn’t want to lead anyone else back here." His explanation was strained, pushed through gritted teeth as you applied antiseptic to the largest, freshest gash. You cooed small apologies, irritated as you were with the vigilante, you hated being the source of his pain. You picked up a suture kit, quickly threading the needle.

"Well, as far as excuses go, that’s not the worst." You muttered, half joking and half touched he’d go through this for you. You’d known he was a walking martyr from the moment you’d met him, but still. He’d taken the beatings so you’d sleep safe.

That was something else, "Lean back, gotta stitch you up."

He complied as you stood, using your shoulder to nudge the floor lamp so the light was better for you. Even then, you position on the coffee table wasn't cutting it as leaning forward cast a shadow over his chest. Neither was kneeling in front of him, as the gash was too far up his chest for your position to be adequate. You muttered a quick apology as you flitted around him, trying to find the best place to plant yourself. Beside him on the couch might work, but you’d be straining to hold yourself up at that angle and keep your hands steady.

Bloody-knuckled hands found your waist with amazing precision for a blind man, easily lifting you and placing you over one thigh after he spread his legs a bit wider. He held you steady, angling his eyes to the ceiling to give you the broadest view of his chest. One of your knees pressed into the couch cushion between his legs and the other pressed into the outside of his thigh, caging the his black-clad thigh between your own like a seat. If your weight bothered him, he gave no indication. He did however turn his ear ever so slightly towards you and smirk ever so devilishly, "How’s that?"

"Very convenient, thanks." You forced your voice to be flat instead of the breathlessness you felt. Stupid charming vigilante. To his credit, it gave you the perfect access without blocking the light. And if you got to feel ever twitch of his insanely muscular thigh between yours? Added benefit. The devil, even bruised and bleeding, was insanely warm and smelled like something out of a terribly sinful romance novel. The manly small of musk and sweat should have been revolting, but the way it mixed with a fading aftershave would have been distracting if you weren’t so focused on the drip of crimson down his toned abdomen. Before your train of thought could derail again, you gave a quiet warning watching your patient steel himself before you began running the needle and thread through the torn skin. Other than an initial hiss and the clenching of his fists against your waist, he went silent as you worked.

The two of you sat in an almost tense silence. He could feel how close your face was to his chest, the waves of breaths washing over his skin, the smell of shampoo in your hair faint enough to know you’d put off washing it, the sound of your heartbeat slowing back down after he’d gotten you excited, the slight sound of your teeth worrying the inside of your lip. He knew he shouldn't be here, Claire could have patched him up, probably would have if he asked really nicely. He probably could have if he really tried, but he’d just missed you. Between Fisk and the Hand and the law firm… everything was messy. You were still simple and sweet and far more caring than he thought he deserved, a balm just to be near you.

"Could you talk to me?" He asked, so quietly you almost missed it in your focus. You tied off another knot, seeing him wince.

"Hmm?" You hummed, pausing to look up from the half stitched wound. His eyes lowered to your face, his clenched hands at your waist loosening to rub the fabric of your shirt between his fingers. You always wore such soft things, he wondered if you’d be so soft underneath. You took opportunity in the pause to wipe some of the blood from his skin.

"I’ve missed your voice, even if you want to yell at me or be upset with me, just let me hear it." His voice was like a prayer, so sincere it made you shift on his leg. What was in the holy water at his church?

"I’m not going to yell at you, honey. I’m not going to kick a man when he’s stabbed." You shook your head, rearranging yourself to get that optimal view again, grazing a gloved finger over a purple bruise on his ribs, "Besides, someone beat me to it."

He chuckled at the lame joke, leaning his head back against the back of the couch again as you began stitching once more. Instead of scolding him, you caught him up on all the details and minor drama that he’d missed over the last few weeks. The funny things and annoyances from work, things your family had sent you, what your friends had been up to, your opinion on current happenings in the city. He listened to you like it was the most interesting thing he’d heard all year, chiming in with questions and quips of his own. You’d missed his voice too, not that you’d boost his ego by telling him that.

"There." You finally finished, tying the last stitch and taping a bandage over it. The vigilante under you didn’t make a move to leave, instead his hands kept you still on his lap. You breathed a laugh, moving on to everything else. You removed the old bandages, giving half healed wounds a thorough cleaning. You applied comical Disney bandaids to the more minor cuts on his hands and were even brazen enough to kiss his split knuckles. The vigilante seemed to preen under you attention as you cleaned and applied Vaseline to his busted lip. As if it was too good to be true, his lip twitched downwards as his eye brows furrowed. His face angled away from yours, his unseeing eyes falling on the window he’d come through.

"You know, the burner phone's been broken for two weeks now. Took the bullet not too long after the yakuza paid you a visit. Couldn't bring myself to throw it away, a little piece of you." He admitted, a pitiful smile twitched up before pulling downward again. He groaned, starting to shift you off his lap, “I shouldn’t be here, it’s not right.”

You allowed yourself to fall to the cushion beside him, but snatched the black shirt away from him before he could make a move for it. He’d been too busy letting his hands linger on your waist.

“Why not?” You asked sternly, tucking the shirt behind your back as if the vigilante in front of you couldn't probably drop you six ways to Tuesday if he wanted to. Not that he could ever consider raising a hand to you, “You got hurt, I patch you up. Seems right to me.”

The devil tensed, first leaning away and then leaning really close. His freshly bandaged fingers tapped your knee as if to emphasize his point, “I don’t deserve this kindness. And even if I did, if I could, if I was good, I would stop coming here so you could live in peace.”

You were a silent for a moment, wanting to make sure your response was exactly how you wanted it to come across.

“The third time you fell through my window, you told me that if I ever wanted to be left alone, all I’d need to do was change the candle I keep by the window.” You recounted his words. You hadn’t known about his senses at the time, he was still cryptic and mysterious. But you’d never changed the candle, buying new ones of the same scent when it would burn out, “You warned me what might happen. You gave me an out, one that I continuously chose to ignore. You did everything in your power to protect me when that choice had consequences. That was good, because you are good. And good people deserve kindness. You put too much on yourself, honey.”

As you spoke, you laid your hand over his on your knee, giving it a slight squeeze to convey your own point. The crimefighter listened to your voice, your heartbeat, the quickness of your breath, finding no deceit and even if he didn’t believe you words, it was nice to hear them. Your kindness washed over him, letting him relax for just a second before he shook his head, laughing sarcastically to deflect the dangerously sappy emotions you stirred. You called him honey like it was his name, and part of him wondered that if you knew his name if you would still call him honey.

“You barely know me, sweetheart.”

His own nickname slipped out by accident, usually just something he called you in his head when he allowed fantasies about telling you everything, coming home to you as the vigilante and the lawyer, seeing just how far your good grace could take him. His lips quirked up in time with the uptick of your pulse and the way your breath caught for a moment.

“I know enough to know you deserve some good.” You whispered earnestly, reaching up to graze the Star Wars bandaid you’d stuck across his the cut on his cheekbone. Almost instinctively, he leaned into the touch. You smiled softly, maybe you’d both missed each other a bit. The combined concern for the other and the time between his last visit making you both a little sappy, or at least more honest about it, So, you breathed a laugh, making another lame joke just to earn one of those chuckles you loved so much, “Besides, I know you well enough to have your blood on my hands.”

But he didn’t laugh, instead, he pulled his face from your palm, his own bandaged hands taking your bloodied gloved hands in his own. Gently, he pressed your hands together, your loose fists creating almost heart like shape as he pressed reverent kisses to each bloody hand. The vigilante was kind always, flirty and joking, occasionally flirtations bordering on something else. But this? This was different, it was new. Intimate. You’d almost feel like a voyeur for watching the scene if it you weren’t playing a starring role. Your mind flashed to those romance novels you’d thought of earlier, this put all of them to shame. So much so that your hands started trembling against his lips.

He held them tighter, but not in a constrictive, cage like way. More in a ‘let me hold you together’ kind of way before gently peeling the dirty gloves off and, again, kissing your clean hands underneath. His face angled to yours, nothing but sincerity lacing his features.

"You know my blood better than my own heart does.”

“God…” You whispered, letting your head fall against his shoulder, your nose nudging his collarbone and your eye lashes fluttering against his neck. His stubbled cheek fell to the crown of your head. You cleared your throat again, "I know your blood, but not your name. For someone I care so much about, that’s kind of sad.”

It was the first time you’d ever admitted it out loud in such certain words. The vigilante ran gentle hands up and down your arms, silent as a million thoughts went through his head. You heart was racing, not from lying, but in anticipation. Despite your racing pulse, you seemed almost totally at ease with you skin against his, one of your hands pressed to a bandage on his ribs and the other holding purchase at the waistline of his black pants. Nothing sexual, just the perfect place for your soft hand to land.

Despite the million thoughts, he really had two options. Keep his secret, and keep you at an arms length, to keep things sweet and simple and not too deep. Or. Let you in a little deeper, he'd swim oceans to keep you afloat. Enjoy your sweetness, even if things were complicated. He kept still, holding you as gently as you had touched him, a promise to himself that he could be gentle and soft, just as he could be lethal and ruthless. Two sides of a balanced scale.

Your heart had slowed down again, the soothing motion of his hands on your arm lulling you. You had been worried about his response. You’re confession had gotten too real, you were worried he’d jump out the window and disappear again. And you’d be left with nothing but bloody gloves and the thought that maybe you’d just imagined the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

"Matt.” His voice was quiet, just barely above a whisper, “You can call me Matt. Just don’t stop calling me."

#matt murdock x reader #Daredevil x reader #matt murdock x you #daredevil x you #daredevil x female reader #matt murdock x y/n

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cc--2224 · 5 months ago

Text

Worth The Wait

Pairing: Tech x F!Reader

Summary: You wear your favourite sundress knowing Tech has too much on hit plate to appreciate it, but you need to do the supply run anyway, so where's the harm in making him wait?

Warnings: This is very much 18+ Minors do not interact! Minimal plot, lots of teasing, slight edging?, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), oral (m receiving), jealous/possessive/somewhat dom Tech

Notes: Requests are still open! And if you'd like to be added to a tag list, feel free to message me or fill out this form!

Word Count: 2.8k

Masterlist

It was always too hot on Pabu. Too hot to keep your armor on all the time, even too hot to wear your blacks all the time. You genuinely didn't know how the batch could wear so many layers on this island.

With it being your turn for the supply run, you decided to mitigate the heat by wearing your favourite sundress. You rarely had a chance to wear it and it complemented you so well. Besides, it wasn't as if you needed to suddenly go away on a mission any time soon, you were just going to the market.

An added bonus was that wearing such a dress was a sure-fire way to tease Tech. You had been together for a few months, since everything had calmed down and you were able to finally relax on Pabu. Your mutual feelings were known well before that, but the timing was never right.

It surprised you how clingy he could be. He always came off as someone who was very protective of his space, which wasn't untrue, he was just also protective of your space.

So when you wandered out of your bunk in your little sundress knowing he was knee-deep in repairs on the Marauder, it added a sense of mischief to your outfit.

"I'm heading out for the supply run, I'll be back soon." You called over to him, glancing to the array of tools splayed out around the floor.

His head poked out from under the console and he looked at you, eying you up and down. You saw him visibly swallow before he spoke.

"You are wearing that?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I? It's hot out."

"N-no I mean... you look beautiful, but I cannot go with you to–." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, feeling guilty for coming across so jealously. He sighed and looked back at you "Thank you for going on the supply run. You have my list, correct?"

"No need to thank me, it's my turn. And yes, I have everyone's lists." You smiled then opened the ship's door. "Oh and, when I return, you'll be the only one to see what's under my sundress, if you'd like."

You winked then exited the ship before he could respond, however you heard the loud clattering noise of tools falling over.

You decided to take the long way to the market. After all, it was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, and the warm breeze tickled your skin. And if it meant Tech had to wait longer to see you when you got back, so be it.

Villagers greeted you as you passed them, the occasional fisherman stared maybe a few seconds too long, but you didn't pay it any mind, and eventually you made it to the market.

You decided to peruse the market stalls for a while, looking at the different trinkets and items for sale, making sure you were picking the best quality items, examining each piece of fruit closely when you got to the produce stands to ensure you weren't buying something bruised, chatting with the stall owners about their selections.

By the time you had finally crossed off every item from the various lists and arranged for them to be delivered to the Marauder the following day, it was already evening. You sighed looking off into the sunset beginning to dip into the ocean below, and decided you shouldn't torment Tech any longer.

You walked back toward the landing port, this time hurrying a little bit, until you eventually reached the Marauder.

The door opened for you and you stepped in, it was quiet, no longer sounds of Tech's repairs, nor was there sound of anyone else on board. You shrugged, assuming you were alone and began walking toward your bunk.

"Stop." A voice rang out from the cockpit. The door was open but you didn't see anyone, until the pilot chair spun around. Tech did not seem pleased. He sat with his arms folded over his chest and one leg crossed over the other.

"It is nice of you to finally return." He said, bitterly. You smirked in response.

"I'm sorry, my love. The supply run took me longer than intended."

"Did it? Or were you purposefully extending your stay?"

How did he know? You played it cool and walked toward the cockpit slowly, making sure he had a full view of you at all times.

"Do you truly believe I would make you wait all day?"

He leaned back, head resting against the back of the chair as he took you in. "Yes, I do, if it meant it would increase my need for you."

You stopped a few feet away from him. "Did it work?"

He uncrossed his legs, revealing a prominent bulge under his blacks, your mouth watered at the sight. "You tell me. This is after I had to take matters into my own hands."

You took another few steps forward, closing the distance between you. Your hands rested on Tech's face, tilting his head up toward you. "I'd say it worked." You smiled before capturing his lips with yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips, deepening the kiss, and you moaned into his mouth.

Tech's hands found their way to your hips, gripping the soft fabric. You broke away from the kiss, peppering his face with soft kisses over his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, and finally his neck.

He reached down, bunching the fabric up as he dipped his hand under your dress, gripping your thighs before slowly sliding up, intending to start removing your panties, only when he got to where the waistband should have been, he found nothing.

His eyes widened slightly before he looked up at you. Your bottom lip was sucked between your teeth.

"You wore this without any undergarments?" His voice a little more than a whisper.

"I told you, it was hot outside."

He swallowed thickly, you could tell he wasn't entirely sure if he should be disappointed or turned on.

"Besides, it's not like anyone saw... I think."

His grip tightened on your thighs. "You think?"

"I mean, a few of the fisherman couldn't keep their eyes off of me."

You knew full well that no one saw under your dress. The breeze was never strong enough to blow your dress up, and it was long enough to cover you. But you couldn't lie, the effect you were having on Tech only added to the hot coil you felt in your abdomen.

"Another test?" He asked, seeming to call your bluff.

"Who's to say? I don't know what they saw." You smirked as you began kissing him again.

His hand moved around to your ass and he squeezed the flesh. "It had better be a test." With his other hand, he reached up and placed it on your jaw, holding you so that you were looking into his eyes, you noticed that his pupils were blown wide behind his goggles. "You are mine. No one else's. I am the only one who gets to see you like this. Understood?"

You nodded as best as you could with his hand gripping your jaw. "Ye-yes, sir."

He let go of you, and stood up from his chair, looking down at you as he towered over you. You felt yourself clench around nothing with just his dark expression alone.

"Now, since you have made me wait all day, I think it is time I got what I wanted. Would you agree?"

You nodded, "Yes..."

"Good girl." He grabbed your shoulders and spun you around so that you were facing the viewport with your back flush against his chest. You felt his cock press into you through your clothing and you stifled a moan.

He walked you forward until you were at the console and he gently pushed your back down, bending you over in front of him.

You heard a faint beep from behind you and you realized he was recording this, not that you minded, he had discussed it with you in the past, but usually it meant he had things planned.

"Open your legs." He ordered. You did as you were told, spreading your legs for him. He pushed the fabric of your dress up over your ass, out of the way, and then with his other hand he grabbed your wrists, pinning them behind your back. It took you a minute to adjust but he assured his grip wasn't too tight as to make you uncomfortable.

He took a minute to free himself from his blacks, before his hands returned to you. The hand that wasn't holding your wrists slid up your thigh before gripping the soft flesh of your ass again.

Before long, his hand trailed down between your legs. He ran his long fingers between your folds before pushing two into you. You moaned as he began stretching you, pumping his fingers in and out, building the heat your felt in your core.

You whined when he pulled his fingers out of you completely, feeling the loss already, but those whines turned into whimpers as he began circling your clit with expert precision.

"Mmph, Tech," You moaned. The pressure began building further in your core. "Keep going."

"Does that feel good, mesh'la?" He asked, picking up the speed slightly.

"Y-yes!" You could feel yourself tighten, you knew you were getting close. The pressure in your abdomen getting almost unbearable. "F-fuck, Tech I'm so c–"

Just as you felt yourself about to snap, he withdrew his hand. You squirmed against the console, "Tech, please!"

"You are not the only one capable of torment." You couldn't see him but you knew he was smirking behind you. "That was for making me wait all day for you."

"But I–" any protest you had died on your lips when you felt him line himself up at your entrance.

He pushed his head in, letting you adjust before sinking in the rest of the way. You pushed your hips back into him, trying to feel more of him and he responded by snapping his hips forward.

"Gods, you feel so good around me." He pumped his length into you slowly, and dragged himself out even more so, determined to feel your warmth on every inch of him.

"Go faster, please," You whined. "Please, Tech."

"I am quite content at this pace."

"Please, I'll... I'll never make you wait again I–" you were on the verge of begging.

"And what about those fishermen? You can't stop them from looking at you."

"I'm yours, Tech. Only yours. Only you can make me feel good, only you f-FUCK–" Your pleas were interrupted by him slamming into you, quickening his thrusts.

"Go on." He offered.

"On-only you... can fuck me li-like this," you praised between thrusts.

"And who do you wear these pretty little dresses for?" His asked, pulling at the fabric bunched around your hips.

"Just... just you!"

"You have done well." His grip loosened on your wrists. "You may touch yourself."

Your hand flew to your core, tracing circles around your clit, you moaned into the console as you chased your high.

Tech's hands explored your body, feeling the soft material of your sundress, wanting nothing more than to rip it off of you, but he knew that would make up upset. His hands soon wandered down toward your ass and they began prodding your soft flesh before affixing themselves to your hips.

You heard him groan behind you as your walls began clenching, suffocating his cock. "That's it mesh'la."

His thrusts grew faster, more erratic. He was chasing his own orgasm, spurred on by the feeling of your pussy tightening around him.

You continued circling your clit with your fingers, feeling your own build up once again. Tech's hands dug into your hips, pulling you toward him each time he slammed into you. As you neared your orgasm, his name and praises fell from your lips over and over again, until finally you reached your peak.

You cried out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your walls squeezed his cock, sending him tumbling over the edge after you.

He stilled as he shot his release into you, moaning as he painting your walls with his seed.

When he pulled out of you, you straightened yourself up, turning to face him as he tucked himself away. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him with such an intensity that it nearly sent him falling backward.

"I'm sorry," You told him after pulling away from the kiss.

His eyes widened, "Do not apologize, I am not upset with you. I would wait years for you, a few hours is nothing."

He smiled at you, leaning down to kiss your neck. You caressed the back of his head as he continued to litter kisses all along your neck. You moaned when you felt his teeth sink into you, before kissing the mark he left.

"And that will be so people know that you are taken."

"Even still, let me make it up to you." Your lips found his again, holding him close to you as you bucked your hips into him.

"Mmm," He moaned into your mouth, feeling himself start to stiffen again. "What did you have in mind?"

You kept eye contact with him as you slowly sank to your knees in front of him. His hands found their way into your hair as you ran your hands up and down his thighs, pulling his blacks down from his hips and kissing the soft skin. You left a trail of kisses leading toward his hardening cock before you took it in your hand, kissing along the side of it, helping to coax it along until he was fully erect.

You kissed his smooth head gently and he shuddered as your breath fanned over it before you took it into your mouth slowly. You gently swirled your tongue around it, tasting both of your juices on him as well as the new beads of pre-cum that leaked from the slit.

He guided your head further and you took more of him into your mouth. Your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked, and his grip on your hair tightened when he felt your tongue tracing the vein on the underside.

"Stars, you are incredible," He praised, his voice shaky. You hum in response, the vibrations eliciting a moan from him.

You took as much of him as you could into your mouth, and when he hit the back of your throat you gagged. This seemed to edge him on, when he felt you choke on his length, he took more control. Guiding your head so that he was essentially fucking your mouth, using you to get his relief.

The way he thrusted into you made drool spill from your lips and down your chin, tears pricked the corner of your eyes, but it also had you moaning around him.

His head fell back in pleasure for a moment as he felt your muffled moans radiate through him, before his gaze turned back to you, looking utterly fucked as you took his cock.

You peered up at him through your lashes as your tongue flattened against the underside of his cock. He let out a shaky breath and his eyebrows knitted together.

Tech could feel his release building up again as you continued to bob your head around him.

He was more delicate with his thrusts, but his pace quickened. He kept a firm grip on your hair, and he once again began chasing after his own high.

It didn't take long from there for him to unravel. His breaths grew unsteady and your name fell from his lips more times than you could register. He thrusted a few more times before he stilled, head falling back once more, a quiet groan escaping his throat and his cock twitched as he shot his release down your throat. You swallowed around him, making sure nothing was wasted, and when he was finished, he slowly pulled himself out.

You hastily wiped your drool away from your mouth and you rose to your feet.

"Am I forgiven?" You asked softly.

"There was nothing to forgive. But your efforts were certainly appreciated." He smirked and clicked off the recording from his goggles.

"You're finished recording already?" You reached up and placed a hand on his cheek as you stepped closer to him.

"Mesh'la, I do not believe I could go another round without rest." He admitted quietly.

"You're right, you could use something to drink. Or maybe to eat?" Your eyes gleamed with mischief once again when you saw the understanding in his. "Why don't we go to my bunk so I can show you everything under my dress, as I promised?"

He leaned toward you, kissing you again. You reached up toward his goggles, pressing the record button before smirking at him and pulling him by the hand toward your bunk.

#the bad batch #tbb #tbb fanfic #the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb tech #tbb tech x reader #tbb tech smut #tech bad batch #tech x reader #tech smut #tech x reader smut #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch smut #tech bad batch x reader #tech x you

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sydnikov · 1 year ago

Text

the ink on your skin || N. Hischier

Author: Sydney / @sydnikov

Pairing: Nico Hischier / gn!Reader

Word Count: 10.5k

Summary: You’re a successful tattoo artist right in the middle of Newark, New Jersey. One of your many clients just so happens to be a teammate of Nico Hischier, and he and his girlfriend, Natalie, play a game of matchmaker to get you talking. While you’ve never been a huge fan of hockey, getting to know Nico gets you instantly addicted to the sport as well as him. Friendship quickly turns into holding hands, kissing, acting like a couple but holding off on a label… And then, finally, right as you’re drifting apart, Nico swoops in and turns it into something more.

Warnings: Cursing, some angst, lots of anxiety talk, Tw*tter mentions, mostly fluff, poorly proofread

A/N: This is for @selfindulgentpoorlywritten for @wyattjohnston ‘s Winter Fic Exchange 2024 😁 I’ve been wanting to write for Nico for a while anyways so this gave me the perfect opportunity, and I really enjoyed having a bit of a personalized reader insert to play around with. I hope y’all enjoy! Loosely based on the lyrics of “Tribulation” by Matt Maeson

“Fuck, man, that hurts,”

You chuckle, lifting the needle of your tattoo gun for a few seconds before continuing your work. “I’m almost done, I swear,” you reassure, hiding your smirk as you take a napkin to dab away at the excess ink surrounding your linework.

The very man you’re tattooing, Jonas Siegenthaler, or ‘Siegs’ as you affectionately call him, is someone you’ve known for years. He is also a regular of your tattoo parlor, and right now is getting a lion on his right wrist shaded in.

Playing professional hockey, he doesn’t have much time to spend keeping up with a healing tattoo, but Jonas scheduled an appointment with you a week ago after his team, the New Jersey Devils, were eliminated in the playoffs. With three months to himself, he told you that now is the perfect time to get started on shading his wrist again.

Jonas curses again as the needle goes over the underside of his wrist, and once again you can’t hide back your laughter. You’ve been a tattoo artist for quite a few years now and are fairly used to the varying reactions your customers have, but expletives always manage to get you to break character. With any other client you’d at least attempt to be stoic, but you’ve been friends for long enough to know he doesn’t mind.

Finally, you finish your work, wiping away the remaining ink and powering off your tattoo gun. “Alright, Siegs, that’s it for today.” you say, wrapping his wrist with the proper coverings. Once you’re done sanitizing your own hands, you admire the art on his skin for a moment.

Jonas does the same, sitting up with a giant grin on his face. “It looks amazing, as always,” he looks like he wants to touch his newly-inked skin, but refrains when seeing the warning on your face.

“Okay,” you say as you lead him to the front of the store to ring up his aftercare supplies. Jonas is no amateur when it comes to tattoos by any means, but you feel the need to remind him anyway because athletes in particular always tend to lax out on tattoo aftercare. “You know the drill, but I’m still telling you anyways,”

Jonas just raises an eyebrow, listening to you list off all aftercare instructions as if he hasn’t been coming to you for years. Strangely enough, he couldn’t actually think of a time you’d hung out with each other outside of your working hours. He’ll have to change that, he hums to himself, especially after seeing the small New Jersey Devils flag you have hung on the wall.

“Have you ever been to a Devils game?” he asks as you’re handing him his aftercare supplies.

“I don’t think so, no. You know I don’t pay attention to hockey that much.”

“You should,” Jonas pushes, following you as you shuffle around the entrance of your parlor, likely looking for some supply he wouldn’t know the name of. “We’re a blast. And playoff hopeful again next season,”

You shoot him a wry smile, the both of you knowing it would take a lot more convincing to get you to leave the comforts of your shop to watch a sport you’ve never kept up with before. “Yeah? I’ll consider it,” you deadpan.

The defenseman takes no offense to your words, instead finding them to be a challenge. Mischievously, he grins. “Your consideration will turn into a yes, just you wait,”

“Sure,” you laugh, changing the subject. “You get an uber yet?” It’s relatively early in the day, so competition for booking one shouldn’t be too difficult.

Jonas shakes his head, unlocking his phone at the reminder of needing to leave. “Nah, my teammate is picking me up. He’s our captain, maybe you’ve heard of him—Nico Hischier?”

You think back to news articles you’ve seen online from late April when the Devils made the playoffs for the first time in years and you think you may have heard something about the team’s captain, but otherwise you don’t know much.

“I thought everyone would have gone home by now,” you say instead. It had been a week since their season ended, after all. Maybe this Nico guy had captain duties to attend to? You figure it’s nice of him to pick his teammate up from getting a tattoo either way, though.

The hockey player hears the curiosity in your voice, wondering how you would react to meeting his captain. “We’re both from Switzerland, so we both agreed to fly home together once we were all finished up here in Jersey. Getting my wrist shaded was the last thing on the list, thankfully,”

You make a noncommittal noise of understanding, your curiosity officially peeked by this ‘Nico’ guy. If you’ve learned anything about how the Swiss act from Jonas, you’re definitely looking forward to seeing if this captain was anything like his teammate.

Soon enough, the bell above your door is ringing as a man enters the parlor. You assume it’s Nico Hischier because of the Devils beanie he’s wearing, and because he looks out of place standing in your little parlor on the opposite side of town where his team plays. You wouldn’t know he has several tattoos himself.

You meet his eyes for a moment, and it almost looks like he’s caught off guard by the sight of you before he spots Jonas. He’s tall, you note to yourself, his shy smile endearing as he greets his teammate with a pat on the back.

“Nico!” Jonas greets happily, engaging in a short conversation before he turns his arm up to show his newly-shaded ink. “This one hurt like a bitch, but it’s looking beautiful now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” the man who you now know to be Nico confirms, admiring your work on his friend’s skin. “You did this?” he suddenly asks, the deep timber of his voice catching you off guard.

“Yeah,” you say, a little breathless. He’s beautiful. You think to yourself, confused about why you suddenly feel so hot when you purposefully keep the temperature in your shop cool. “Jonas is one of my regulars.”

Nico hums in response, eyes flitting back and forth from the lion on Jonas’s wrist and back to you, undoubtedly curious about how long his teammate has known you, and why he feels disappointed that he can’t see the rest of the ink decorating your own arms.

He himself is no stranger to tattoos, but he doesn’t have many nor do his look so intricate on his body like they do on yours. I need a new tattoo artist, he thinks, then mentally slaps himself because what?

With your cheeks feeling like they’re on fire, you turn away from the two hockey players in front of you to try and hide the embarrassment you feel. Unbeknownst to you, your movements make the light catch the dainty jewelry decorating your ears and nose, and Nico now undoubtedly finds himself in awe at your retreating form.

Who are you? He thinks. Siegs is a shit for not introducing you sooner. And then he rolls his eyes at himself again. What the fuck is the matter with him, anyways? He must have gotten a concussion during the playoffs, or something.

“You’re a regular?” He looks to his friend, subtly asking how long you’ve known each other. “You must like them, then,”

Jonas never prided himself on being intuitive; Nico’s prying went right over his head. He says your name with a fond smile, briefly looking to you as you mess around your desk again. “Oh, yeah, they’re the best. They’re fucking amazing with a tattoo gun, not to mention a huge Devils fan, too,”

You just so happen to overhear their conversation. “No, I’m not,” you scowl, but quickly retract your statement because Nico is looking at you like you just kicked his puppy. “Well, I mean, I’m a fan but not, like, a huge fan. I’ve never even been to a game,”

“Siegs, you should’ve brought ‘em around sooner, what the fuck!”

“I tried,”

Nico continues on like he didn’t hear him. “You’re coming to opening night. On me—on us, yeah?”

You’re much too in shock to comment on his slip of tongue, instead staring wide-eyed as he looks at you with determination. Nico just met you, but feels this compelling need to know you beyond the fact that you’re his friend’s reserved tattoo artist.

“You might as well just say yes,” Jonas speaks up, having caught on to your hesitation. “He won’t stop until you do,”

“Damn right.” The captain agrees, crossing his arms to further cement his point.

You’re drawn to the muscles that flex under the material of his shirt, and okay. Wow. With the way your body is heating up you would think that you’ve never been attracted to another human being in your life.

Quickly, your eyes dart back up to Nico’s, and you flush when you see he’s already caught onto your admiration of his body. He raises an eyebrow, teasing, and then you finally blurt out your response lest he call you out. “Well,” you start, clearing your throat when your voice comes out hoarse. “I guess that could be fun, yeah?”

Nico’s infectious grin at your agreement has you returning one of your own, flushed at the way you already knew your life would be a much happier one if you got to see him smile like that at you forever.

The two Devils’ players left soon after that, but not before you exchanged numbers with Nico Hischier himself while a smug Jonas watched from the background. “So I can send you the tickets when the time comes,” he’d said.

It was a perfectly believable excuse to you, but Jonas clapping his teammate on the back as if it were some kind of accomplishment had you questioning if Nico planned on texting you before their opening night.

You forced yourself to forget about it, though, in the meanwhile. You still had two more clients after they left, and you couldn’t exactly do your best work if Nico’s chiseled face and soft eyes wouldn’t leave your head.

And then a sharp pang struck your heart as you figure you’re just being delusional again. Reading too much into a situation that had no call for it, and imagining the way he looked at you like there was something behind your guarded eyes he wanted to explore.

No, you quickly put an end to your thoughts, steeling your resolve as you march back into the shelter of your shop. You aren’t putting yourself through this. Not again.

In a world of meaningless hookups and disappointing endings, you were a damaged romantic who would have once given the world if asked. But that hope for the future you envision with rose colored glasses is long gone, destroyed along with the pieces of your heart that shattered the last time you let yourself get too close to someone.

You decide then and there, with the image of Nico Hischier and his look of awe the moment he first saw you, that you weren’t going to ever grant him the ability to break you like the last person who did so years ago.

Despite the politeness he exudes, you half expect him to start making a move the moment he lands in Switzerland. You think he’ll start with a text that says, ‘Hey, how are you?’ and once you respond (because you will) he’ll send you pictures of him in his homeland, ones that require a compliment or an inquiry about what he’s doing.

You think you have him figured out. Men are predictable, you would know—their brains all work the same, and that includes how they hit on people they’re interested in.

However, you’re surprised to find that a text from him never comes. There’s no message awaiting you in between tattoo sessions, no ‘how are you’ or a picture of a ski lift or whatever it is people do in Switzerland. It irritates you because you don’t have Nico all figured out like you thought.

If you couldn’t place him into the typical group of uncommitted assholes you’d come to learn, then just who is he?

The answer escapes you for many months after. You certainly don’t text him, but you do find his Instagram after drinking one too many glasses of wine and scroll through his pictures. Nico isn’t very active online is what you gather, for his last post was back in May after they got eliminated from the playoffs.

It makes him endearing, much to your displeasure. People glued to their phones and still use Snapchat as their main form of communication irritate you to no end.

Not Nico, though…

He stays on your mind for the entirety of summer, because you just couldn’t get the memory of his eyes out of your head. It panics you a little because it feels like you’re forming a crush, and your last one didn’t exactly bode well for you.

Whatever. It’s just a small, meaningless feeling that just so happens to have stuck. Nico probably wasn’t even going to send you a ticket for opening night.

This is what you tell yourself as September rolls around, the NHL preseason starts, and your stomach sinks deeper and deeper the closer the Devils’ opening night comes.

You’re thinking about him again right now, much to your displeasure, as you finish wiping down one of your stations after your last client of the day left. It was a busy one, and you’re grumpy because your neck hurts from leaning over for so long.

You accidentally knock over your cleaning spray in the midst of your aggressive cleaning, and just as you pick up the bottle there’s a quiet knock on your shop’s door.

“I thought I flipped the closed sign,” you mutter, exiting the room you were just in and walking to the lobby. You’re unable to make out who it is outside, the only striking feature being that they’re tall.

You open the door warily, speaking before they get the chance to. “Sorry, we’re closed for the night. You can come back tomorrow morning or call to book an appointment—”

“I’m not here for a tattoo.” He interrupts you with what sounds like amusement, and you freeze because you would recognize that voice anywhere.

You look up to meet his eyes, and are struck with the same dark brown that’s been haunting your mind for months.

“Nico,” you say, shock written all over your face. You lick your lips, trying to find something to say. “You’re… What are you doing here?”

“I still have the address saved from when Siegs sent it to me,” he admits, aware that’s not what you’re really asking. Facing you now, he finds himself nervous. You hadn’t changed much, except for maybe the addition of another piercing in your right ear, he thinks.

But you were so unlike other strangers he’s met in the past; they know who he is, all about his life, whereas you look at him like you’re not sure what to think.

Nico finds it refreshing. You’re intriguing, someone to figure out—not to mention he really likes your tattoos. And piercings. He fights the urge to trail his fingers up your sleeves to reveal the art decorating your skin.

You’re raising an eyebrow at him, and then he realizes he’s been silent for a good minute while he’s been staring at you. He releases a quick breath, “You still want to come to opening night, right?”

“I do,” you say, foregoing acting coy. Fuck it, you actually did really want to go. “Why? Is there an issue?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he reassures, giving you a quick smile. “I’d just rather explain the ticket situation in person than on text,”

His reasoning sounds understandable to you, but you fail to pick up on why he still seems so nervous. It’s just a ticket to a game, right?

“So since it’s just you,” he starts, hesitantly. “You’ll be sitting with, um. You’ll be in the wives and girlfriends section.”

Truthfully, Nico wouldn’t be shocked if you decline after hearing where you’ll be sitting. He himself probably would have, because who, as a stranger, wants to sit with the players’ significant others?

He watches your reaction, holding his breath. But all you do is laugh a little, shrug nonchalantly even though internally you’re shitting your pants.

“Okay, but you do know I’m neither a wife nor a girlfriend,” of you, you want to add, but keep that last part to yourself. Even though over the course of these last few months your mind definitely imagined it.

Your expression is teasing, the corner of your lips quirked up into a small smirk that has the tension falling from Nico’s shoulders. You aren’t mad. This is a start.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking rather sheepish. “I didn’t know if you’d be okay with that,” he mumbles lowly, meeting your eyes. If you look closely you think you can see a rosy hue covering his cheeks.

“It’s just one game, yeah?” You muse, secretly pleased at the fact that he’s the nervous one this time, not you. “Nothing wrong with that,”

Nico lets out a breathless laugh, relieved knowing you won’t be caught off guard when you come to the opening game in October.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing wrong with that all.”

He stays for a few more minutes after that, your conversation surprisingly pleasant with little awkwardness as you shyly ask about his stay back home, and he gladly expresses his joy at being back in Switzerland for a few months.

His unabashed enthusiasm to share his life with you catches you off guard, but you find that you like learning these little things about him. It defeats your whole purpose of not letting yourself get close to him, but you push that worry to the back of your mind for later.

Nico does eventually leave, but not before giving you a hug that leaves your heart racing. One of his hands came to rest respectfully at the small of your back, and you could have sworn you felt his lips brush your cheek before he pulled away.

“See you soon,” he had grinned, his eyes dark and enthused.

Feeling corny and rather irritated with yourself, your fingers brush the spot on your cheek, swearing you could still feel the heat of his lips.

You still don’t hear from Nico even after his visit, and you’re once again struck by the fact that you still can't tell what his intentions are. You find yourself checking your phone anyway, going so far as to stalk his Instagram. Again.

This is most definitely becoming a bad habit. A very bad one. You think to yourself as, one day, you find yourself staring at your screen once more, weeks having gone by with the brown eyed boy still on your mind.

With another client in just over two hours, you find yourself using the break to get some work done on your laptop at the desk in the lobby of your shop. You aren’t very productive, but it makes you feel better about your wandering imagination being so distracting.

Just having happened to save a finished spreadsheet of your recent clients and their pricing, a man is pushing open the door to your shop. You quickly determine that it’s some type of delivery based on the package he carries before he drops it onto your counter.

He reads out your name from a paper, glancing up at you for confirmation of your identity. “Yes, that’s me,” you say, eyeing the unknown sender label. “Do you know who sent this?” You haven’t placed any orders recently, so it isn’t something from you.

The mailman shakes his head, giving you a polite smile before wishing you a good rest of your day. You wave to him offhandedly as he exits the shop, and then find a pair of scissors to carefully cut through the tape holding the box shut.

As if you’re opening Pandora’s box, you’re wary as you unfold the cardboard, your fingers brushing against thick fabric before carefully taking it out.

Unfolded and spread out across your desk, you freeze. You’re lucky no one else is here in the front to see you because your face is a deep shade of tomato red, and you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

Before you lay a jersey for the New Jersey Devils, and you know even before turning it over that it has Nico Hischier’s surname and number printed on the back.

As you’re staring at the jersey in awe, your fingers trailing over the brand new and surely expensive fabric, your phone pings with a new message.

It’s from a number you’d memorized months ago even though you’d never once used it to communicate. A text from Nico Hischier greets you as you unlock your phone.

UPS sent me a notification that the package I sent you arrived. I hope you like it. Looking forward to seeing you next month :)

“Oh, he’s good,” you say out loud, your smile growing even wider if that were possible. Your heart’s tempo picks up, and your fingers fly across the keyboard to respond.

You’re still not sure what he’s about—what are his plans here? Does he like you? Is he flirting for fun or does he have intentions to go forward?

You try not to overthink it as you finalize your response, pressing send soon after.

I just got it. I have to say, you’re bold. I guess I have no choice but to wear it now considering how much it probably cost you.

As if he were waiting for a response, a new message appears almost instantly.

It’s no big deal. Really. Just want to make your first game a memorable one. I’ll sign the jersey for you, too.

Careful, hot shot, I might start thinking you have other intentions here.

You wouldn’t be wrong.

September passes quickly, and before you know it October 12 is here and you’re nervously walking through Prudential Center to the section your seat is in.

You don’t stick out as much as you think you do, which is relieving because everyone around you is too focused on getting to their own seats and discussing the game.

You know you don’t fit the typical bill of someone coming to support a professional hockey player, considering what you think you are to Nico is… Complicated.

Your arms are covered in small but meaningful tattoos, and your ears are decorated with piercings along with the lone stud on your nose. You wouldn’t think someone like Nico would find it all attractive about you, but he’s said so numerous times over call and text.

You think about said communication as you finally sit down, a good thirty minutes before the game starts because nobody else is around you yet.

After Nico sent you his jersey, it’s like the floodgates opened from whatever was holding the two of you back from talking. Despite your reservations, he enraptured you from the get-go and you just couldn’t stop yourself from falling.

Nico is a really good texter, surprisingly. None of the lower case bullshit or long response times you’d expect from a sports player, but instead the exact opposite.

He doesn’t give you the feeling of talking to a child, an immature man who doesn’t know what he wants; in the time spent between him first using your number and going to the game, you’ve noticed how his responses are thought out and intentional. He responds quickly, but not too quickly to make you think he doesn’t have a career to focus on, and he makes you smile when he adds those cute smiley faces after the end of his texts.

You think you’re enjoying Nico Hischier a little too much to be normal, but you choose not to focus on that as you’re greeted by an unknown woman tapping your shoulder.

“Hi!” She says, giving you a welcoming smile that instantly puts you at ease. “Nico said he invited someone to come tonight. And Jonas,” she adds the last part like it was an afterthought, then gives you a slightly apologetic look. “He didn’t have time to tell us your name, so he just said to look for piercings and tattoos. I’m assuming that’s you?”

You’re not offended by others using your slightly unconventional looks to point you out; you’re proud of all of your piercings and the ink decorating your skin. You wouldn’t be you without them.

Slightly overwhelmed at the amount of words that just spewed from her mouth, though, you hide it well as you damper your nerves to respond. “Hi. Yeah, um, that’s me. They both - Nico and Jonas - really wanted me to come tonight.” You don’t include the fact that it was all Nico who sent you the ticket, showed up at your shop, and had been texting you nonstop for the past month.

The woman grins, seemingly relieved she had the right person. “Nico never brings anyone around so we were all pretty excited to meet you. I’m Natalie, Jonas’ girlfriend, by the way.”

Natalie is the exact type of girl you’d be expecting to date a professional hockey player. She’s blonde with a lithe figure, bright blue eyes and a face that could be on the front page of a magazine. She fits in with this crowd, not you, but you try not to let that bother you as you focus on her being the woman who makes one of your good clients happy.

Jonas has mentioned his girlfriend numerous times before, singing nothing but praises, and he’s even shown you a picture. Now that she’s in front of you, you instantly recognize her.

“I thought I recognized you,” you say. “I’m Jonas’ tattoo artist, he talks about you all the time,” maybe you were exaggerating a bit, but. Siegs wouldn’t mind. You were buttering him up to the ‘love of his life’, after all.

“He’s mentioned you too, oh my gosh, now it’s all clicking!” Natalie instantly gasps, sliding into the seat next to you. “You’re crazy talented. All of his tattoos are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you grin, a little bashful. “He’s a great guy. I enjoy working with him.”

Natalie smiles back, and soon the two of you are joined by the rest of the WAG’s as the puck drop grows closer. Just as you’re about to pull out your phone, Natalie has seemingly managed to break free from whoever she was talking to.

“So, how do you know Nico? Jonas didn’t mention much about you coming, it was mostly Neeks who asked us to greet you,”

Neeks? You file that nickname away for later, and then your face grows red because you’re not sure how to answer her question.

“We actually met because of Jonas, funny enough. He was getting his wrist shaded, right after they got eliminated from the playoffs, and he asked Nico to come pick him up from my shop when it was done.”

“I remember,” Natalie says. “We were flying to Switzerland right after he was done. Sorry, you can continue,”

“You’re good,” you chuckle. “But yeah, then Jonas mentioned how I’d never been to a game, and Nico is who managed to convince me to come tonight.” You keep it simple, vague. No need to provide a complicated answer, mostly because you didn’t know how to reply without making it seem like you and Nico hadn’t been flirting for weeks now.

She looks like she’s about to say something, but suddenly the lights are dimming and an announcer is speaking, his loud voice booming throughout the arena. The next thing you know the lights are coming back on full blast, the puck is dropped, and ten hockey players are whipping across the ice at lightning speed.

Holy shit, you want to say, the sounds of screaming fans and players slamming against the boards rather overwhelming to you but in a good way. It has your blood pumping, and while you don’t understand much of anything - like why the refs blow the whistle randomly or what certain penalties mean - you find that you’re having a good time with Natalie keeping you company, explaining things as they occur.

“That Red Wings player is going into the box which means they’re down a player, and—oh, look, there’s Nico!” She’s pointing to the ice, and you have to squint to follow her line of sight, but you quickly recognize the Swiss captain’s profile and fight the muscles in your face from breaking into a smile.

Alas, you end up losing that battle as a grin manages to fight its way onto your face anyway. You know he can’t see you from so far up, but you like to think he tries as the Jumbotron focuses on him and catches his eyes peering up into the general direction of where you’re seated.

To downplay your excitement at spotting him, you ask, “What’s Jonas’ number?”

“Seventy-one,” Natalie answers, about to say something else, but interrupts herself as she along with almost every other fan in the arena jumps up out of their seats to shout obscenities at the referees.

Yeah, you think to yourself, comically scared of the aggression these hockey fans show for their team. This will take some getting used to.

Almost three hours later, the Devils manage to secure the win for their first game of the season. They almost blew it, or that’s what you hear from others around you, but you’re just glad to have something to congratulate Nico for when you go to meet him outside the locker room.

Speaking of, you along with the other WAG’s are walking down there right now, and your nerves from before the game are coming back full-force, stomach-twisting, vomit-inducing and all.

You’re standing next to Natalie as she talks with two other girls, and you’re content to just listen because your nerves aren’t allowing you to do anything else.

Then, as if the universe were tuned into your thoughts, the locker room doors open and multiple Devils players come streaming out. They’re freshly showered, back in the suits they arrived at the arena in, and you don’t even bother to hide your eagerness as you look for Nico in the crowd.

You spot Jonas first, though, as he catches sight of Natalie and bounds over to her with open arms. “Good game,” you think she says, then says something even quieter and that’s when Jonas sees you standing next to them.

He says your name in shock before a broad smile stretches over his face. “You came!” And then he’s also bringing you into a hug, looking all too happy to have some of his favorite people surrounding him.

“I did,” you laugh, pulling back after a moment. “It was really fun to watch. I’m glad you guys won,” you kind of wince at the end, knowing their win was shaky at best, but he looks like he appreciates the humor all the same.

“Yeah, we are too,” he says, then looks as if he just remembered something. “Nico was coming out right behind me, and—oh, there he is! Neeks!” He calls his captain’s name abruptly, and you swivel around to see Nico Hischier in the flesh heading towards you.

“There you are with the nickname again,” Nico chuckles as he approaches, then embraces his friend as if they didn’t just see each other a minute ago.

When he pulls back, his eyes quickly find yours, and unlike the first time you met there’s no awkwardness as Nico gives you a wide grin before wrapping his arms around you.

“You came,” he says into the top of your hair, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He doesn’t give you time to speak before he’s pulling back only slightly, enough to see your face from below peering up at him.

You take in the sight of him above you, rendered speechless as this image of him smiling so happily will likely replay in your memory forever. Nico is pure ecstasy, delight incarnate as those dark brown eyes likely have you painted in a way you could never see yourself in.

Finally finding your words, you duck your head for a moment, embarrassed at the blush you know is on your cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss it,” you say, referring to the game. “You played great, Neeks,”

Nico playfully leans back, lightly groaning at hearing you tease his nickname. “I should’ve known they’d say that in front of you,” he sighs, but you can tell it’s in nothing but jest as his smile remains. “Thank you, though,”

And now it was his turn to be bashful, as the blood rushes to his cheeks. What a picture you’re sure the two of you were; both pairs of hands still holding the other and equally flustered expressions on your faces. You find that you don’t mind the contact, though, despite having a slight aversion to touch. Nico’s warmth is comforting, and you rather like being close to him.

It’s not until Jonas coughs loudly from behind you that you and Nico finally release your hold on one another, and you turn to see he and Natalie looking at the two of you with barely contained excitement.

You meet Nico’s eyes, both of you struggling to hide your laughs at Jonas and Natalie’s failed poker faces. “Nice assist, Siegs,” you say to break the lingering tension, and the four of you come together like you’d all been close friends for years.

As you’re all leaving the arena through the exit the players use, Jonas and Nico walk ahead of you, exchanging teasing words and lighthearted insults, while you and Natalie watch from behind.

“So,” Natalie chirps, looking at you expectantly. “What do you think?”

You’re not dumb. You know she’s asking about Nico, thinking this is the first time you’ve talked to him since you first met him at your tattoo shop.

“Hockey? Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” you say, snickering when she sighs at your avoidance. “I’ll have to go to more games.”

“Not about hockey, about Nico,” Natalie says, whispering his name as if it’s taboo. “We aren’t blind. That was a long hug, and Nico literally never brings anyone here. Ever.”

“Technically, Jonas offered to bring me to a game first,”

The spunky blonde ignores you, offhandedly waving her arm. “Semantics. He also keeps turning around to look at you. Like right now.”

What? You instantly look ahead and see she’s right, your eyes meeting Nico’s. His face turns red as he sends you a shy smile, and then he turns back to Jonas who is still talking beside him.

Natalie observes the interaction, a small grin on her face. “You’ve both been talking long before now, haven’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” you chuckle bashfully, slightly embarrassed your interactions allow her to pick up on your chemistry so quick. She shrugs, increasing her stride to stand in front of you as you reach their cars. “A little. But I’ve known Nico for a bit now, he’s a good guy. He likes you, too, I think.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before Jonas is wrapping an arm around Natalie’s waist, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “We gotta get going, yeah? Early morning tomorrow,”

Nico’s hand is brushing against your arm as he moves to your side, unable to tell if the resulting shiver from his touch is from the slight chill in the air or just him. “We have a game in Arizona, a back-to-back,” he clarifies, answering your unspoken question.

“Ah,” you say. “That sucks.”

“Not this time. I’ll have plenty of good things to think about on the flight.” He winks at you, perfectly implying what those ‘good things’ are.

Your face turns red just as Jonas pretends to gag. “That would be our sign to leave. Right, babe?” He attempts to lead his girlfriend away, but Natalie suddenly gasps and runs back to you.

“I forgot to get your number,” she says, thrusting her phone into your hands. “We’re definitely hanging out again.” And, well, okay then. Who are you to deny her?

Jonas and Natalie drive away in his fancy sports car, which leaves you to walk Nico to his own. It’s quiet between the two of you, comforting because you’re both content to revel in each other’s company. Your hands occasionally brush - purely Nico’s fault - until he gathers the bravery to lace your fingers together just as you approach his car.

He doesn’t drop your hand, not even as he turns to face you once you come to a stop. “You have a ride home?”

You shrug sheepishly. No, you hadn’t really thought that far. “I was just planning on ubering…”

Nico scoffs, as if the very thought offends him. “Yeah, no. I’ll drive you home.” At the apprehensive look on your face, his confidence wavers slightly, and he mindlessly rubs his thumb over your hand to calm his own nerves. “If you’re okay with it, of course,”

Why does he have to be so cute? You give in instantly, the tension melting from your bones as, boldly, you use his grip on your hand to tug him closer. “That would be great, Nico, thank you.”

While his car, like Jonas’, is also expensive, you feel comfortable surrounded by the dark material and the scent of Nico’s cologne. The radio is playing softly, and he’s humming along quietly while strumming the fingers of his hand on the steering wheel. His other is resting on the gear shift, but you can tell by the way his hand keeps twitching that he wants to move it closer to you.

If you’ve learned anything about Nico within the weeks that you’ve been talking to him, it’s that he is huge on physical touch. He said it over text, but in person it’s even more obvious because his hands are rarely to himself when he’s next to you.

As the minutes go by, you finally give in to his body’s desire with a laugh as you reach over to tangle your hands together, now resting in your lap. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you liked touching, were you?”

Even with the darkness surrounding him, you can easily spot the maroon flush blooming across his cheeks. He briefly looks to you, unable to hide his grin before turning his attention back to the road. “No,” he laughs, gripping your hand reflexively like he’s testing out the contact. “I wasn’t.”

You’re both significantly more loose after you give in to your want for the other, and the rest of the ride is silent save for the occasional song lyrics mumbled by Nico. Almost too quickly he’s pulling into the parking lot of your apartment complex, and you’re disappointed when your hands release as you climb out of the car.

“Can I walk you to your door?”

“Sure.”

Like the car ride, the walk to your apartment is comfortably silent, and this time Nico doesn’t hesitate when taking your hand. He smiles when you shiver, but doesn’t say anything which you appreciate.

The elevator is stopping at your floor almost too soon, and you find yourself not wanting the night to end. You’re enjoying his company far too much, and you really like holding his hand. Imagining yourself doing this on a regular basis is overwhelming and definitely freaks you out a little once you come to a stop at your door.

“Here I am,” you chuckle, a little awkwardly. So… What do you do now? Thank him? Hug him? Kiss him?

You go to say something, anything… But Nico beats you to it. “Thank you for coming tonight,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I couldn’t see you from the ice, but I liked trying to pretend I could see you watching me.” He winks, then, and you don’t bother denying that yes, you were watching him the entire time.

You still try to be humble, though. “Thank you for getting me a ticket,” you say, trying to decide how forward you should be. His eyes sparkle, though, as you talk, like he can’t get enough of your voice… “All the girls were nice. Welcoming. It was fun pretending I was one of them.”

“I want you to be,” Nico blurts, almost breathless. “‘One of them’, that is. I think I like you,” he laughs like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

You’re unable to take your eyes off him, those dark brown of his bearing into you. The color is warm, just like Nico because he reminds you of a summer day and if he's the sun, then you’re a mere leaf desperately searching for his light.

“I think I like you too,” you admit, a little quieter, a little shy. You still don’t like being touched, but as his hands come to cup your cheeks you decide that you do like the feel of his calloused skin against yours, and then he’s dipping his head to capture your lips in a kiss you don’t know you’ve been waiting for.

You melt instantly, sighing into his mouth with relief. Nico’s kisses are long and smooth, and you’re happy to let him lead before he’s pulling back all too soon, his beard scruff leaving the skin around your lips burning pleasantly.

Fluttering eyes open, leaving you with the distinct feeling of coming up from underwater. Nico looks just as elated as you feel, gazing at you from dark brown eyes filled with adoration. His thumb runs across your bottom lip, and then he’s stepping back respectfully.

“I’ll call you when I get back to my place, yeah?” He says, and you’re glad he seems just as eager to continue talking as you are.

“Yeah, that… That works,” English has left your head, and you stumble over what to say next. Nico has left you speechless, literally. “Drive safe.”

He flashes you a blinding smile, and then disappears back into the elevator.

“Oh fuck,” you say to the emptiness of the corridor. “Fuck. I’m so fucked.”

Nico calls you when he gets home, just like he said he would. He also calls you the day after that and the day after that, and when he can’t call because of a game or practice or whatever, he’s texting you.

You’re swept up in the world of Nico Hischier; his friends have become your (albeit, surface) friends, Natalie has taken you under her wing, and as the weeks go by you’re regularly attending games in the WAG section.

There’s no label on your relationship, and while you like that you’re taking this slow, there's still this desire to kiss him in front of everyone after a game won, to show the hockey world that this man, this man right here is yours.

You don’t act on it, though, as much as you may want to. You have this fear that because your appearance isn’t so conventional, that Nico would get hate for being seen with you. Everyone around you subtly hints that this fear of yours is irrational, but you know better.

As the new year comes and goes - it’s the best way you’ve spent new years in forever because Nico kisses you right as the clock strikes twelve, under the flashing lights and his cheering teammates around you - the Devils’ season continues to dominate. They’re projected to make the playoffs again, and you’re going to just about every game now to show your support.

What you don’t realize is that the fans’ scrutiny of the players only grows the closer the end of the regular season comes, and their attention also shifts to the significant others. WAG playoff jackets are apparently a thing, and you hear from Natalie how the designs for this year are already in the works.

Nico hinted one night that he wanted you to wear one by mentioning he can’t wait to see you when they’re in the playoffs. You gave him a slight look of suspicion because he said it in a way like he’s anticipating something, but he only shrugged cheekily when you tried prying.

Everything comes to an ugly head, though, when you discover hockey Twitter. You’ve obviously known of the app, but you only download it when you hear how the hockey coverage is extensive and you decide you want to keep up with all NHL news more easily.

That’s when you stumble across a term called ‘puck bunnies’, and how there are accounts dedicated to the players’ dating lives with information as trivial as who they’re being spotted with.

Anxiety takes control one night when you’re scrolling through a gossip page, and you succumb to the urge to search Nico’s name. To your horror, there are posts mentioning how a new person (you) has joined the WAG’s at games, and fans have spotted him leaving with this new person consistently.

You can’t find anything mentioning your identity, but you do find criticisms of your appearance. A lot of them. And, really, you knew this was going to happen, it was just a matter of when. The thought doesn’t comfort you, though, as your stomach drops when past girlfriends of Nico are brought up.

They’re all blondes, the occasional brunette, too. Of course they are. You figure anyways that part of the reason you were so intriguing to him to begin with is because you’re so unlike anyone he’s ever dated before. It still doesn’t make you feel better.

You have unconventional piercings, tattoos and quite a lot of them, and you don’t have the money to splurge on expensive clothing like these models do. A word a lot of these hateful posts use is ‘downgrade’, and your insecurities start to agree.

Why does Nico even like you? What do you have that these other girls don’t? From the looks of it, you’re the first of, well, you that he’s ever dated.

You hate it. You hate all of it. Twitter, stupid puck bunnies (how demeaning, too?), your incredibly strong feelings for Nico, and the thought that you aren’t good enough for him.

Now, what you should be doing is calling him. Hell, even Natalie. You know you need to talk to someone about what you’ve found, get some reassurance that the online gossip is purely just that: gossip.

But, well, you’ve never been reasonable. Anxiety and overthinking has ruled your life since you could talk. Instead, you stay silent, stew in your self-loathing and scroll through more of the disgusting Twitter thread.

You let these strangers’ words get to you, their biting insults swimming around in the back of your mind over the next few days all while everyone else is none the wiser.

Especially Nico, who thinks everything is fine until it isn’t. He’s busy with the team, leading with a grace only a captain could possess, and playing his heart out every game to ensure their spot in the postseason. He thinks your distance is because you know how busy he is and simply just don’t want to bother him.

Which, he appreciates you respecting his career, but your shortened responses, curt replies, and frequent denials to come to his games start to signal warning sirens in his head. You aren’t an open book by any means, but this… Nico finds it startling. He knows something is wrong.

So he pries. He texts you more than normal, during video reviews where he’s supposed to be paying attention to replays and right after practices, too. One could say he’s being overbearing, and in the midst of all your self-loathing and depressive overthinking, you snap.

Nico had kept texting you, over and over again, asking for your schedule over the next few days along with continuously asking about when you could see him next. Your fingers moved faster than you could think, and then you pressed send on a message you keep telling yourself you don’t regret.

I just don’t have time, Nico, jesus. Let it go.

The read receipt had appeared under the message less than a minute later, and not another text came through. You’d most definitely had a slight mental breakdown, wanted to call him and apologize and kiss away the frown you’re sure is marring his beautiful lips, but you try convincing yourself it’s for the best.

You don’t deserve all the good that Nico Hischier brings into your life. He’s far too good for you—everyone else seems to think so, too.

And so, that’s that. Nico doesn’t text you anymore and you certainly don’t text him. You’d burned that bridge with no hesitation, and any sparks that were growing between you are certainly extinguished now. This is what you tell yourself, anyways, even as you still can’t stop yourself from tuning into the Devils games over the next few days.

You throw yourself into your work, even more than before. You switch around scheduling for different clients, place multiple sessions right after the other so the buzz of your tattoo gun is too loud for you to think of anything else.

It works, for a time. But you can only do it for so long, and it doesn’t stop you from watching recaps of Nico nor does it keep you from noticing how off-kilter he seems. You’ve come to realize that whenever the captain is off, so is the rest of the team, and the Devils go on a losing streak over the next two weeks that kills you almost as much as you’re sure it’s killing them.

You still don’t contact him, though. You keep your distance, avoid the bars you know they frequent and dodge Natalie’s attempts at meeting up, too. You’re sure she knows you and Nico aren’t talking, either because of how badly he’s playing or because Jonas told her, and you don’t want to give her an opportunity to pry.

And Nico, well. He’s very obviously a mess. He’s snappy, overwhelmed, angry at the littlest things; he broke his stick against the wall during one practice because Jack had passed him a puck, but Nico botched the play just like everything else in his life, apparently.

A perk about being the captain is that none of his teammates have the guts to come up to him to bluntly ask him what’s wrong. On the other hand, his teammates follow his lead to a T, which means that as a result of his foul mood and horrible playing, their spot in the standings has noticeably suffered.

You don’t leave his head, not when he’s in the middle of a game or lying wide awake in his bed until the early hours of the morning. Many times he contemplates breaking the barrier you’d put between the two of you, to ask what he did and if there’s anything he can do to fix it. Nico thinks it’s his fault, that maybe he came off as too clingy…

He knows of your past, knows you’re so wary to jump into relationships for a reason, and figures he just did something to scare you back into seclusion.

The abrupt silence between the two of you builds, and Nico is so frustrated with himself and with you that when they play a division rival, the Philadelphia Flyers, his pent-up aggravation is released and he plays the best hockey he’s probably ever played before in his life.

Nico has never done drugs, but he’s positive the adrenaline pumping through his veins is similar to the rush of dopamine one would feel right after. He’s high off the elation of winning, and it gives him the courage to finally do something about the mounting irritation from his lack of contact with you.

He leaves the rock as soon as he’s able, breaks a few traffic laws in his haste to get to your shop as quickly as possible. It’s a long shot, showing up this late at night on a Friday, but he knows your habits and he knows you.

As he swerves into a parking spot, his gut tells him he’s right. You’re here. You have to be.

Unfortunately for you, Nico is right. You are, in fact, holed up alone in your shop, postponing the lonely ride to your lonely apartment in place of searching for something to do.

You watched the Devils game in the midst of distracting yourself, because of course you did. You saw how the players’ growing frustration led to pure determination that ultimately secured them the win.

You’re proud of them. Proud of Nico. You want to text him, do something, but… then there’s rapid knocking on the doors, and you’re peeking around the corner to catch a glimpse of the likely drunkard trying to break in.

You’re about to just wave them off, gesture towards the sign hanging on the window you know is switched to close, but the man outside speaks and you’re frozen.

“Please, baby, let me in,” the voice is laced with pure desperation, and oh, now you can see him as clear as day. He mouths your name through the glass, and you don’t have the strength to send him away.

You reluctantly unlock the door, shying away from his touch when he tentatively puts a hand on your arm. Nico is having none of it, though, and quickly grabs your hand to tug you back towards him. He’s had enough of your silence, isn’t going to let you walk away so easily this time.

When you don’t meet his eyes, he lets out a heavy breath, squeezes your hand once, then, “What the fuck is going on?” and you’re still silent, still avoidant, refusing to look up at his face. He says your name, voice anguished as he begs again, “Talk to me, please?”

You dodge his questions. “Why are you here, Nico?”

Nico reads your body language, watches as you refuse to meet his eyes and finally break away from his touch. He realizes he still affects you, and that you pushing him away is purely because you’re in your own head and don’t know how to get out of it

“Did you see my game?” Nico eventually asks, realizing he has to approach this gently, like you’re a wounded animal and in a sense, you are.

You did, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. (He knows, anyway). So you just shrug, pretending to fiddle with the random shit on your desk.

“So that’s a yes,” Nico mutters to himself. Then, he speaks up, louder, so he knows you hear him. “I scored a goal tonight.” he pauses, waits for your reaction.

You look up then, only for a moment, squinting your eyes in what looks to be a glare. “Congratulations.”

The way you look at him screams paranoid, insecure, and suddenly Nico is hit with the memory of a conversation he had with a fan a few days ago. She was young, in her early teens and certainly not out of highschool so he didn’t take her gossip too seriously, but…

“You guys are so cute!” he remembers her squealing, shoving her phone in his face. It was a blurry picture of the two of you holding hands walking out of the arena, that much he remembers. “Everyone’s hating on them online but they’re all just jealous you’re taken now.”

Nico had been signing her jersey when she said that. He raised an eyebrow, was tuning her out slightly. “Hating? On Twitter? Shocking,” he had laughed. “Does anyone take them seriously?”

The girl - whose name he now doesn’t remember - had shrugged. “A few obsessed people, yeah. Don’t go on Twitter if you want to keep your sanity. I’d tell your… friend that, too.”

Except he didn’t. Her words went through one ear and right out the other, and it’s like a halo of light just lit up his head because oh, Nico understands now, and he feels his stomach dropping over the thought that you’ve been living with this for weeks now.

Nico scoffs at your sass but it sounds more like a laugh. He knows what to do, now. “Signed a few fans’ jerseys after the game, and then I remembered an interesting conversation with this one girl a few games back. It was really enlightening. Wanna know what she said?”

You know what’s coming. You’ve already seen what people say about your rumored relationship with Nico, and you think he’s just telling you this to definitively end whatever you started with each other.

Words escape you, but what does manage to come out is a choked up, “Not really”, under your breath.

“She said people talked about us online. Were saying a bunch of bullshit about how you ‘aren’t my type’ and that I’m too good for you. Can you believe that?”

Nico takes a few cautious steps towards you, leans over your desk to gauge your reaction. He sees the light sheen in your eyes, the way your hands tremble as you attempt to look like you aren’t hanging on to his every word.

But Nico sees right through you. He understands immediately, in that moment, why you’re pushing him away, and it breaks his heart into a million pieces.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, softly. “You didn’t think I agreed with them, did you?”

You try to respond, but you cut yourself off by letting out a sob as the overwhelming emotions catch up to you.

Nico immediately rounds the desk, his own eyes tearing up as he wraps his muscular arms around your body in a protective hug. You’re shaking as you bury your head into his neck, spurting apology after apology.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

“I know,” he shushes, one hand running through your hair while the other rubs soothing circles on your back. “I know. It’s okay,”

“Why don’t you hate me? You should hate me,”

“I could never hate you.”

You don’t let go of Nico, not even as he slides down the wall with you in his arms. It’s behind your desk, so you’re hidden from view. The thought that he did this on purpose so you can break down in peace only makes you cry harder, and yet he doesn’t falter in his comfort.

“Is this why you went silent on me?” He eventually asks, gently, so as to not startle you. “Because of… Twitter?”

You nod imperceptibly, feeling rather embarrassed now that it’s said out loud how much online gossip has bothered you. It wasn’t just because of that, though. “It’s stupid, I know—”

“No, no it’s not. Your feelings aren’t stupid.” He says immediately. “I’m sorry you found those things online. I wish you would’ve told me, or something, that way I could’ve reassured you,”

“I should have,” you say. You almost lost him, this person you care about so deeply. “You scare me so much, though, you know?”

Nico jerks, aghast. “No, no, not like that,” You reassure, unable to stop yourself from smiling. “I mean… What I feel for you scares me. Like it’s too good to be true,”

You’re nervous to continue, but then his fingers begin tracing the tattoos on your arms and you shiver because of an entirely new reason, other nerves forgotten.

“And, I don’t know. I guess I was looking for reasons to doubt… Us. Which is wrong, I know. And then I found the Twitter thread, and I let their words confirm what I was already thinking.”

One of his hands trails up the back of your neck, gently massages the skin there for a moment, and is then carefully smoothing over some of your older piercings, admiring how the jewelry looks against your skin. He’s working to calm you down, and it’s working because you then realize you've forgotten how to speak.

“Um,” you swallow, throat dry. “You’re here, though,” you finish lamely, finally meeting his eyes in awe.

“I am.” He affirms. The hand on your arm joins the other to cup your face, and then your eyes flutter shut as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “And I’m not going anywhere, yeah? Not unless you tell me to fuck off. ”

“Okay,” you whisper, assured and now content as his arms go back to curling you into his chest. “Okay. Sounds good.” And then a thought strikes you, like the deprivation of his life you’ve been forcing yourself to deal with has had enough. “When’s your next game?”

Nico’s face breaks out into a beautiful smile, one that takes your breath away. “There’s one at home next Thursday,” he says. “I think Natalie might hurt me if I tell her that you’re still too busy, so does this mean you’ll come?”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” you murmur, matching his grin. “But yeah, yeah, I’ll go,” and back to cool nonchalance you go, unable to take the love rushing through you.

Finally, you find the strength to lift yourself off the floor. He immediately grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together. As you stand in the middle of your shop, smiling goofily at each other, he looks nervous again, and his thumb smooths over the back of your hand reflexively.

“I’ve missed you,” Nico admits, looking down at you shyly. “Didn’t realize how much I liked having you in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely upset with yourself for shutting him out. “I missed you too. A lot.”

“So we’re good now, then?” he looks anxious, like he thinks he still did something wrong. “You’ll talk to me next time?”

“We’re good. I’ll talk to you,” you swear. And you’re serious this time. It hurt you just as much as it hurt him to fall out of contact for weeks. Terrifyingly enough, you’re sure it’s because you’re falling in love with him.

You’ll hold back from saying those three words for a little while longer, though.

“So,” you say after a moment. “Catch me up? On everything I missed?”

He grins again, and you think it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Can we recap back at my place?” At the suggestive look on your face his face quickly turns red. “I just miss having you in my bed,” he mumbles, and at your laugh just starts dragging you to the door.

“Wait, wait, I need to lock up!” Nico playfully groans, squeezes your hips with a mocking “hurry up” and then you’re running out onto the busy streets of New Jersey like two reckless teenagers looking to elope.

It’s healing, freeing, and dangerous all at once because you can’t stop giggling and Nico can’t stop kissing you, and as you look at his face outlined by the red of a stoplight you think, I could fall in love with him.

You’re sure he’ll catch you when you hit the bottom, too.

A/N: I was planning on including smut but since I wrote this with a gender neutral reader not even I could make that work LMAO regardless, I hope you still enjoyed! I haven’t written a 10k+ fic in a while so I had a lot of fun with this one. As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

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jtl07 · 18 days ago

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JT HI HELLO!!

Please could I put a prompt in? Either dead mom recipes oooor an Olympic prompt?

Thank you 😍

okay so i went with cooking with my (dead) mom because! one of the early ideas for that fic was for it to actually have two parts: the first part being what was posted, the second part being, well, something like this :D

Episode: Hong Kong egg tarts - the love of my love

[A little jingle plays as the video starts with Ava standing behind a familiar kitchen island, wearing a brightly patterned apron with "Other Moms' Recipes" on the front. She smiles and waves]

"Hey everyone! So we finally recovered from the last episode -"

[Title card, haunted text: Last time on Other Moms' Recipes]

[Montage from the last episode: Ava and Camila standing behind the island: Camila, smiling brightly, "The recipe I've brought today is tortilla de patatas from my mom, who is a big fan of the show-" "Hi Mom!" Ava giggles; Ava whining over prepping the potatoes as Camila shares a look with someone off-camera; Camila coaching Ava through the flipping process by practicing on a pan with a towel inside; at the stove, Camila successfully flipping hers while Ava holds her own pan, screaming; end shot is a still of Ava, apron splattered with potatoes and eggs, Camila holding her perfectly flipped and plated tortilla, and Beatrice with a bucket of cleaning supplies]

"- though apparently there are special pans so you don't have to do the whole flipping thing?!? Cam's on my shit list for that. But anyway. I'm so, so, sosososo -"

[Title card, in jaunty text with a picture of Mary's face: "Eat a vegetable for every time she says 'So'"]

"- SO soso excited for today's recipe, because! We're finally featuring my favorite person in the world."

[Ava gestures to her side, grinning wide and expectant. There's a soft, resigned sigh from off-screen, then Beatrice steps into the frame and stands next to Ava. She's wearing a tank top with a rainbow and "The power of friendship" written in cursive on the front. Ava bites her lip as she looks her over; nudges Beatrice with her hip]

Beatrice, monotone recitation: "Hello, I'm Beatrice, I'm here to bring the power of friendship."

[She looks plaintively at Ava]

Beatrice: "Must I really -"

Ava, pouting: "You promised."

Beatrice, purses her lips, then: "Fine. Fine."

[Beatrice flexes her arms, much to Ava's loud delight. Ava jumps up to kiss Beatrice's cheek. Beatrice sighs but a fond smile curls her lips all the same. Ava bounces on her toes and claps her hands]

Ava: "Okay, Bea, what recipe have you brought for us today?"

Beatrice, straightening: "Well, I thought perhaps we could try to make egg tarts. They're a bit different from the Portuguese ones you like to get from that bakery -"

Ava, affronted: "Excuse me, I always have to fight you off from taking mine!"

Beatrice coughs; continues: "- in any case, these are Hong Kong style, so they're more like proper tarts."

Ava, giggling, in a half-assed imitation of Beatrice's accent: "Proper tarts. What about an improper tart?"

Beatrice rolls her eyes and ignores her: "When I would visit my grandparents in Hong Kong, my grandmother would always make them on the weekend. My grandfather would sometimes play a game and buy some from a bakery then mix them in with the ones my grandmother had made. Hers somehow always tasted better."

Ava, thoughtfully: "When's the last time you had one?"

Beatrice shrugs, gaze lowering: "Not since I was child."

[Ava watches her knowingly, then steps in close and tangles their fingers together]

Ava, quietly: "I'm glad we can make it now."

[Beatrice takes a deep breath and nods; they share a long, loving look]

[Cut to Ava and Beatrice - now wearing an open button down over the tank top - with ingredients for the pastry laid out in front of them on the counter]

Ava, pointing severely at Beatrice: "Seriously, you gotta let me do it myself this time!"

[At the bottom of the screen: "Click here to see Beatrice 'help' make the easiest empanadas (said no one ever)!"]

Beatrice holds her hands up: "Alright, I'll just give you instructions."

Ava grins and bounces on her feet: "I love when you tell me what to do."

[Beatrice coughs suddenly as Ava reddens]

Ava, voice a touched strangled: "Moving on..."

[Montage of them cooking together: Ava grumbling at having to weigh the flour measurements; Beatrice nearly getting splattered as she holds the bowl while Ava vigorously whisks the egg mixture; "They're so cute!" Ava giggles as they press the dough into the mini tart tins; Ava standing at the far end of the kitchen, holding her breath as Beatrice carefully places the tray of tarts into the oven]

[Close up of the finished egg tarts before cutting to the two of them at the island, each with a tart in hand. Beatrice makes to eat one but instead watches Ava bite into hers. Ava lets out an excited squeak before popping the rest into her mouth, reaches excitedly to get another one.]

Beatrice, chuckling softly and passing Ava a mug: "Don't forget to chew, darling."

[Ava gives her a thumbs up as she takes a sip, quickly stuffing her mouth with another tart. She blinks at Beatrice as she chews, gestures for her to eat. Watches as Beatrice takes a steadying breath; takes a bite.]

[Beatrice stills, then ducks her head suddenly, hiding her face from the camera. Ava swallows hastily and leans into Beatrice, rubs a hand up and down her back, murmurs quietly into her ear, too low to hear. After a few moments, Beatrice finally nods. Wipes at her eyes and presses a kiss to Ava's temple, whispers something that sounds like 'I love you,' like 'thank you']

Ava, arm still wrapped around Beatrice: "Well, I think this is definitely a recipe we'll have to make more often."

Beatrice nods, smiles around new tears: "I'd like that."

Ava, taking another tart: "Okay well, last thing: on the scale of 1 to fuck?"

Beatrice shakes her head exasperatedly, grins: "Fuck."

[Ava laughs, kisses Beatrice on the nose. Before she can bring the tart to her mouth, however, Beatrice reaches out to forestall her. Cups Ava's cheek with her other hand. Steps in close, leans down -]

[The video cuts just before their lips meet. Title card, in jaunty text: "See you next thyme!"]

Top comments:

- It's so (sosososososoSOso) nice to see you both on screen again!

- gotta love the rating system

- I still say my mom's tortilla de patatas is better

- Reply from Camila: banned

- Reply from Beatrice: Camila!

- Reply from Ava: i don't blame her bea, them's fighting words

- Reply from Camila: so you forgive me?

- Reply from Ava: get me some of those tacos you showed me and we'll talk

- Reply from Beatrice: Ava!

- Reply from Ava: oh and get some birria for bea 😉

- Reply from Mary: and what am i, chopped liver?

- Reply from Ava: live your dream, mary!

- Reply from Mary: banned

btw the recipe I referenced for this was from thewoksoflife! also shoutout to @daskum for telling me about tortilla de patatas

#writing shenanigans with jt #avatrice #youtuber!ava au #thank you sososomuch for this prompt #i've been wanting to come back to this 'verse and this was a wonderful nudge <3

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dduane · 2 months ago

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Hi! Possibly a bit of a weird question for you, but I'm trying to collect all of YW in hardbacks before my old omnibus finally gives out, and I was wondering - do you know if books 1-4 ever got published in hardback with the Harcourt black base/white text cover art? So many websites use blank placeholders that I can't tell if what I'm searching for even exists!

It’s not weird at all. I get occasional inquiries (especially from librarians) about how to get their hands on complete hardcover sets of the Young Wizards books.

Let's make this simpler from the start by establishing that in the forty-plus year history of the series, there has never been a unified hardcover edition of all the YW books, from any of their publishers... mostly because there've been too many publishers over that stretch of time.

Let's take the books in order, as far as possible, and you'll see what happened.

The books' first home was at Delacorte Press, an imprint of Dell Publishing. So You Want To Be A Wizard was published in hardcover in 1983, the Deep Wizardry hc in 1985, and the High Wizardry hc in 1990, with these covers. (The art, respectively, by David Wiesner, Darrell Sweet, and Neal McPheeters.)

All of these editions are now difficult to find in good condition, especially SYWTBAW—which as a first book in a series by a new/untried author, perhaps understandably had a very small print run and was mostly sold to libraries. (The run might have been as small as 1500 copies. It's hard to tell now, as this wasn't data that was shared with authors in those days.) As a result, most copies of the Delacorte SYWTBAW hc are either very beat up, or (if signed and/or in good condition) relatively expensive. The Delacorte DW and HW hardcovers are a little easier to find, but not that much.

In the early 1990s there was a change in publishing direction at Dell shortly after HW came out. The publisher's interest had pivoted toward wanting more bestselling authors; so they jettisoned many then-new or midlist authors so as to be able to pay the best-selling authors more. (In this particular micro-bonfire of the vanities, Dell's stupidity in throwing Jane Yolen overboard, FFS, astounds me to this day.) So though the books continued to be published as paperbacks at other Dell imprints (Laurel-Leaf, Yearling) through the mid-1990s, that was the end of the Dell hardcovers.

The next hardcover publication was therefore in 1990, from GuildAmerica / SF Book Club. Support Your Local Wizard contains SYWTBAW, DW and HW, and was a Book Club bestseller: it sold a quarter million copies and set a record as their most popular new-member-requested book that lasted until they went out of business. As a result, there are a lot of these books around.

Also in plentiful supply is The Young Wizards, which SFBC Fantasy published in 2001. (NB that a lot of sources list this as being a 1984 book, which is incorrect. As it also contains, besides the first three, A Wizard Abroad and The Wizard's Dilemma, this makes it impossible to have been published any sooner than 2001.)

Anyway, after that, things get a bit simpler. In the mid 1990s the series was picked up by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt / Harcourt Trade Publishers' new YA imprint Magic Carpet Books, which began republishing earlier works. Possibly the oddest of these was a small-format (mmpb-sized) hc of SYWTBAW, which turns up here and there used. (I really need to ask Jane some time what the heck the thinking was on this book...)

...Anyway. A Wizard Abroad had until then been published only in the UK (in a mass-market mmpb from Transworld/Corgi); its first hardcover came out from the SF Book Club/GuildAmerica in 1993, Dell having passed on acquiring it. (The cover on this one was done by the fabulous David Cherry, artist and brother of my old colleague C. J. Cherryh.) Harcourt did another of the unusual small-format hardcovers, this time of AWAb, in 1997—testing the waters, I think. Then, when that sold strongly, they went straight to full-size hardcovers with The Wizard's Dilemma (with art from then until now being done by Cliff Nielsen) and have stayed with that format since.

Harcourt also did a lovely 25th anniversary hardcover edition of So You Want To Be A Wizard in 2003, which is easy to find inexpensively. I strongly suspect this republication trend would have continued with Deep Wizardry and High Wizardry when their respective anniversaries came around. But unfortunately the Magic Carpet program wound down soon afterwards, and the most recent hc volumes have been published simply as HMH, with no apparent interest at the publisher in going back to fill the holes in the hardcover backlist.

...So you can see, you've got kind of a mixed bag to deal with in terms of what you want. Availability has also been something of an issue, as the books are considered pretty deep backlist by Harcourt's current owner (HarperCollins), and warehouse supplies of some books in the series have been iffy.

So. The simplest I can make things for you is to help you avoid dealing with large corporate warehouses (because when some of these hc editions were preparing to go out of print, whenever possible I bought up the remaining stock to spare it from being pulped). Signed Books Direct—by which I mean the Ikea shelves out back in our boot room—has ample mint-condition supplies of many of the Harcourt hardcovers (though not Games Wizards Play, unfortunately: we've run out of those). Ignore the site’s front page inventory, which needs to be updated. Instead, just drop an email to the SBD email address and query me about what you're looking for.

HTH!

#Young Wizards meta #Young Wizards hardcovers

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sunnysidesevenup · 2 months ago

Text

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THIS MENACE TO SOCIETYYYYY. TILLY I LOVE YOU

he’s 25 but here’s a foxglove fic about his 23rd birthday where I drop some random lore lmao

tag list (lemme know if you wanna be added!!): @kirexa @gimmeurmoneyagh @lallopsyou

fic under the cut! :D

“When’s your birthday, anyway?” Fellow asks. He’s not particularly interested, but he’s known Tilly for long enough that it likely should have come up by this point.

The two of them are sitting on the floor of Fellow and Gidel’s small apartment (honestly better suiting the term single room than apartment, the damn landlord a full on scammer if Fellow does say so himself). They’ve each got a coat in their hands, sewing supplies spread across the floor as they carefully repair holes in the fabric. It had finally gotten cold enough that they could no longer simply layer clothing, and thus the yearly time to sew up clothes is upon them. Tilly, since he’s there often enough, is obviously required to help—while Gidel gets to happily draw in the corner.

Said man hums to himself, swaying back and forth a bit while he sews, tongue stuck out in concentration. “Dunno.” Tilly finally says.

“How do you not know?” Fellow scoffs.

“Well, I don’t have parents or anything like that! So how would I know?” Tilly glances up from his work, shaking his head at Fellow as if he’s disappointed. “Silly.” He scolds.

The beastman glares at him, “You told me you were 22!” He argues, affronted.

Tilly grins at him, “Hmm, yeah. It just felt right. Maybe I’m older than you, though?” His grin turns a little devious, and he tilts his head. “You’d show me more respect if I was older, right~?”

Fellow tosses one of the coats at him, hitting him in the face with it.

In typical Tilly fashion, he instantly collapses backwards, whining about being injured. Gidel, the traitor, giggles at him, while Fellow only snatches up the coat the other was repairing.

He observes the stitching, and scoffs immediately. “This is terrible.” He says, already removing the clumsy attempts.

Tilly finally pauses his dramatic whining, pulling the coat off his face but remaining laid on the ground—although he rolls sideways to better look at the man. “I’ve never sewn anything before, I was simply guessing.”

Fellow rolls his eyes, “You’re really useless on your own, you know that? How have ya’ even survived this long?”

“I’m very lucky.” Tilly says seriously.

“No, you’re not.” He shoots back. “Get up, I’m going to teach you how to do this. You’ve got to know some life skills! Ya’ can’t just live in your little fantasy world where everything goes right for you forever, you know.”

The purple haired man sits up, toxic green eyes staring widely at him. “But my fantasy world is so nice!” He coos, leaning closer to observe what Fellow is doing. Then, in a considering voice, he adds: “Although if it was a real dream world, you’d probably be wearing a maid dre—“

Fellow smacks him in the face with the coat again.

While Tilly whines from where he’s laid out on the floor once more, the beastman stares down at him with absolutely zero sympathy. “There’s no way you’re older than me when you act like that.” He states, voice dripping with condescension and annoyance.

“You’re so rude to me.”

“You deserve it, you absolute buffoon.”

Tilly sits up again, shaking his head. “How people act has nothing to do with their age, ya’ know! I could very easily be 4 years older than you and you’d never know.” He taps his chin in contemplation, a smirk crossing his face. “In fact, I think that’s what I’ll go with from now on! Please show me the respect a senior deserves.” He puts his hands on his hips, a proud look on his face as if Fellow would respond in any other way than bafflement.

“You can’t just change your age!”

“Why not? It’s not like I know when I was born in the first place.”

Fellow sputters, “Wh— No! No, I am NOT having you claim to be OLDER than me!”

“Aww,” Tilly puts a hand over his heart, his eyes widening in false sympathy. “The lovely younger man under my care seems to be struggling, how shall I help him?”

This time, Fellow forgoes the coat in favor of simply tackling Tilly to the floor. Gidel, of course, ignores them rolling around and wrestling, far too used to this behavior from the two of them.

Finally, he manages to pin Tilly down, and he contemplates using the coats to just suffocate him and end his misery already. The other man, meanwhile, just pouts at him. “This isn’t fair at all, you’re much taller than me.” He says.

“And older.” Fellow declares firmly, glaring at him. “Say it, I’m the older one.”

“Only children fight over who’s the oldest.” Tilly says, like he wasn’t just participating in exactly that.

Fellow just squeezes his pinned wrists in response, and finally the man sighs, giving in. “Alright, I’m 22.”

The beastman grins victoriously. “Good.” He says, finally moving to get off him. He suddenly stops, however, as a thought occurs to him. “Huh, wait. How do ya’ decide when you age if you don’t know your birthday?”

Tilly laughs. “Well, whenever it feels right, of course!”

“That’s a terrible way to do things.” He shoots back immediately.

“You wound me deeply, ya’ know?” The human sighs. “And from such an Honest Fellow, too! Surely you must be correct, of course.”

Once again, Fellow is reminded that he HATES Tilly saying his name. There’s just something so infuriating about it.

“Just pick a date for your birthday, and be done with it.” He growls instead, choosing not to acknowledge the goading. Nothing good ever comes from acknowledging Tilly’s taunts, he’d learned long ago.

“Hmm, maybe.” He says, but Fellow can tell from his uninterested tone that Tilly likely won’t follow his suggestion at all. It’s typical of him to ignore perfectly reasonable advice, no matter how annoying and illogical this course of action may be.

A fantasy world he lives in, truly.

Tilly’s words a few minutes ago pop into his head again, and Fellow hurriedly gets back to his sewing. Why he insists on taunting him like that specifically, he doesn’t get. Not that he gets much about the guy in the first place.

Tilly sighs, also going back to the sewing. However, he simply stares at his work for a bit, and then glances back over to Fellow. “You’re right, I’m bad at this.” He admits dejectedly, but then nigh instantly perks up. “I’ll just get you a new coat, problem solved!”

Fellow points his needle at him. “Life skills, remember? Try living in the real world, ya’ sound like some pampered rich kid.”

The man gasps, “Take that back.”

“Get to sewing, then.” He smirks at him, pointing to the stitching. “C’mon, it’s not that difficult. Even Gidel can do this.”

“Well, Gidel is much better than me at a lot of things.” Tilly states, looking over to the corner where said boy has been ignoring them. “Aren’t you?”

Gidel nods.

“At least we agree on one thing, then. Gidel is much better than you in every way.”

“Aww, you say that like you love him more than me…”

Fellow gives him a disgusted look. “I don’t love you at all, in fact.”

Tilly doesn’t seem particularly troubled by his words, not that he expected him to be.

Still, his eyes feel a bit piercing as they observe Fellow. The toxic green color had always made his gaze just a little too intense, after all. It’s almost like he’s calling him out for something, although Fellow has no idea what it could possibly be. It’s not like he was lying.

Tilly finally looks away, wandering instead over to Gidel to see what he’s drawing. Fellow debates scolding him, since he was JUST telling him to learn how to sew, but he lets it happen. They’ve got plenty of time, and he’ll just make the man be the one to go without a coat for a while as punishment.

(Whether or not this ends with Tilly roping him into sharing his own is inconsequential. He’ll make sure not to give in this time, no matter how annoying he gets or how much he begs.)

The bigger question, however, is Tilly’s birthday. Just randomly deciding when to start saying you’re a year older does sound like something the strange man would do, but just as Fellow had said, that was a truly awful system. He would never go about things like that, which is why he’s the rational one who is doing much better for himself, obviously.

So, if Tilly wouldn’t decide on a date, Fellow would. A very simple solution! He’d even get him a gift so he couldn’t protest. A full proof plan, surely—and then Tilly would be required to get Fellow something for his own birthday in compensation. A win-win, as one would say. Quite smart.

(He ignores the little voice in his head that asks why he’d even care about this in the first place. No need to think about it too hard.)

“There you are.”

Tilly glances over his shoulder as Fellow approaches, perched on a crate in a random alleyway. He’s got a deck of cards in his hands, and what he could possibly be doing Fellow doesn’t know. He doesn’t move from his position, simply shuffling the cards, and flashes the beastman a grin. “Pick a card!” He says, holding a splayed hand out to him.

Fellow frowns at him. “Not right now, I’ve got something for you.”

Tilly frowns right back at him, raising an eyebrow. He then reaches out a hand, his fingers sliding into Fellow’s hair. Right before the man can swat him away, he’s already pulled back, a new card in his hand. He twirls it around, and then adds it to his deck. “You’re so boring.” He says.

The beastman stares at him, wide eyed. “Don’t do that.” He tells him.

Tilly tilts his head, a sly grin on his face. “Do what?”

“You—ugh, you’re distracting me.”

“I’m distracting?” The man bats his eyelashes, and Fellow rolls his eyes.

“Here.” He says instead of acknowledging his words, and pushes a box into Tilly’s chest.

He raises an eyebrow, a confused look on his face. “What’s this? Are you proposing? Well, I suppose I can accep—

“It’s a birthday gift, you fool.” Fellow cuts him off, crossing his arms.

“….It’s my birthday?” Tilly asks.

He nods back at him, confirming. “Today’s your birthday.”

“Oh!” Tilly’s eyes light up, and he stares down at the box. “I’ve never had a proper birthday! Is it normal to propose on them?”

“It’s OBVIOUSLY not a proposal!”

The man’s lips quirk up into another smirk, an obvious indication that he’s taunting. But his attention quickly goes back to the box, a simple little thing that doesn’t even have wrapping paper or any type of decoration. He stares at it like it’s gold, and after a bit of this, Fellow begins to become uncomfortable. It’s just a cheap gift, after all.

“Go on then, open it. I don’t have all day.”

Tilly hums, acknowledging him, and sets his deck of cards aside to better look at the box. “You didn’t have to get me anything, you know.” He says, and it’s a strange thing to hear from a man who’s been known to beg strangers for a multitude of items.

“I’m not heartless. You looked so pathetic when we talked about your birthday, I just had to get you something.” Fellow says, waving away whatever weird idea Tilly might have in his head. His words don’t seem to convince him of anything though, as the way he opens the gift is almost reverent.

“Oh.” He says upon seeing the gift.

It’s a cheap pair of gloves, probably not the quality of the one’s the man wears even now—but Fellow has never seen him take off the pair in the first place. How a man who wears so many different styles of clothing could wear one pair of gloves with every single one of them alludes him, but it did give him the idea to buy him some more.

Much to his surprise, Tilly instantly pulls them out and then proceeds to take his current pair off.

He’s never seen him without them, and the sight is shocking for a variety of reasons. From the nonchalant way he performs the action, to the scars that are revealed as he slides the fabric off—crisscrossing along both his palms like someone ran a knife over them multiple times, forming a strange, morbid star.

He pulls the new pair on, face unreadable as he flexes his hands, and Fellow chooses not to comment on it. “So? How are they?” He asks instead.

“Hmm. Scratchier than my other pair.” Tilly says, and Fellow is instantly annoyed again, suddenly free from the spell of the strange moment.

“Tch, give them back if you don’t like them, then!” He scowls, grabbing Tilly’s hand to pull the gloves off himself. Annoying, ungrateful brat! He could at least pretend Fellow’s gift was good, he’d bought it with honestly earned money!

“Wow, hey!” The man grabs his hands right back, lacing their fingers together as a way to stop him. There’s better ways, definitely, but when has he ever done anything normally?

“Don’t do that.” Tilly says, glaring at him. “These are mine.”

“Wh—I bought them for you.” He protests, caught off guard by the odd handholding they’re now engaging in.

“Yeah, and now they’re mine.” Tilly’s green eyes soften, then, and he smiles. “Thanks.”

Fellow has seen many of Tilly’s smiles. He seems to never run out of them—a plethora of different moods and falsehoods. Mischievous grins, false masks of innocence, the flirty smile he gives men and women when he wants something from them. Somehow, he’s never seen this one from him. It feels more honest—a genuine emotion he’s never quite seen. It feels forbidden, and weirdly precious all at once.

The beastman rips his hands away, spinning on his heels so his back is to Tilly. “You better get me something good for my birthday, now.” He says seriously, and then immediately stalks away. There’s no movement behind him, so the chances of being followed are low. Good. He can only tolerate Tilly’s presence for so long, after all!

The minute he’s sure he’s out of the other’s eyesight, he releases a breath and tugs a hand roughly through his hair.

What was THAT? He thinks. Why do I feel embarrassed?

“It better be worth it when my birthday comes around.” Fellow mutters to himself, leaned against the wall of an alleyway.

He ignores the part of him that claims it was already worth it. That’s foolish—what did he get, a smile? That wasn’t useful at all.

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst oc #twst original character #twst fanart #twst tilly oc #foxglove - sunny’s ships! ☀️#twst fellow #twst ferro #twst ernesto #fellow honest #ernesto foulworth #twst gino #twst gidel #twst fanfic

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msschemmenti · 3 months ago

Text

the gentle giant 💬

the hinge stories installment

jemily x reader

a/n: thanks for the request, i hope this is enjoyable!

“so, spill. i didn’t gathering my favorite ladies here with a delectable spread of alcohol and snacks for us to bitch and moan about work all night.” garcia grinned from her seat on a beanbag chair.

“oh yeah, if i recall correctly you two had your first third audition.” tara grinned into her glass, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. jj and emily fought hard to suppress their embarrassment. it wasn’t like it had been a secret, they’d made the account in this very living room about a month ago. both women were just hoping their drunken haze may have washed those details from everyone’s brains.

“don’t call it that! that makes us sound gross.” emily huffed.

“well, what would you prefer? third shopping?” tara continued to tease.

“no! that’s even worse.” jj grumbled, nailing tara’s head with a pillow.

“fine fine fine, tell us about the date and maybe she’ll stop postulating.” garcia interrupted eagerly.

“okay, okay fine. we’ll talk. ground rules though. you’re not allowed to track, locate, or identify anyone in this story. you know what– no names. we’ll give them nicknames.” jj warned pointedly before finishing off her glass of wine and nodding for emily to start the story.

“alright, so yes. we went on our first polyamorous date, with– what should we call her?” emily asked looking to jj for direction.

“oh, let's call her the gentle giant.” jj grinned dreamily.

“gentle giant? you went on a date with someone taller than you?” tara asked in disbelief.

“yes. and let me just say– pleasantly surprised.” emily shrugged. “anyways, she sent us a like first with a comment on one of our prompts. our paris prompt. and after some weeks of talking, we were finally able to set up a date.”

they’d agreed to meet at a gaming bar jj and emily had never been to. through all their hinge messages, all the proper plans were made and when they all got together

“oh you’re much taller than i anticipated.” jj spoke, allowing her eyes to roam up the woman’s body. the woman pushed her glasses up her nose with a laugh before shoving her hands in her pocket.

“well, thanks i guess.” she chuckled, eyeing emily and jj wearily.

“oh don’t worry, it’s a compliment. why don’t we go in and get a table?” emily supplied, breaking the ice just a bit before all three women entered the bar. once drinks were retrieved and a table secured each woman took turns finding a game to play together.

“oh so we’re obviously going to this bar for the next after work drinks.” garcia interrupted.

“playing games and drinking? beating alves drunk, just moved to the top of my todo list.” tara grinned.

“can we continue our story? preferably without interruptions?” emily asked pointedly. both tara and garcia mimed zipping their lips and jj picked up the story.

somehow the women found themselves standing in front of a basketball arcade game. the younger woman turned to face both emily and jj and there seemed to be a bit of mischief behind her eyes. “for every shot we make, we get to ask a question. sound fair?”

jj’s cheeks heated under the woman’s gaze and she looked over at emily expectantly, “deal– but jj is playing for the both of us. former athlete.” emily poked at her side.

jj chuckled and rolled her eyes, “i don’t think me being a former athlete will help us here em.”

“oh really? what’d you play?”

“soccer, high school and undergrad. so i’m not too sure how that bodes for us winning.”

“well anything is better than me.” emily shrugged and the two other women laughed before starting the game.

at jj’s first bucket emily cheered, turning to question their date. “any hobbies or talents?”

“i actually play a couple instruments. namely the drums and guitar. took me a bit of time with guitar but i’ve always been really good with my hands.”

“yeah– i’m sure the fingerings came naturally to you.” emily spoke unconsciously watching the younger woman grip the basketball.

“oh, trust me. i know how to really work a guitar.” both jj and emily’s cheeks heated as they looked up at the woman and watched her sink a basket in easily.

“i will reverse the question on you both, hobbies or talents?”

“when we’re not traveling for work, i like running. and emily is really into reading.” jj supplied and readied for another shot, this one just missing the hoop. emily boo’ed and they all laughed good-naturedly before continuing the game. it wasn’t until both women focused on something other than their extremely attractive date’s physical prowess that they realized, she hadn’t missed a shot.

“um, are we just supposed to ignore the fact that you made every shot?” emily asked.

“no, i kinda played basketball for most of my life.” the woman shrugged with a cheeky smile.

“oh so this was rigged?” jj grinned.

“guilty.”

“well next time you wanna get to know us, let us win huh?” emily grinned nudging the younger woman in the side ,flirtatiously.

“i’ll keep that in mind.”

“we played a couple more games and got extremely distracted by her hands. and that was our first hinge date. very enjoyable for all parties.” jj shrugged with a smile.

“wow, so your first one was a hit. are you gonna see her again?” tara asked, lifting her glass in a cheers.

“are we going to meet her? indoctrinate her?” garcia questioned.

“woah, slow down. we’ve only hung out with her once– no need to do all of that. but we’ve discussed it and we wouldn’t be opposed to a second date.” emily shrugged noncommittally.

“i will find her. i will befriend her.” garcia vowed, causing everyone to laugh.

#the hinge stories #criminal minds #emily prentiss x reader #criminal minds x reader #jennifer jareau x reader #jemily x reader #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #jemily

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boyfriendtaekook · 8 months ago

Text

Jungkook AO3 recommendations !!! (nobody asked for but i'm still doing it anyway)

I've been wanting to do a recommendation list for God knows how long, and it's finally here !!!! There are TONS of great great works that can never be appreciated enough, and i'm here to show my gratitude by sharing some of them with others.

I think... You can find most of them on tumblr as well, but it's on my AO3 bookmark, so... *shrug*

P.s. I might just do another one for other members in the future ;)

Enjoy <3

Minors dni !!

Love Shop by @jjungkookislife (lanken) (wc: 22.9 k)

You wanted the boyfriend experience at the Love Shop... you didn't think it would turn into more.

2. In Motion by dailydoseofdia (wc: 175.5k)

Summary: The rule is simple - you can look but you can’t touch. You’ve been attending the event for a few times but it was only when a certain boy arrives at one occasion did you feel the fire of lust burning inside. Warning: exhibitionism, public display of masturbation, graphic smut scenes, mutual masturbations, mentions/use of sex toys

3. Damsel in Shining Armor by @jimilter (cevansbiceps) (wc: 44.5k, not completed yet !!)

Earth has completed a little over a revolution around the sun since Jeon Jungkook was brought onboard as the company’s CEO, but what does that change? Not a thing! You’re still his babysitter, he’s still an uncontrollably chaotic toddler, you still hate yourself for finding him hot, and he still needs you to save him from a crisis. Life is still so freaking unfair.

4. i know i kissed you before but i didn't do it right by royalwilds (wc: 28.1k)

your friend hana is known for putting together the best vacations for her friends, the most notable is her coveted couples vacation. the rule being you have to be a couple to join. when hana mistakenly thinks you and jungkook have started dating the two of you decide to pretend so you can go on the trip. the only thing is you’ve been in love with your best friend for years.

5. Créme De La Créme by BreadOfFoxy (wc: 10k)

Summary: The scale of supply and demand moves back and forth and your body doesn’t know how to keep up. Good thing you have a trio of thirsty cat hybrids to help you out when it’s too much for you to handle.

6. Tis The Season To Be Horny by Evafrechette (wc: 6.4k)

It's that time of the year, the annual Rosco Ave Christmas Display Competition and the fierce rivalry between you and your neighbour Jungkook has kicked into gear yet again. But the stakes are higher than ever this year when you both place a wager - the winner gets to fuck the other however they want. Who needs a sleigh when you can ride Jungkook instead?

7. STUCK WITH U by jvngkook (wc: 10.6k)

perhaps being stuck with your roommate during a global pandemic wasn't bad after all.

8. blank check by pantaemonium, sugaxjpg (wc: 44.4k, not completed yet)

“Let me get this right, okay? You threw my name in as your fake girlfriend because you needed to prove yourself to your empty-headed friends, and now you need to fix it. Still,” you paused, raising your eyebrows, “your way of fixing is not to disclose it as a lie, but to cover it up with an even bigger and riskier one. Is that correct?”

9. the proposal by @hansolmates (wc: 20.1k)

Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can't refuse.

10. A Night to Remember by @yoonieper (wc: 10.7k)

Taehyung somehow convinces Jungkook to go to one of his ‘special’ parties after years of a dry spell. Let's just say he was not prepared for the night ahead…

11. Ace by sennie (wc: 24.2k)

Jungkook only cares about three things: Baseball, painting and his team, but soon he’s adding you to that list when love comes flying at him fast and hard, knocking him right on his ass.

12. Down The Rabbit Hole by Jeonie aka @jjkxla (wc: 73.8k)

GUYS !!! THIS IS IT !!! THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY LIFE !!!!!! ONE OF MY ALL TIME FAVS <3 i'll NEVET get tired recommending this one <3

Jungkook leaves a long relationship, doubting himself over issues that he can’t seem to control up until his best friends drag him down into Wonderland, a secret and vast BDSM community, the place where he meets and falls for you.

13. (s)he's on my mind by softskjin (wc: 27.3k)

You know when you’re having a discussion with yourself in your head? That very private moment? Forget it. Someone is listening to it.

14. Pub golf by @taleasnewastime (wc: 23.1k)

One night. One stupidly hot man, who just keeps appearing in every pub you go to. Six friends. Nine pubs. Nine drinks. Ten million stupid rules. Let the chaos begin.

15. Moirai by NoraBean (wc: 92.5k)

On your 18th birthday a name appears on your wrist. The name of your soulmate. It’s a momentous day that everyone looks forward to, but you’ve always brushed aside; refusing to believe in a fickle mistress called destiny. But what happens when on the morning of your 18th birthday you wake to find the name of your mortal enemy? Jeon Jungkook.

16. Show Me Something by dailydoseofdia (wc: 51.7k)

He was your first kiss years ago, only to become your first heartbreak the next day. Your life would have been much easier if only you would forget about him and move on, instead of having to see him almost every day because your best friend had fallen in love with his best friend. When your pal had suggested having a road trip for the final days of summer break before going back to campus, you said yes for a reprieve. Too bad she forgot to tell you about the two extra passengers tagging along. One of which is the boy that still has a tight hold of your heart without either of you even knowing it.

17. Microwave (Mis)adventures by @bymoonchild (wc: 20.8k)

The classic

Out of all things to be afraid of, Jungkook, the seat-stealer of your 8am class and annoying housemate whom you despise with every fiber of your being, chooses to have a phobia of microwaves, but he loves buying microwaveable food – because come on, they’re irresistible – and you somehow find yourself getting dragged into his microwaves (mis)adventures. Cue chaos, sarcasm-laced banter and an unplanned romance.

18. Falling Skies by @fortunexkookie (wc: 50k) (tw: it's an ANGST :( )

Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her brother, Jungkook, was something else entirely. You used to be friends, but then he had gone from endearingly frustrating dumb boy to card-carrying fuckboy so fast it had given you whiplash. Despite the teasing and fighting, Jiyeon realized how Jungkook felt about you long before he did - it was a twin thing - and if you were her sun, and he was her moon, then she just wished she could show you how he reflected your light.

19. reading between the lines by Anonymous (wc: 51k)

You're an art student beginning your final year at university, and the assigned partner for your thesis project? Much to your dismay, it's Jeon Jungkook. You don't like him — he doesn't seem to try very hard, and besides, he's on the soccer team, and you don't really get along with athletes. Thanks to a lack of available models and a shortage of studio space, you end up spending a large portion of your semester locked in a tiny closet with Jungkook, where you eventually discover he's nothing at all like you originally thought.

20. Four Letters by @littlemisskookie (wc: 103.3k)

Your icy exterior makes it seem as though you dislike everyone- which is partially true. But the one person you truly dislike is the cocky frat boy Jeon Jungkook.

(+) Special shoutout to THE sub!jungkook drabble, piss baby by gothvkth !!!

trying out watersports with jeongguk.

I don't know guys... Listing all these wonderful fics makes me want to create one for sub!jungkook or sub!bts only...

Maybe one day... LMAO

#jungkook fic recs #jungkook smut #bts fic recs #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #bts smut #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook series #ao3 fanfic #bts recs ao3 #jungkook recs ao3 #sub!jungkook #sub!jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook au #bts fanfction

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tw1nkd3ath · 5 months ago

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i am bored and have had A Long Day so have some party poison headcanons:

•they/them (obviously). their gender is simultaneously every gender and no gender at the same time

•they have borderline personality disorder. this caused them to be extra medicated back in the city. now, they’re finally off of any and all pills, and they’re learning how to actually live with their disorder. loves reading books about mental health, and trying to figure out how to take care of themself.

•speaking of drugs, poison quit the city pills before they escaped the city. they quickly fell into other pills and drugs in the zones though. it was familiar, and it made their brain shut up for once. they have very bad PTSD, more than anyone in the zones. they don’t know just how bad it actually is, and they’ll never speak of it, but the other three know just by the way poison is. they got clean after moving into the diner. they felt safe for once, and the other three were so supportive in keeping them off of drugs. it’s hard to deal with flashbacks and all of that; every day has to be taken one step at a time with them, but they’re making it through.

•loves dancing. more than anything, really. get them drunk and on a dance floor, and their smile is wider than you’ll ever see it. they love parties and clubs, until they don’t and they’re ready to go home. they’ll dance for hours, and all of a sudden they’ll go over to one of the other three and poke them on the shoulder and that’s when they all know they’re getting overstimulated and want to go home and crash.

•yknow how i said they love dancing more than anything? well i lied. the one thing they love more than dancing is singing. they’ll take the AM and go on drives where they sing for miles and miles to whatever’s on the radio. ghoul and kobra make them tapes of their favorite songs, and sometimes the four of them will have carpool karaoke.

•goes for drives to clear their head. they’re normally not allowed to go alone, unless one of the others approves it (poison once wrecked an old car of theirs while angry driving, they don’t wanna talk about it). normally ghoul will go with them, riding shotgun with poison’s hand in theirs. poison drives until they can’t remember what was bothering them when they first turned the key.

•surprisingly a very good cook. them and jet love to cook for the others when they have the ingredients to. poison’s favorite is what they call ‘slutty pasta,’ it’s pasta with a shitload of cheese melted into the sauce. yes, it does make them sick. yes, they will eat it anyway.

•loves looking cute all of the time. even their pajamas are somehow cute and coordinated.

•cannot own un-modified clothes. they have to personalize everything, and they’ve got a whole booth in the diner reserved for whatever patches they’re painting or skirt they’re making or jacket they’re embroidering. dr. death gives the fab four almost all of the art supplies he gets; between poison and kobra they blow through paints and glues and threads and things.

•sketchbooks sketchbooks sketchbooks. they’ve got two right now that they’re working on. they’ll glue/tape little things to the pages, so it’s sort of like a scrapbook with art and writing in it. they will tape literal garbage in it, though. they’ve got the butt of their first cigarette out of the city, a list someone gave them of thrift shops out in the zones, a piece of paper bag ghoul used to scoop weed grounds one time, and so on. the others poke fun of them for this, but they really love how sentimental poison is. show pony has a polaroid camera, and loves to take pictures of their friends and give them the little prints. poison glues them all into their sketchbooks, and looks through them when they’re having a bad day.

•in eating disorder recovery, killjoy style. they hardly ate when jet and ghoul found them and kobra, and they’re trying so hard to help them recover. if poison is struggling to eat a meal in front of them, ghoul will go “hey poison. you’re a pussy if you don’t eat that mac and cheese.” or “you’re not a real killjoy if you don’t eat all those chicken nuggets,” all while sporting a shit-eating grin. poison and kobra have gotten themselves both to a healthy weights finally, and everyone couldn’t be happier.

•cigarettes are their one true love. they first started smoking when they were fourteen. they dislike vaping (even though it’s become quite the fad in the zones, ever since people started smuggling them out of the city), they vaped for around a year and it killed their lungs. cigarettes only for poison, and they’d have it no other way.

•yknow how i said they decorate their clothes? well they also decorate the diner. they’ll hang up art made by them or kobra all over the walls of the diner, and they let kobra paint straight onto the walls.

•loves science for some reason? dr. death gives them all sorts of books on biology and animals and ecosystems and such, and they absolutely love it. they wanna be a biologist in another life. they love teaching the others about shit they read, like animal facts and such. kobra will listen to poison infodump for hours.

that is all for now thank you

#my chemical romance #mcr #danger days #party poison #fun ghoul #killjoys #kobra kid #jet star #fabulous killjoys #killjoy headcanons #danger days headcanons #danger days fic #party poison headcanons #party poison fic #killjoy fic

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nametakensff · 10 days ago

Note

Hellooooo! Pretty random one but just saw the list of prompts you shared. Could you do a combo of 100/82 for Billy!? 😅🫠 Thanks in advance 😆

Hey anon! Thank you for your patience, but I have finally finished this prompt! I hope you enjoy the following 4.3k of B/illy and E/ddie fighting and fucking ✨

(the prompts were 'spraying sneezes' and 'I can't hold it')

~~~~~~

Content:

M/M except they hate each other, E/ddie has the fetish, E/ddie gets off to his own sneezing, sneezing while hiding, sneezing from dust, spray, stifles, holding back someone else's sneezes, sneezing in someone's face, mentions of masturbation, dry humping, public sex, humiliation, degradation, mild voyeurism/exhibitionism, hate-fucking, holding back someone else's sneezes, B/illy is shameless

CW: No clear communication, abusive behaviour and language, aggressive and unexpected sexual activities without verbal consent (though both of them want it), some suppressed shame over the fetish, homophobic slurs, physical violence and fighting, physical restraint (E/ddie is pinned down), mentions of a drug deal, young men being fucking stupid and aggressive

~~~~~~

NSFW, minors please DNI!

And everyone PLEASE be aware of the CWs, this is not a wholesome fic and I'd hate for anyone to be upset ❤️

Eddie hated everything about this. Hiding in a stupid classroom supply closet when he’d rather be at home, playing guitar, or jerking off to unwind. Hiding in a stupid classroom supply closet with Billy Fucking Hargrove, of all people. Wedged together like a couple of cartoon characters, uncomfortably close. He only hoped that Billy understood he was as unhappy with the turn of events as he evidently was, making the occasional huff of displeasure and pressing a firm hand to Eddie’s chest to keep the distance between them as expansive as possible. It physically hurt, truth be told – Eddie’s back pressing uncomfortably up against something pointy – but he’d rather die than admit any discomfort to Billy.

A drug deal in the school building – stupid. Absolutely downright moronic, and yet he’d given in anyway. He didn’t feel like challenging Hargrove when he sauntered up to him in the hallway, not with that dangerous glint in his eyes. Most students would be at the basketball game after school, and Eddie would have normally had a D&D session to hold anyway, which he cancelled last minute. He could make an exception (“This one fucking time”, he had emphatically stated, to Billy’s responding sneer), give Billy the goods in an empty classroom and get the hell out of dodge. He hadn’t taken into account that the weird happenings all over Hawkins would result in increased after-hours security.

They’d seen the light of a torch before they’d heard any footsteps. Both had frozen as the sound of doors being opened, and the lights of classrooms being switched on, echoed out in the cavernous hallways. There had been an unspoken agreement that it would not do at all to be caught red-handed in a very illegal drug deal. Even if this dude wasn’t a cop, it wouldn’t stop him from calling them up. Eddie couldn’t stomach the thought of another evening in the shitty little station holding room, let alone with Billy as a cellmate. With the grace of stalking cats, they were in the closet in no time, delicately closing the door behind them.

It was dark in the closet but not pitch black. A barely operative bulb bathed them in a dim orange glow – they hadn’t noticed it from outside, so with any luck, security wouldn’t either. It was with the assistance of this dismal lighting that Eddie first noticed the delicate swirl of dust motes in the air, only seconds before his twitching nostrils did. Fuck.

Keeping his imminent sneezes quiet wouldn’t be a problem, at least for the short amount of time it would take for security to look over their classroom. Sneezing silently was something a lifetime of allergies had prepared him for, one way or the other. He considered reaching up to cover his face, maybe pinch his nostrils shut, but it was probably more effort than it was worth. He could stifle perfectly well hands free, and what if he ended up clumsily knocking into a shelf trying to reach his face? Nah.

More concerning than sneezing was the matter of getting hard. He could feel an active boner stirring, pants increasingly tighter, and he hadn’t even started to sneeze yet. He wondered if the fear of being caught and the subsequent adrenaline of it was somehow encouraging his traitorous cock. This too was manageable; he just had to make sure he didn’t touch dicks with Hargrove. Easy.

Moments later he took in one last little shaky breath and convulsed as gently as he could manage. The first sneeze was incredibly itchy, a fluttery, teasing little thing. The next six came relatively rapid-fire, completely silent – Eddie was sure they would have been entirely undetectable if he and Billy weren’t currently cuddled up closer than he had been to any girl in months. As it was, the subtle contract and release of his seizing muscles was apparently a dead give-away.

He felt Billy pressing him back even further, directly into whatever bastard object was digging into his back. The sudden shove of that strong hand on his chest effectively winded him; he exhaled involuntarily as it pressed on. Composure thrown, he barely had time to react as the tickle ground down on his sinuses especially hard, perhaps in retaliation, or as if seizing the opportunity to really cause havoc. He gasped audibly, chest expanding as far as it could against Billy’s hand, and started to sneeze again.

“Heh’Gxt! ND’t!! Hh’NDTt!! EH’NGXtt!!-chu…”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Eddie peered at him through fluttering eyelashes, shuddering at the menacing glint in Billy’s eyes. Fucking psychopath.

“I’m fucking trying, dipshit! Get the fuck off me, y-you’re-!”

Eddie trembled, face heating at the effort it took to wrangle the next three little sneezes into barely audible, nasal squeaks.

“Get OFF me-!” He whisper-shouted once he’d recovered. Billy looked at him with a simmering fury but eased the pressure of his hand on Eddie’s chest. They stared at each other with pure hatred, interrupted only by a few silent sneezes from Eddie that forced him to break eye contact.

“Fuckin’ disgusting.” Billy muttered, barely more than mouthed it, but all the same Eddie suppressed a shiver of rage – and, if he was being honest, intensely regrettable arousal. If Billy shifted his thigh just a little bit closer to his crotch, he was cooked.

For a couple of minutes longer, they stood and listened. The guy wasn’t getting any closer, and Eddie wondered if he’d found something incriminating in one of the nearby classrooms to slow him down. Whatever it was, the sure-fire trajectory of his course had changed and they were left waiting in silent suspense. Eddie's sneezing had ceased, for the meantime; he’d managed to quell the initial explosive response, which had left him with stuffy, burning sinuses and leaky, irritated eyes. It also meant he’d merely prolonged the reaction, and would no doubt be sneezing into his pillow later on when he was trying to sleep. He ground his teeth in irritation, ignoring the little twitch his dick gave at the thought of bed plus sneezing.

A distinctly wet sniffle cut through the silence, and for a moment Eddie thought it had come from him. When a second followed, he realised with surprise and a giddy, traitorous excitement that it was Billy. His eyes focused in on the guy’s face immediately, and through the dim light he could make out the unmistakeable agony of a pre-sneeze expression. An unbelievably desperate, unabashedly open twisting of features that somehow softened Billy’s face into something almost beatific.

Eddie wasn’t blind – he knew the guy was surface-level attractive, it had just never really occurred to him that he would ever be able to appreciate it - what with Billy being a total serial killer in the making. But as his face dropped, there was a vulnerability about him that was downright hypnotic. Even his dead eyes seemed to sparkle with surrender as the budding sneeze took hold, flaring his nostrils into perfect little circles. Eddie had a couple more moments of lustful appreciation before the abject panic seized him.

“Hargrove!” He hissed. “Hold it back!”

God, this was mortifying. Not only were they at very real risk of being found with drugs, huddled up against each other - Billy was probably going to sneeze in his face in this proximity. The thought of it made him dizzy with arousal as much as it made him despair. His dick was hard enough to hurt.

Billy didn’t seem to hear him, or at any rate wasn’t listening. To Eddie’s dismay, he inhaled a forebodingly shaky breath of preparation. Eddie could feel the tensing of his body in the cramped space. Billy’s hand had at some point migrated from its splayed position on his chest to gripping at the lapel of his leather jacket, and as he gasped again – a stupidly sexy sound that made Eddie’s dick twitch – his hold tightened. Eddie was irrevocably pinned.

“Fuck, man, I’m serious - you gotta hold it back!”

Billy’s hazy eyes fixed upon his own, and for a moment his expression tightened into a look of scorn, only slightly underscored by the perpetual sneeziness. Eddie shivered, feeling hot and cold all over.

“I can’t hold it, motherfucker. It’s a sneeze, you can’t control that shit.” He spat back, voice more of a stage whisper than a stuck-in-a-closet-about-to-be-discovered-with-drugs one. Compartmentalising the incredible hypocrisy to rage over later, Eddie frantically shushed him, and Billy bristled like an angry cat, hand yanking at Eddie’s lapel, and –

They both froze at the sound of the classroom door swinging open, the click of the light switch. The artificial light crept into the room under the closet door, and Eddie shuffled his foot away, timidly, as if being touched by the rays was enough to signal his concealment. Eddie’s heartbeat pounded in his ears; he turned to look at Billy and saw with no small amount of distress that he looked even closer to sneezing than before. Even as the security guy started to whistle and wind his way through the desks, a gentle gasp tore out of him.

With a grace and commitment he hadn’t been aware he possessed, Eddie grit his teeth and pulled his arms out of their cramped position. Knowing he was potentially signing his own death certificate, he paused for just a moment to take in the gorgeous sight of Billy’s violently expressive nostrils before pinching them closed with a thumb and forefinger, the opposite hand clamping firmly over Billy’s mouth.

If Billy had looked like he wanted to kill him before, the absolute daggers he shot at Eddie now made him wince. He held steady though, keeping both hands firmly in place, and was glad of it when he felt Billy’s lips parting under his hand, and felt the furious twitching of his nostrils as they fought against his grip. Billy’s cruel, piercing eyes were now mere slits of irritation, leaking tears that spilled down his face and onto Eddie’s skin.

Finally, they heard the guy making his way out of the room. He hadn’t even come close to the closet, for which Eddie thanked his god damn lucky stars. As those heavy footsteps echoed further and further down the hallway, Eddie started to relax – only to gasp in pain as Billy yanked his hands away by the wrists, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and slammed Eddie backwards again.

“If you EVER. Touch me like that again, you fucking freak-“ Billy all but growled at him, shaking Eddie emphatically. Eddie didn’t even have it in him to feel scared about anything other than the fact that Billy’s crotch was millimetres, perhaps 1/100th of a millimetre away from touching his own rock-hard dick.

“-trying to fucking s-hh-! Suffocate me?!”

Eddie’s ears perked up at the tiny little stutter, that sexy little mid-sentence hitch of breath. It seemed that Billy had temporarily quelled the urge to sneeze through all-encompassing rage, but its effects were now wearing thin.

“For your information,” Eddie started, and squirmed, trying to yank his wrists free, only to be slammed backwards once again. His forearms ached as they collided painfully with the metal shelving behind him. In an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, he wished very much he skipped gym a little less. He gathered himself and continued.

“I just saved our asses – so you’re fucking welcome, asshole.”

Billy slammed him again and Eddie hissed, starting to worry that security might be alerted by the clattering sound of objects falling to the ground. A much more pressing consequence of Billy’s mindless anger was the unearthing of even more dust. Eddie’s face was feeling so itchy at this point he simply wanted to remove the whole thing. There was no way he wasn’t gonna be sneezing himself breathless the moment he stepped into the shower at home.

Billy at once seemed to understand the regrettable commotion he had caused, tensing quite suddenly with a low muttered ‘fuck’ under his breath.

“You had enough? Gonna calm down now?” Eddie whispered, taking the chance to yank his wrists free, rolling his eyes in aggravation as Billy’s hands immediately returned once again to grip him by the lapels.

“Fuck, I need’ta sneeze…” Billy announced matter-of-factly.

Eddie blushed, all of his anger instantly converted into giddy expectancy. A wave of calm suffused him, quite suddenly. They ought to get the fuck out of here, before security doubled back and they’d missed their window of escape. That being said, they had a little time left, and Billy was still clinging to him like a lifeline, even as he started into a definitive build-up. As far as Eddie was concerned, he may as well enjoy what was inevitably about to happen, all prior anxiety and revulsion swallowed up by acceptance. He just hoped that as he stared openly at Billy’s crumpling face that he wasn’t sporting a total ‘come hither’ look.

“Keep it quiet.” Eddie said, feeling outrageously like a lover giving commands during sex, then blushing further at the thought.

Unbelievably, Billy nodded his head in understanding moments before his face dropped – mouth hanging slack, nostrils flared round and angry, eyebrows drawing upwards – and then everything drew tight as the first sneeze barrelled out of him and caught Eddie across his neck and jawline.

Eddie shuddered, entirely beyond his control, and managed to suppress a moan of pleasure into a grunt that one might easily interpret as disgust. He had just moments to replay in his mind the sound of the sneeze, the heady, spraying wetness of it, before Billy was lurching forward with another.

“Hgk’TSSCHHSSTTtt!!”

To Billy’s credit, they were relatively quiet – almost nothing vocal to them at all, just the pure audible wetness as they sprayed outwards through clenched teeth. In fact, they were remarkably wet – they doused Eddie in glittering clouds, twinkling delicately in the low-light of the exposed bulb. He was so turned on he could barely breathe.

“-Hhdt’TISSSSHhhh!!”

Eddie really couldn’t help but gasp at that one; whilst the previous few had caught his chest, neck and chin, this one was delivered squarely to his face – so perfectly he couldn’t help but think that Billy, the bastard, had actually aimed it that way. He should be disgusted, entirely so, but he wasn’t. He wanted it to happen again and again. His own hands, shaking at his sides, reached up and gripped Billy’s wrists, seeking support as his knees started to buckle.

He should use this opportunity to push Billy backwards and squeeze his way out of the closet – the blonde was so entirely absorbed in his endless sneezing that it wouldn’t have taken much effort at all. He should do that, but this was also one of the hottest things that had ever happened to him, pure masturbation fodder, and he was only human. He exhaled shakily as Billy sprayed him again, his lips wet with the droplets of each sneeze, like the sickest kind of kiss.

“Hht’TSSSHHH!! TSChHH!! Hah’TTISSSHHH!! TISHHH’u!!”

Eddie could feel him trembling with the effort as the fit progressed – could hear the way a vocal desperation leaked into each barely-suppressed eruption.

“Hh-HH! HHG’TSSSXSHTTtt!!”

Okay. As much as Eddie wanted to remain getting his sick little kicks, a moment of sense suffused him and he realised they really needed to move. That last sneeze – gorgeous, perfect, soaking wet – had also been about twice the volume of those preceding it. He could tell Billy was losing any ability to control them. As much as he would honestly love to watch that play out all over him, the party was over.

He squirmed towards the door, angling himself as best he could to shimmy the rest of the way out with Billy still clinging to his jacket. When he pushed it open, Billy seemed to come somewhat to his senses and followed, dropping his hands and allowing Eddie to pull him out by the forearm.

He dragged Billy the rest of the way out of the classroom and into the corridor – no sign of security – then nearly jumped out of his skin as Billy sneezed, entirely without restraint, catching the side of his face and causing the pair of them to stumble.

“aAEHHh’TSSSHHHH’Uuu!!”

The very rafters seemed to tremble with it, made all the more explosive by the relative emptiness of the building. It echoed, bounced off the walls in a way that would be comical if it wasn’t a) painfully erotic and b) about to get them caught. Eddie heard the pounding of those same heavy footsteps returning. He ran, yanking Billy along until the both of them were sprinting, bursting out of the building and into the parking lot, empty but for a few stragglers at the periphery waiting for the game to finish.

Eddie had run towards his van on auto, realising almost immediately how fucking stupid he was to stop there. He peered anxiously in the direction of the doors they’d emerged from, finally relaxing when it was apparent they hadn’t been followed. He exhaled a stupid little laugh, but then Billy, leaning one hand against the side of the van, sneezed again, and Eddie remembered he was hard and that everything about this was incredibly awkward. Now that he was out of the immediate line of fire and could think somewhat clearly, he kind of wanted to die of embarrassment, just a little. That didn’t, however, stop him from watching with unblinking eyes as Billy’s head reared back, nostrils twitching and flaring like crazy, preparing to sneeze magnificently.

“HHh’WRRSSSSCHhh!! HAHH’TSSSSHhhh!! HUH’DTTSSSHHH!! ‘DZZTSSSHHhh’uu!!”

He aimed these towards the ground, Eddie was happy to see. Not that he wasn’t literally counting down the seconds until he could drive home and cum to the thought of having his face sneezed on as he was pinned in place, but this way he could really appreciate every detail without reflexively closing his eyes.

Each sneeze tossed Billy forward with such force Eddie was sure he would have fallen, if not for the arm he braced against the van. They burst out of him in huge clouds of spray, the initial, heavier droplets spattering the dusty ground before the finer aerosol dissipated into the surrounding air. Eddie shuddered to remember those smaller sneezes from earlier settling on his face; the thought of directly receiving an even bigger, wetter one made his knees feel weak.

Billy pulled himself up to full height, shaking his hair back over his shoulders and beaming with an indulgent look of total satisfaction. He licked his lips clean, shiny as they were with the residual spray of his sneezing, and beamed at Eddie with a look that appeared practically post-orgasmic. It was fucking shameless. Totally sick. Eddie’s dick throbbed so hard he gasped with it. Billy smirked.

“Enjoy the show, Fag?” he drawled, looking pointedly at Eddie’s crotch.

Eddie flushed, feeling hot with shame. So he had noticed, at some point or other, that Eddie had been hard. What’s more, he’d clearly sussed that it had something to do with his sneezing. He turned his eyes away from Billy’s face, considering finding a really tall building to throw himself off of – when, as his eyes darted to the ground, he caught sight of something he couldn’t quite believe. His eyes glanced up gingerly, tentatively, to Billy’s crotch, and – yep. That sure was a fucking boner, even more obvious in Billy’s tight blue Levi’s than Eddie’s baggier black jeans. Against his better judgement, heart pounding in his chest, he smirked right on back.

“Yeah. Maybe I did. Sure takes a fag to fucking know one, blondie.” His eyes flicked down suggestively with the taunt.

He’d known he was playing with fire, but the speed with which Billy came at him was alarming – he didn’t have time to move entirely out of the way, the punch catching his shoulder with a heavy thud. Stupid with adrenaline, Eddie lunged back, pushing Billy backwards until he nearly came unbalanced. He’d been hoping to trip him, get him on his back and beat the living shit out of him, but Billy was clearly just as worked up. He grabbed Eddie round the middle, almost throwing him backwards and into the side of his van, which hurt like fucking hell.

Scrambling for purchase, Eddie managed to dodge another punch before it landed on his face, catching his collarbone in an eruption of pain. Pissed off beyond belief, he kicked Billy in the shin, hard enough that he went down on one knee, then kicked him in the stomach. He raised a balled up fist to swing a punch, but before he could even process what had happened, he was slammed down onto his back, staring up with shock at the starry night sky. He realised with dismay that Billy had grabbed his kicking leg and thrown him to the floor in response.

Billy was suddenly crawling on top of him, pinning his arms above his head by the wrists. Eddie bucked wildly, furiously in response, but then Billy pressed his rock-hard dick up against Eddie’s and started to rut. Even through their clothes it felt amazing; Eddie couldn’t hold back the groan that came from deep within his throat, bucking back up and into Billy for all he was worth, not believing it was happening but unable to stop. He looked up at Billy, regarding the fierce look of pleasured concentration on his face. They locked eyes for a moment, a mutual and confused look of need mirrored in one another, before Billy shifted his hips, and that angle was even better.

“Fuck, Fuck, what the fuck, oh god-“ Eddie mumbled in an uncontrollable stream of expletives, body jerking as he ground back against Billy Fucking Hargrove, realising with both horror and excitement he was about to have an orgasm right there on the ground, in the middle of the parking lot where anyone could find them. He watched Billy, unexpectedly flattered to see him staring back down at him with an intense look of pleasure on his face. And then, as if in the wettest of all of his dreams, that expression shifted to – Oh god. Fuck. Shit.

Billy held that expression, that tortured, beautiful pre-sneeze agony for a split second before he sneezed again - an uncontrollable explosion that jerked his shoulders downwards, showering Eddie with the full force of it.

“HAHHD’TSSSSSSHHHTttt!!!”

Eddie’s hips jerked uncontrollably, a sharp gasp tearing out of his throat as he felt the wet slap of it across his face. The droplets went everywhere – in his hair, on his face and neck, some into his open mouth. He orgasmed violently, brain going blank as the pleasure overwhelmed him in ripples of ecstasy. The heels of his sneakers dug into the ground, his toes curling and legs shaking as he came apart entirely.

“Ohhh, fuck!! Ohh my god, ahh!!” He could hear himself groaning, uncontrollably, shocked by the intensity of his body’s reaction.

As the orgasm started to fade – what felt like an endless ecstasy packed into seconds – he hissed at the feeling of Billy bearing down on him, pushing his wrists painfully into the ground. He looked up at him, ready to try and push him off if he was looking to fight again when he was cut off by Billy’s own climax. He watched Billy’s face twist in pleasure, even prettier in orgasm than he might have expected, grunting softly as his hips ground definitively into Eddie’s pelvis. It was hot enough that his flagging erection twitched appreciatively against Billy’s spasming dick, despite himself.

When Billy went limp, loosening his grip on Eddie’s wrists and sagging forward, almost lying on top of him, Eddie went rigid. Head somewhat cleared by his orgasm, he was suddenly very fucking aware that Hargrove was not unlike a wild animal of sorts. Unpredictable, ready to pounce at any second – perhaps more so now that the need to cum wasn’t an all pervasive driving force. He lay on his back, body thrumming in the afterglow, and patiently waited for Billy to move.

Billy did sit back, releasing Eddie’s arms, but instead of immediately getting up, he sat there, half on Eddie’s hips and leaving him, once again, uncomfortably pinned. It was one moment later that Billy tensed, gasped, and sneezed again, undeniably aiming it towards Eddie. It splattered over his chest, the wettest sneeze of the evening, leaving Eddie’s shirt clinging to his skin. He moaned, the sound of it stupidly pornographic, then squeezed his eyes shut in total humiliation as Billy snickered at him, mocking and cruel.

“Tell anyone about this,” Billy said, and Eddie felt the pressure leave his hip. He heard the sound of Billy’s boots crunching into the gravel on either side of his head. “And even your trailer-trash uncle won’t be able to identify your body.”

Eddie opened his eyes once he’d heard the familiar roaring sound of Billy’s Camaro peeling out of the parking lot. He stared up at the sky until he heard approaching voices, then got up and got into his van. He tried to make sense of it all as his engine roared to life – did Billy also like guys? Did this mean Billy was attracted to him? Was that how psychos confessed their feelings? Did he really just have fully-clothed sex on the ground of a high school parking lot, with a dude? Nope. It was too much to think about right now. He needed to get home and take his antihistamines. He needed to shower away not only the dust from the closet, but the jizz now drying uncomfortably in his pubic hair, and Hargrove’s fucking sneeze spray.

He blinked hard, shaking his head. This was definitely something to unpack at a later time – preferably once he’d orgasmed to the memory of it enough times it no longer made him rock-hard just thinking about it. And judging by the way his traitorous cock was already starting to perk up as he pulled onto the road, that was gonna take a while.

#s/tranger t/hings #nametakenfic #sneeze fic #sneeze fucker #snz fucker #snz kink #sneeze kink #snz fet #snzblr #Mm. This one went some weird places and I was like...am I okay. but yes I am!!

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