#chain link fence post | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

altcvnningham · 24 days ago

Text

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

227 notes · View notes

yandereshingeki · 25 days ago

Text

The Antithesis of Decay

made for @ficsforgaza’s Kinktober!

⬑ please check them out! ⬏

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.2k

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x afab!reader

Content Warnings: Stuckage, fingering, dub/noncon, no gendered pronouns, but reader is described to have bigger hips than their waist (no big specifications though). meant to take place between s3 & 4

Summary: An escape through the alleyway ends in a terrifying run-in with a wanted villain.

Managed to write this entirely in a single day 😵‍💫 it gave me a headache doing it that fast but thank god i got it done! It was a lot longer than I intended (stuckage is hard to keep short akhsheja & i originally wanted to go full smut but then wrote too much) and was a little bit difficult to navigate cause I don’t think about shiggy in a sexual way BUT !! I DID IT!

This is also the first time I'm posting something I've written in present tense, I'm just trying to experiment and figure out how I like to write lol

Shiggy lovers i hope this is adequate!!

Another crash. Another roar. Another Nomu.

You're in the thick of it, beside a building, half-destroyed, and another one completely toppled to the ground. There's screaming and panic, citizens running in every which way to escape the crossfire. Another building is about to collapse, and the monsters take no hesitation in using it as leverage to fight.

There are other heroes here, maybe three, or even more now if there were any on patrol nearby; it isn't clear through the fog of dirt and smoke. It isn't enough though. None of you had the strength or stamina to fight against the group of Nomus that appeared. Especially not by yourselves, even if you barely outnumbered them. The rubble is building. The ground is practically shaking under their destructive hands. They have the absolute advantage.

Your quirk isn't built for such a fight, even as a pro, and your combat skills would prove useless against those monsters. You're meant to be more of a support hero than anything, someone usually waiting on the sidelines to rush in and heal the defending heroes in fights. The limits of your restorative quirk meant it was wise to steer clear from the heart of the battle and avoid being hurt, so the best course of action would be to run. Run and find backup. That's the most you can do for now; the most you can try to save what remains of that small city sector.

You choose your path quickly, remaining observant of the chaos around you. Cracked asphalt and concrete, dust flying everywhere from the destruction, debris from the second half-collapsed building scattered everywhere. The Nomus remain distracted by the other heroes, so despite the obstacles, there's a clear path to the closest alleyway. From there, if you can just reach the other side of the buildings and escape harm's way, you'll be safe to make the call.

You can make it, you believe — as long as you're fast. Confident, you take off, bound for the crack between two untouched office buildings nearby, the spring in your costume's boots allowing you to move more efficiently. With such quick speed, you nearly run face-first into the wall, entering it at an angle that's easy to correct with a simple push off against the brick. From there, the path is a straight shot to the other side, only separated by a feeble chain link fence. There's a hole that looks just big enough for you to crawl through at the bottom of it, the wire pried upward to create a gap. You can make it, you repeat in your head. The coast is clear, you can make it.

Stumbling to a stop in front of the mesh barrier, you drop to your knees as quickly as your body will allow, planting yourself onto your stomach afterward. The opening is much smaller up close, but it's nothing you can't army-crawl your way through. Your costume was made to be dirtied and protect you in the heat of conflict, so having it scrape across the rocky ground while you drag your way under the fence isn't an issue. Its durability was the least of your problems — until now, that is..

The elastic fabric snags on the wire once you squeeze your head and arms through the hole. Time is sensitive, you don’t have any to waste on something trivial like this. You try to reach back to untangle it, only to find the wire completely stabbed through.

With a heavy sigh and adrenaline crawling in your veins at the delay, you manage to move back a sizable distance before you try again, but it’s useless. The ends of the wires are sharp and stab into your suit with ease, holding you back. You needed to try something else, you needed to be fast.

Before you can attempt to force your way through the hole, a voice arises behind you. Raspy and hoarse, you don’t even realize he's there until he speaks.

“Oh, look at what we have here. A hero, is it?”

His approach is slow, and you only hear his footsteps once he's standing over you. Your entire body goes stiff, your blood running cold as you curve your spine back to look at him.

"Shigaraki," you whisper, terrified, under your breath.

"Oh, you know me already? How nice, I suppose we can skip the introductions then."

You can hear your breath hitch in your throat when he speaks and feel his presence as he looms right behind you, bending at the knees to crouch down over your legs.

"I've seen you on TV," he starts, and you hold back a scream when you feel four rough fingers gently touch the back of your thigh, "You've got quite the impressive quirk, you know. Restoration quirks are hard to come by. And yours…"

He pauses again, glides them up to where your hip and femur jointed together, and relishes in the way you shiver before he continues, "It's the exact opposite of mine. I guess you can only restore organic things, sure, but — it does make me wonder."

You're hardly listening to his little ramble, your heartbeat drumming too loud in your ears to process anything — but then, your head goes blank when you feel all five of his fingers cup around your hip. Panic sets in fast, and you find yourself writhing before you can think, trying to force your way through the fence. The metal wires only dig into your skin, causing even more pain as you realize you're hips are too big to fit, and you wouldn't have made it anyway.

Tomura only chuckles lightly at your reaction, watching the bottom half of your hero suit disintegrate into dust. You don't even realize it until you're already crying, and a cold breeze hits your face and bottom half. His hand is on you. Touching you. Feeling you, and yet.

You don't feel any pain. His touch is simply normal against your skin. His palm is surprisingly warm, but dry. And you don't disintegrate. You don't disintegrate.

Tomura laughs again at wide eyes and gaping mouth as if you should have expected his quirk to cancel out with yours. He slides his palm across your bottom, down to the back of your thigh again to caress it up and down slowly. Carefully. His touch lingers far longer than you're comfortable with.

"Your quirk activates automatically when it's your own body, right? I wonder how long I can keep doing this for, then." He speaks so casually, acting like you weren't trapped and half-bare under him.

"I've always wanted to be able to touch someone like this again. No gloves, no barriers. Just skin. When I saw you on the news and heard about your quirk, I thought you were perfect. Aside from that pesky hero stuff, that is," he frowned slightly behind the hand on his face, moving his own to grip at the fat of your ass, "You have no idea how frustrating it is to be unable to touch something without it falling apart."

You let out a loud squeak, feeling his weight on the back of your knees when he sits on them, squeezing and kneading your flesh in his hand. There are tears in your eyes, and you struggle to twist around to look back at him, where he sits proudly like a king on his throne. Seeing such a widely known villain — being face to face, but being stuck and having him touch you like this. It felt humiliating. Humiliating to who you were as a person and a hero. You felt sick to your stomach.

He frowns a little at the pathetic look you give him, only tightening his hold more, "Come on, don't look like that. I haven't done anything yet."

As he speaks, he slides another hand underneath you and pulls your hips up slightly, your spine beginning to ache at how it was strained. You can only shake as you watch him, the hand that was gripping your ass moving to slide a single finger down the center of your underwear, sending a large jolt up your spine.

In an instant, you look forward again, covering your mouth to hold back any noise you'd almost let out. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of making a sound, let it be cries or anything. So you force yourself to silence, even as tears roll down your face.

Tomura only grins, running the finger up and down the fabric a few more times just to feel you jolt before hooking around the lining to pull it off to the side, stuffing it between your thigh and outer labia to keep you exposed. You clench up at the cold air, another shudder roving through your body as Tomura holds back a chuckle.

Without another thought or word, he immediately dives in, his two fingers sliding between your folds, feeling whatever you can offer him before moving down to the bud below. You shiver, but are otherwise completely frozen as he does this, not even knowing half of what to do to retaliate.

"Not too wet yet, I see. That's ok, I can fix that." He says, beginning to prod around for that extra sensitive spot he knew you wouldn't resist. A lightbulb goes off in his head when you jolt suddenly, your hips shaking extra whenever he squishes or pokes at it. With a grin plastered under that embalmed hand, he starts to move his fingers around in slow, gentle circles.

The coarseness of his fingers doesn't help the sensation they bring on, that feeling of soft ecstasy pulsing through your body slowly like a drum. You hold back your sounds, at least, only your breathing growing heavy as he watches you clench around nothing.

It isn't enough for him. He needs more than this, he needs you prepared, and that wouldn’t come from just a few measly touches.

His fingers move faster, gaining enough friction that he has you audibly gasping, slick already building up just below. It doesn't take as long as expected, like your body is reacting on primal need. It almost makes him wonder — maybe you're getting off to the position he has you in, even if you don't realize it.

He gives you a few more minutes of soft touching, allowing a good amount of wetness to accumulate between your shaking thighs before moving his fingers up. He gathers your natural lube on his digits, humming as he slathers it all over your pussy to make it nice and glossy before dipping them back in, finally allowing them to take the plunge.

As if you weren't already amply humiliated, the way his fingers toy with you before pressing in is distracting enough that he manages to draw a squeak out of you the second he dives in.

"Ohh, give me more of that. Don't be shy." He says, sliding his digits out slowly, licking his lips at how slick they are before shoving them back in.

His fingers are so long, soaking knuckle-deep inside of you and reaching parts that your own couldn't. You would rather die at his hands now than ever admit it to anyone, but god, it feels good.

He's already moving them so fast, curling them all around like he's searching for something. It felt too good to be touched by someone like that. You haven't slept with another person for over a year, so it's like a new foreign feeling and an old friend all at once. You can't stop yourself. Your brain grows foggier with each drag of his fingers, like he's scratching an itch you couldn’t by yourself. You couldn't hold it back anymore.

You let out a quiet, croaked moan, covering your face with your hands to hide how embarrassing it is to indulge in something so crude with someone like him.

A wretched smile immediately dawns on Tomura's face, and he moves his hand even faster, trying to milk more sounds out of you before he moves on. He wants you to make more noise, to hear how good a disgusting villain like him is making a great hero like you feel.

From there, the sounds just spilled out. He’s surprisingly quick to find the smooth spot inside of you, pumping over it repeatedly until you’re a wriggling, gasping mess. The coil inside of you is winding up tight, growing ready to burst at almost any second.

It's so degrading, being face down in the concrete while a villain is digging his fingers so deep into you. But you weren’t thinking about that anymore. Your mind is too focused on how good it feels rubbing against your walls, the friction driving you crazy with how fast it builds up.

Then, like electricity in your veins, it comes crashing through your body all at once. The pleasure, the ecstasy. Your body practically vibrates against his hand, an unforgiving orgasm ripping through your entire system until you’re panting like a dog, still pulsing around him as he slowly removes his fingers and wipes them on your thigh.

As you return from your high, the quiet chuckling unnerves you. And then you feel sick to your stomach again. You’re still recovering, but you’ve come to your senses enough to look behind you.

The sight you see has bile rising in your throat. He’s already grabbed onto you again, unzipping his pants with one hand while he speaks.

“So, what do you think your little hero friends would think if you had sex with a villain?”

#ch:shiggy #forest fics #kinktober #cw: noncon #cw: dubcon #mha x reader #bnha x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #tenko shimura x reader #shigaraki x reader #smut #x reader smut #shigaraki smut

288 notes · View notes

captain-hawks · 4 months ago

Note

hi dee :3 i'm a big fan of your writing and ginormous brain, and i love the spicy sleepover concept you've got going !! (sorry for not popping by earlier, i'm a lil shy hfjhdj >~<)

this wknd could i humbly request that you expand upon a certain roommate!kuroo.. omg that post has been living in my brain non-stop for the last 48h.. 🙏

(hihi thank you so much you're so sweet<3<3<3!!!!!!)

night swim

tetsurou kuroo x f!reader

c: 18+ only, pining, roommate!kuroo, semi-public sex, pool sex, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie

SPICY SLEEPOVER WEEKEND — HEAT WAVE EDITION

It shouldn’t be weird—treading water after hours in the city pool with Kuroo under a blanket of stars and one dull, flickering street light just outside the chain link fence, the air still thick with the unrelenting humidity of a week-long heat wave.

It shouldn’t be weird that you’re swimming in your underwear, Kuroo’s bright idea to hop the fence and dive in mid-way on your walk back to your apartment from the convenience store too enthusiastic to deny. Too tempting against the uncomfortable, lingering prickle of heat and sweat on your skin after the two of you spent all afternoon trying to fix your one and only shitty, busted air conditioner in the living room.

Kuroo’s been your roommate for nearly two years now, and you’ve accidentally seen each other naked more than a dozen times at this point—it’s become an occupational hazard you’ve long-since come to terms with.

(At least, you’ve lied to yourself enough to say as much.)

It wouldn’t be weird, if your stupid, traitorous heart would settle back into place behind your rapidly expanding ribcage, if it would let you continue to deny the inconvenient, messy feelings that have settled down roots deep inside of you as of late.

Roots that sprouted to life at the strange, funny feeling that unfurled inside of you at the odd expression on Kuroo’s face when you told him you finally broke up with your cheating boyfriend six months ago.

Roots that dug their tendrils in even tighter as his room suddenly seemed all too quiet at night, his casual hookups dwindling dry.

(Roots that threatened to choke you the first time you realized you’d accidentally moaned his name into your pillow as your vibrator tipped you over the edge of a trembling, gushing orgasm.)

But it’s too late to backtrack this monumentally disastrous decision, not now that your ill-fated splashing match (an effort to derail the feelings simmering in your gut) finds you caged in against the side wall of the in-ground pool.

You’re a deer caught in headlights beneath his triumphant, smirking gaze—if the deer was secretly begging to get fucked by the goddamn car, that is.

You haven’t quite decided if it’s better or worse that you’re not wearing your usual comfortable weekend undergarments at the moment, a now-cancelled date (which you’d swiped right on solely with the misguided hope of fucking Kuroo out of your system) finds you still wearing a new lacy pink bra, your nipples clearly exposed through the sheer fabric, and matching thong. Soaking wet and clinging to your skin, neither are doing much to hide the swell of your breasts or the swollen outline of your throbbing clit.

Water splashes gently against the side of the pool, and though you’re not certain who stops laughing first, you find yourself quietly staring at Kuroo and his damp, messy hair and stupidly handsome face.

“What happened to your date?” he asks suddenly.

“He cancelled,” You swallow, trying to play it off as you wave a hand at yourself. “Waste of a new outfit.”

Kuroo’s voice is a little rough as he replies, “His loss.”

“Is it?” you ask quietly.

He stares at you for a moment, seemingly thinking something over before he finally speaks. “You’re not as quiet as you think.”

Though you’re fairly certain you know exactly what he means, you still sputter out, “I—”

You’ve made an unfortunate habit of it ever since the first time—slicking up your vibrator to thoughts of a tall head of unruly black hair and hazel eyes. Plunging the silicone toy in and out of your cunt to the fantasy of how Kuroo’s deep voice would sound against the shell of your ear.

“Is it fucked up,” Kuroo breathes out in a gravelly tone, one finger feathering over the strap of your new bra, “that I don’t want anyone else to see you in this?”

“Do you think it’s fucked up?” you ask.

His answering laugh is low and self-deprecating as he drags a hand through his hair, rogue strands sticking up in the wake of his fingers. “I mean it’s definitely fucked up how many times I’m gonna jerk off thinking about how your tits look right now.”

The heat simmering in your chest flares white-hot, and your throat goes dry.

“I feel like your view might be a little obstructed,” you tell him, swallowing hard.

He chokes out another laugh, incredulous, like despite the fact that he knows you moan his name while you’re masturbating, he can’t believe that you’re insinuating you want to dump your tits out for him in this public pool in the middle of the night.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod, reaching behind you to unhook your bra, and an insistent lick of arousal crawls up your spine at the way he mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath as your soaking wet, naked breasts are inches away from his own bare chest.

Reaching down, you tug him a hair closer by the waistband of his boxers, biting your lip at the feeling of his erection that’s now pressed against your thigh.

“Fucking perfect,” he exhales, carefully reaching up to cup your tits in his hands, eyes darkening at the soft little moan you let out when he strokes his thumb over your pebbled nipples. “You’re so fucking perfect, you have no idea.”

And then you’re gently caressing the nape of his neck, and all it takes is a soft whisper of his name from your lips to have his mouth crashing into yours.

It’s messy and it’s desperate and it’s perfect, the way Kuroo’s lips fervently slide across yours, his tongue dancing across the seam of your lips until they part, the kiss deepening into something that has you dizzy with heady, unrestrained desire.

“Kuroo,” you whimper as he presses you flush against the wall, his cock a rock hard line against the puffy swell of your pussy.

And then you press back into him and nearly see stars at the friction, and he groans, rocking forward into you in turn. You spread your legs a little wider, halfway tempted to just wrap yourself around his waist and rub your cunt against his thick length, and clearly he has the same idea—because he grabs hold of your thighs and murmurs, “Keep going.”

You’d be more than a little worried about getting caught, if Kuroo wasn’t swallowing down each of your increasingly lewd moans and whines with rough, hungry kisses, sloppy trails of spit hanging between your mouths each time your lips part for air.

It feels so fucking good—dragging your cunt up and down his length, your nerve endings flaring with hot, sharp bursts of pleasure.

But it’s not enough, not when you can feel just how big his cock is, when your pussy is pathetically clenching around nothing with each thrust.

You don’t realize you’ve moaned the same words out loud that you whine in the dark in your room until Kuroo curses, his grip on your hips tightening as he outright drags you against him.

“Fuck me, Kuroo.”

Almost the same words—

“That’s not what I heard you say last night,” he rasps, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

You stare at him for a beat before you slowly say, “Fuck me, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo groans, his forehead falling against yours, and he kisses you roughly before reaching between your bodies, tugging aside your thong to slide his fingers through your slick folds. Even despite the water you’re currently swimming in, slick arousal coats the walls of your cunt, and you nearly come right then and there as he appreciatively moans as he explores your tight, desperate hole with one thick finger, which is soon joined by a second as he stretches you open.

By the time he starts teasing the head of his shaft against your slit, you’re two seconds from begging for it, a sob on the tip of your tongue as your fingers claw into his back.

He chuckles.

The fantasy of your vibrator is nothing compared to the fat stretch of Kuroo’s cock as he finally sinks past your quivering entrance, burying his shaft balls deep in the choking, clenching grasp of your cunt.

It’s nothing compared to the way Kuroo’s hips snap into yours as he holds you in his grasp while he fucks you right there in the pool, your tits bobbing in and out of the water with each plunge and drag. The wrecked manner in which he murmurs your name, the possessive way his hands roam your body, like he knows you nearly fucked someone else tonight.

(The way he fucks you like he knows you wanted it to be him all along.)

“Tetsurou,” you breathe out.

“I was wrong,” he gasps as he tries to bully his dick in even deeper, as you hump into him in turn, greedy for every inch.

“About what?”

“I thought you ruined me for anyone else the first time I heard you moan my name through the wall.” He exhales, pulling out before thrusting back inside of you. “But that doesn’t even come fucking close to this.”

You’re not entirely sure what’s the catalyst for the sudden climax that explodes within you—your pent up desire, the thumb he’s currently stroking across your throbbing clit, the raw honesty of his words.

All of it, likely.

Given the way you nearly black out under the force of your trembling, gushing orgasm, Kuroo groaning at the way your pussy expands and contracts against the stretch of his shaft, lost in an overload of pleasure.

“Inside,” you gasp out at the unasked question that lingers on his face as his own peak approaches.

Kuroo’s answering kiss is filthy as he groans into your mouth, cock pulsing heavily as he spills rope after rope of hot cum inside of you, filling you deep.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out, forehead falling against yours as his orgasm tapers off, his shaft still nestled inside of you.

You float there in comfortable silence for a few moments, Kuroo pressing soft kisses along the side of your face.

“So—”

He freezes, waiting for whatever it is that you’re about to say.

You continue, “I don’t feel very confident in my ability to jump back over that fence now.”

Given the nearly liquified state of your sated limbs, which feel damn near close to jelly as your legs remain wrapped around Kuroo’s waist.

“The lock on the gate is broken anyway,” he shrugs.

You balk, “Then why’d you make me climb it in the first place?!”

He shrugs, not looking anywhere near apologetic as he replies casually, “Your ass looked good in those shorts.”

#kuroo tetsurou #tetsurou kuroo #kuroo tetsurou x reader #tetsurou kuroo x reader #haikyuu #dee writes #spicy sleepover weekend #roommate!kuroo

255 notes · View notes

seagullcharmer · 2 years ago

Text

playing around with the idea of calling albw zelda 'legend' for funsies

#libra.txt #chain link fences (au)#it's bc. in tfh her dress is called. the legendary dress #which in retrospect is because it's the legend of zelda in general.#but oh well. tfh and albw are supposed to take place in the same universe #i can play around with it if i want!!!!!#also considering (unrelated to names) posting it kinda like hs #in which i do a main 'panel' or two #and then have text #instead of a full-blown comic that i don't have the skill or energy for #or a novel that i. don't have the skill or energy for #i would not do it in script format tho bc i don't like writing scripts. and also the hassle of switching character text colours. hh

5 notes · View notes

belovedivies · 1 month ago

Note

Gurl imagine, just imagine a rejuvenated peter with his three ducklings, bumping into raphael's older sibling how would that go?

a/n: THREE DUCKLINGS LMAO- i had too much fun writing this piece. this should have came out on a while back but uni whipped my ass rip- anw, enjoy!! cw: minor spoiler, minor character death, they have fun clowning around and absolutely nothing bad happened. wc: 3.6k m.list

offshore ft. multi

The sky above is pitch black by the time Soongu leaves his dorm and heads to their promised spot. He goes for a casual look that evening: gray hoodie, black pants, a pair of Sketcher that soon gathers dust on the outsole when the guy navigates his way through the city’s park, dry leaves crunching with every step.

His long legs eat up the distance rather quickly, and there isn’t much until a right turn at the local pub leads Soongu down a dimly lit alley. The streetlights on both sides flicker; it’s a beautiful moonless night. He isn’t on his way to another meeting, not really. There’s a certain ease in his movement, fingers drumming slightly against the lining fabric where he digs his hands into his pockets. Soongu feels lighter, easier to breathe somehow. When he crosses by a traffic mirror attached to a rusty-looking post, a young man stares right back at him. He can almost pretend he’s just another boy; no debt of blood and death marring his youthful features.

The exterior of the convenience store looks tame, but his comrades are already there: lazing around on a long bench that overlooks an empty parking lot through a fairly new chain-link fence. They remind him of a bunch of high schoolers. People with obligations rarely extend outside of the established social circles. It’s Simon who sneaks up to him first, wrapping an arm around the boy’s neck with a cocky smirk.

“Sheesh, took you long enough brother. ” His voice booms against Soongu’s ears like bus tires. “We’re about to ditch your ass.”

“As if,” Soongu replies in faux-annoyance, though there’s no denying how his lips curl up into an amused smile. The years have taken a toll on his old pal, but it’s still Simon at the end of the day and no one else. Lost an arm, chipped a tooth, but still ever the loudmouth who fought with him through life and death during their time as Apostles.

One meter away, Jiwon—the woman of their little team—crosses her legs with a wistful look while Alexander McKing rests his head on her thighs, basking in the little head scratches his owner delivers every few seconds. Simon might have always been the boisterous one, but Soongu was surprised to learn that the hangout today was actually her idea. For someone who constantly fusses and loses her cool over the smallest of mistakes that might give away his true identity, trading her usual gold-plated sanctuary for some simple bonding time on a Friday night is a bit… questionable, if not to say downright odd.

“Jiwon~” Simon sing-songs, still keeping his arm looped around the boy’s neck as his old pal drags him towards the bench. “Bo— I mean Soongu is here, what are the plans?”

“Shut your goofy ass up.” Ah, there is she. Their blind grumpy old mom. Jiwon uncrosses her legs with an irritated face, brows drawn together behind her near-transparent glasses. “I’m trying to remember the name of that BBQ.”

Simon’s face falls at the insult like a child just got robbed of his favorite toy. Soongu lets out a quiet chuckle this time, and it isn’t long until the two of them jump at each other’s throats for another round of bickering. But tonight isn’t about just that. They are here to hang out, as Jiwon has put it—

(—wasted out of her mind halfway past a bottle of Château Margaux. She lamented through the phone about the horrible hangover she had in the morning, yet somehow the suggestion remained.)

“You wounded me!” The gray-haired swordsman exclaims. He’s feigning hurt obviously, but it’s those next words that manage to get on Jiwon’s nerves. “Didn’t you remember how you used to hang around little ol’ me and fawn like a pup—ow ow!”

“I. Was. Young. And. I. Was. Stupid!” With each syllable, her hand strikes down Simon’s back in a poor attempt to chastise her jerk of a comrade. “I’d never date you in a million years, not even Peter—“

Soongu cocks an eyebrow at the mention of his infamous codename. Jiwon clamps a hand over her mouth as the realization of what just slipped out hits her. Peter. It would have been fine to mention it if all of them were lazing around in her fancy lair with ice whiskeys on the stainless marble countertop, but here they were out in the open. Not to mention the mutual agreement to only refer to Soongu as… well, Soongu.

“Shit, my bad.” She gulps, a drop of sweat rolling down her forehead. The dog continues to curl up and snuggle her lap.

“Careless, aren’t cha?” Taking the chance to tease, Simon bends his knees and flashes Jiwon a toothy grin that she luckily can’t see, but pisses her off enough to the point her jaws clench, ready to wipe it off his stupid face with another punch.

“You little—”

“Alright, break it up.” As fun as it is to watch the shenanigans carry on, that brief mention of his name reminds the boy to interfere in the little fight. He puts his hands on either of his friends’ foreheads, creating some distance lest they decide to headbutt each other into concussion. “You’re forgetting someone.”

Kageo tenses up ever so slightly in Soongu’s peripheral vision, not used to being the center of attention now that the spotlight is suddenly on him. In his white T-shirt and 6’7 frame, their new companion still ominously blends into the background and contents himself watching every interaction. Old habits die hard, Soongu supposes. Back then those shoulders were unshackled by the weight of hatred and revenge, Kageo was but a shadow standing behind Yuika, serving the girl with all his might. Now with the corpse of his first love rotting on the seabed alongside what’s left of their ship, Kageo is forced to be who he thought he has never been before.

Someone who actually matters.

“I’m fine with whatever you suggest.”

It takes a while for a response to come. Humble and demure, typical for the guy. Soongu can’t blame him; it’s hella awkward for four of them to just stand here and do nothing but stare at each other.

Simon, unsurprisingly, is the one to break the silence. Taking a step forward, the old man pats Kageo on the back. A classic bro move to let him know there’s no hostility between them anymore.

“C’mon kiddo,” he clicks his tongue playfully. Simon talks to Kageo like an uncle does his nephew, and Soongu can’t help but wonder if it’s a direct result of months of being an undercover guard at that local grade school, “we’re gonna let loose just this one night. Show a little more enthusiasm, will ya?”

The boy in question tenses up, clearly not used to the casual skinship between friends. Then again, he has only ever been with Yuika, and even then there wasn’t really a time for them to “hang out” between the constant killing and running from authority.

Kageo ducks his head with a loud “Y-Yes, Uncle! I’ll try!” that makes Simon’s smile grow impossibly wider around the edge. Almost hard to believe that the swordsman himself was seconds away from slashing the younger boy’s hand back then. Truly the development of all time.

The atmosphere seems to ease up a bit with that interaction out of the way. While the two of them are busy in their bubble, Soongu turns his attention to Jiwon—who somehow chose to stay quiet throughout the past few minutes. It isn’t very much like her, so he takes his spot on the bench next to the woman.

“Are we going in?” He looks over to his comrade, obviously referring to the store next to them.

“Yeah,” Jiwon hums with a smile, sounding happier than what Soongu usually hears from her. The German Shepherd hops off her lap, instead running up to nuzzle against his legs, which the boy happily rewards the dog with more head scratches.

—

This 7-11 smells… nice. Just the usual cleaning chemicals and lavender spray, but still nice. Anything is better than that funky smell of burnt cheese and melted slurpees.

Soongu hasn’t been to that much to draw the conclusion, honestly. Even back then, all he did as a young and invincible Peter was going on missions from one country to another. Between the seemingly endless list of targets to take down and people to protect, his meals only ever consisted of instant noodles and takeouts. Sitting down at a restaurant to enjoy the food was rare, going to a convenience store for it was even rarer. As an Apostle, the boy doesn’t want to risk a mass shooting that would harm innocent citizens. But as a now just-another-D-rank-Glory-killer…

“Danbi!”

His mom-comrade calls out an unfamiliar name before rushing past him to reach someone. He turns around to see a girl, the store’s logo plastered on her red apron as well as a beverage-filled box in her hands. Interestingly, she doesn’t end up toppling over despite how quickly the woman sprints in her direction to pull this Danbi into a bone-crushing embrace.

“You brat—” Jiwon grits her teeth, squishing the younger girl’s cheeks together like Play-Doh. Soongu can’t help but wince just by watching the interaction; she really loved to pull this move back when he first revealed his rejuvenated self, “—where the hell were you?! I called you ten times and you didn’t even answer!”

Her aggressive yelling manages to get the other two’s attention, who up until now were eyeing neatly arranged lines of alcoholic drinks inside a freezer at the back of the store. Kageo gives Simon a mild questioning look when they draw closer to the source of drama, an expression that the old swordsman mirrors. Now it just seems like all three of them are at a loss for this new girl’s identity.

“Ow, ow— unnie!” Danbi squeals like an injured animal. With her hands already occupied, she’s helpless against the onslaught of Jiwon’s pinching. “You’re so mean! You know I can’t use my phone during my shift.”

The blind woman clicks her tongue, unimpressed. “I texted 30 minutes ago too, and you left me on read!”

If she plans to guilt her, it works. Danbi deflates with a sigh. Just before she can say anything else, however, Simon chimes in with a question they’re all dying to know.

“Um… who are you, Missy?”

Danbi’s eyes snap open at the unexpected inquiry. She looks like she doesn’t realize they are right there. Soongu notes how her gaze travels from Kageo’s neutral face to Simon’s amputated arm and then—

—to Soongu himself.

She lingers on him for longer too. Three seconds too long, he counts, with just her blank, doll-eyed stare boring holes directly into his skull.

But then the girl shrivels up, bowing until the box in her hands sweeps the ground, bottles of fizzy drink inside clicking together when she says, “I’m Ahn Danbi, nice to meet you!” then proceeds to straighten up her back with a smile so bright it immediately makes Soongu second guess his decision, but to what?

…to what?

Jiwon grins, the joy evident in her voice. Her affection is softer this time as she returns to wrapping her arms around Danbi’s shoulders.

“Danbi, these idiots are under my care. Idiots, Danbi here is my cousin—“ Alexander walks up and nuzzles its face against said girl’s legs, “—and protégé, too.

Simon looks shocked by the reveal. “We never knew you had one!”

“Now you do~”

The old man just rolls his eyes before turning to the girl, a big smile on his face as he introduces himself. “Nice to meet ya too, kiddo! I’m Simon.”

“Hello~” Danbi, still holding onto the box, manages to shift its weight into one hand while squeezing out of her cousin’s embrace just enough to catch a handshake, “Unnie told me a lot about you!”

Uh oh, that scratches a spot. Soongu watches as Simon’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree before his old pal makes a smug face.

“Oh, did she?” The guy pretends to his stubble thoughtfully, though not without the smirk still plastered on his face. “I hope she didn’t blast your poor ears off talking ‘bout me. You know how obsessed she is—”

Jiwon does end up punching him in the face this time.

—

“So you drain the noodles with these right here…”

Danbi gestures to the tiny dots at the edge of the sealing lid. Using the tip of a wooden chopstick, she pokes three holes before lifting the cup noodle up and tipping it forward so the water can escape through the small space. Above her, Kageo looks strangely out of place as he towers over and watches with hawk-like attention.

“Here you go!” The girl turns back to him, presenting the now soft instant ramen inside. “Now you just need to add the seasoning.”

Kageo tilts his head. He’s more of a lost child than the unfeeling giant Soongu saw on the Ghost Cruise weeks back, void of Yuika’s cunning giggles or million-dollar chandeliers that render him stationary in the golden lights. When she drowned, a part of him no doubt went down along. But here, there’s a small yet still-there glow in those inky eyes when his friend takes the cup, voice filled with curiosity.

“There’s no water?”

“I saved a bit for easy mixing. Other than that,” Jiwon’s cousin gives him a kind smile. Despite the less-than-ideal introduction to their little team, she seems to have no trouble breaking the ice, “this is a type of 'stir-fried’ dry noodle. You picked Buldak Cream Carbonara, which is usually prepared with just the sauce and powder.”

A small hum leaves Kageo’s throat as he takes in the new piece of information. He then gets to work, finishing the rest of the preparation by mixing two said packets together. The fusion of butter and cheese gives Soongu’s nose a funny tingle, though he isn’t that hungry yet to ask for a bite.

Kageo looks quite amazed at his handiwork, watching as the ramen turns from platinum blonde to a shade of amber—coating in the Buldak sauce and cream powder. Unable to resist, the boy digs in. The flavors left an instant impression on his taste buds, and Kageo’s eyes widened almost comically.

“This is amazing!”

Danbi beams at the heartfelt praise, even if it isn’t directed at her. “I’m glad! This brand is popular worldwide. Let me know if you need anything else!”

The conversation ends on a comfortable note, with Kageo giving her a quick thank you before heading out to join Jiwon and Simon on the tables outside, whose heads are probably buried in another meaningless argument. Danbi, all smiles and relaxed shoulders, turns back to arranging the drinks into the freezer. She doesn’t seem to mind the silence that follows, nor the fact that Soongu is still here, leaning against the wall a few steps away. She doesn’t even spare him a glance.

And he isn’t paranoid, definitely not—anyone and anything he’s wary of always turns out to be a threat in the end. Soongu just can’t let loose; he doesn’t know how to. The cool tiles tickle the Apostle’s scalp, his ears buzzing with soft mechanical hums from the AC running above. It’s awfully bright in here, and the more he looks, the more spots and afterimages blind his vision.

Fuck, he needs some nicotine to think.

And a beer.

Nicotine and beer.

Soongu fishes into his pants pockets for a nonexistent cigarette, his chest rumbling with a quiet groan. Of course it isn’t there; he barely smoked this month. He sees Danbi in the corner of his eyes, hands on her lap while she sits on her haunches. She stares at him unblinkingly like he’s strange. Like he’s not a real person. And maybe that’s all he needs. Maybe Soongu doesn’t want to drag the painful interaction out longer than a few surface-level exchanges.

Maybe he’s just that pent-up.

But Danbi smiles again with a glow of satisfaction. She gets up and makes her way towards him, spreading her palms out to reveal a pack of Zest like she’s treating Halloween’s candies to the neighbor’s kids.

“Last one in stock.” The girl goes on like nothing happened; the same customer service smile with a small hint of sugary emptiness. “Enjoy.”

And Soongu doesn’t know how to feel. He’s very much skeptical, some part impressed, yet not at all touched by the deceitfully thoughtful gesture. There’s a stark difference in how Danbi hugs Jiwon back, shakes Simon’s hand, and guides Kageo through a simple routine versus the stench of death she has been subtly reeking from every small pore on her body.

“And,” the corner of Soongu’s lips curl up into a smirk. It takes two to tango, “how exactly would you know?”

Danbi lets out a small sigh, tilting her head slightly to the side with her arms crossed. A wistful look graces her face, and only there does he finally pick up the first glimpse of blood relation between her and his blind comrade.

“That was all the guys in Glory ever bought when they crashed.” The way she sounds it out genuinely feels like a complaint. “Lo Crux isn’t out of the equation, but that’s for older men.”

What a theory. Soongu’s fingers graze one edge of the pack. The sticker and thin wrapper are already peeled, though the whole thing inside remains untouched.

“Why not?” He quips. “Can’t a young man enjoy his cigar?”

“Not really...”

Danbi giggles, leaning closer.

“Unless you’re Peter.”

Soongu froze, his spine growing cold just as the tiles behind him.

But she provides an easy out, clasping her hands together with a sheepish smile. “Welp, that’s just me though! Everybody has their own preference.”

She places the empty box on the ground aside, leaving him to comprehend her words. And that’s it. The girl crouches down and grabs a few cans of beer when she opens the freezer door with one hand, balancing the drinks in the other. Danbi looks at him with a cheerfulness that is hard-wired into her facial muscles, just the right amount of casual insanity to keep the Apostle guessing.

“Give these to her, ok?” She nags him in an easygoing voice, passing them after she dumps the cans into a 7-11 plastic bag. And Soongu takes it. It’s mainly for Jiwon, but they are all likely to share everything later. One look inside reveals more and more boozes, some brands he vaguely recalls to be his friend’s favorites two decades ago before she trades them for high-end goods.

Eating at a well-known local BBQ and hitting a karaoke booth until morning are their ultimate goal for tonight. He’s sure swinging by here has just been an added bonus for Jiwon to see her sibling and grab beers on the way. Soongu stops humoring Danbi’s mind games for a while, opting to let his gaze trail naturally along the see-through glasses that wall this place with the world outside.

The moving smudges of brown, gray, and white in the distance are his friends. Comrades. And he appreciates them. He really does. There’s always more to their bond than that of people who share a mutual goal to take down Glory—there’s a common ground too. A dynamic he finds himself growing comfortable with. They knew who he really was, and Soongu thinks it’s nice: he doesn’t have to put up a mask like he does around Yuna and the Doggo brothers. Around them, he can just simply be him.

A dysfunctional family, but still a family nonetheless.

Danbi watches in his peripheral vision, a curious look etched on her face. When the Apostle pulls up to the counter to check out, she waves her hands dismissively with a smile; Jiwon slipped her something much more valuable under the table.

—

You click the door shut behind you, staring up at the ceiling.

They gang up, and you can mostly get behind that logic.

Kageo is little more than emotionally driven at the moment, but there is plenty of room to grow once the pain mellows out. Simon, too. Goofy and unserious as he is, the man was Peter’s best student back in their days. Even if Jiwon is no match for Johan and his god-like echolocation, she’s still a formidable opponent on her own. Overall a team… a strong one. If they can make it work, they’re bound to be an eyesore for Glory in the long run.

Then why the hell is he there?

That guy is undoubtedly Kim Soongu, the face you saw digging through the pile of documents one night after Nathaniel’s comment about a certain newbie piqued your interest—you weren’t impressed with what you found. Average stats, average height, no remarkable features. What potential was there to tap into?

Washing down the budding bit of annoyance with a huff, you lean against the hollow metal surface of the door.

“Danbi, is there really no cigarette left?~”

No answer.

“Oh.”

You let out a soft chuckle.

A few footsteps forward, Danbi’s body rots away near the entrance leading to the store’s dumpster area. She was like that when you first found her—on her stomach with cheeks caked in a thin layer of mud and rainwater. She’s neither moving nor breathing—her skin grows cold and her muscles become stiff. Even then, Jiwon hadn’t been able to pick up the telltale signs of strangeness and death in your movement—letting her guard down around the ones she called family.

“Huh,” you nudge her corpse with one foot, just enough to get her lifeless eyes to meet yours. “a seizure it is. That surgery sure fucked you up.”

Well, not that’s any of your business!

She’s dead, the security camera is down, 7-11 is empty, and you have a new bedtime story to tell Raphael tonight. Leaving through the door in the back, you bid Danbi farewell with a smile.

Her body is found in the morning.

#killer peter #killer peter manhwa #killer peter x reader #manhwa x reader #reader insert #x reader #killer peter simon #killer peter jiwon #manhwa #killer pietro #x female reader #fem reader

113 notes · View notes