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bowieandqueen11 · 2 years ago

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Resolved Issues / Roman Roy Imagine

Request: HIIIII gonna send my succession request while i still can lol.

how about roman and reader sharing childhood stories? him realising that perhaps, maybe the way his family has treated him is tiny bit Not Normal. the reader being somewhere between "oh my god let me give you a hug" and "i just might fight logan roy in the parking lot". yknow good old hurt/comfort you do it like no other

Thank you so much sweetie!! But also yes I feel this in my soul frick Logan Roy lmao

Warning: strong language. mentions of diarrhoea and mentions of child abuse/ physical abuse!

This 3k beast took quite a while to write, so feedback is appreciated! Thank you! :)

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @loverboyromanroy.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Roman shrugs his shoulders and looks steadily at you, straight into your eyes.

‘The fuck- how should I know? Like... twenty three, ish?’

Roman’s perching on the edge of his own sofa, so obviously uncomfortable even in his own apartment. His wrist flicks as he answers, and a few drops of the whiskey he hasn’t touched comes sloshing round the side to stain his brand new eggshell blue decorative pillows. He had never cared much for property. But then again, he hadn’t cared much for whiskey either growing up; it had been his father’s drink of choice, and therefore his. The faint fire in the cold marble fireplace behind his head licks between his ears, and illuminates the confused amusement gleaming in his eyes.

You scoff, and shake your head at him incredulously. ‘You own twenty three houses, and you choose to live here?’ Awaiting an answer you know will be even more ridiculous, you make an effort to tuck your legs criss-cross under you, and sit with your knees resting just underneath Roman’s lower legs. ‘And yet you still live in the coldest ass apartment, I swear to god I’m freezing my ass off, and that’s even with the fire going. Are you a fucking yeti or something, Roman Roy?’

He chortles as you continue: ‘you thrive in colder climates, huh? That’s not surprising, considering a glare from your father could freeze hell over.’ You take a final sip of your drink before reaching over and placing it on the sleek black coffee table; Roman’s eyes drop for a split second as if almost in despondency, some kind of deep scarred sorrow peeking its way out like a tired child, before rising back to yours, seeking comfort. It doesn’t slip your attention. You make sure your fingers brush against his socks as you slip your hands back to your lap, and give a sweet squeeze to the tippy toes. He lets out a giggle and kicks his foot out at you, and it’s the most delightful sound you’d ever hear: that true, unadulterated happiness that Roman Roy rarely ever is permitted to have, without some kind of malicious intention lurking behind it.

‘Okay, well, one’, he ostentatiously holds a finger up by twirling it in the air, and it takes you a second to realise he’s pointedly showing you his middle finger. ‘Fuck you. Two-’, he decides to count with his pinkie finger, ‘my dad owns twenty three hours, I own approximately zero fucking squilch of that. And three, I’m a fucking incredible designer - see that Feng Shui over there? All me baby, I would have fucking killed it as an interior design.’

‘Having one sad as fuck looking potted plant by the window and literally no personal items doesn’t count as Feng Shui, dumbass. You’re just sad.’

‘Okay - well - if you’re such a smartass-’, Roman winds his hands up by his head but nearly lets the crystal glass his brother had bought him for his last birthday fall onto the hardwood floor, so he grimaces and gently places it on the rug. He turns back to glance at you, and despite the fact he’s positioning himself as if he’s conducting an interview: elbows resting on knees with hands clasped out before him, face set in stone, he still looks intent and truthfully curious about the answer he’s hoping you’ll give. ‘What was your childhood home like then? I’m sure full of unicorns that shart rainbows and fucking fairies that sneeze glitter from the way you hate my deco.’

You pause to think for a minute, not fully expecting such an honest question to come from Roman Roy. You place a finger gingerly against your lip, and in that second, perched up on the edge of the pristine settee, Roman wishes he could just leap over and replace your fingertip with his lips. He had never been so entranced by someone: never had the privilege of knowing someone from this corporate world who would be so truthful, so different from him. And yet, at the same time, someone who so deliciously, so crudely, so cruelly reminded him of the young child locked in the cage within his heart: so unknowingly let him cling onto the little bit of him he had tried to keep alive. The only bit of him left that wasn’t a Roy. That was just Roman.

Yet, even in the hope that clouded his mind as he awaited your answer, your words came like slices to slit against his throat. ‘Well, I suppose my home was... well, not to sound pedestrian, or super corny, but it was a happy one?’ He nodded, content to bleed out in front of you. ‘There was usually a lot of laughter, and of course a lot of stress, but you know. We could all rely on each other. It was... yeah, it was nice.’ You stop, biting your bottom lip and switching your legs around so you could raise them up and pull them against your chest.

You didn’t want to look at the man sitting before you suddenly. It was as if he had regressed into himself as you went along: withering, shivering slightly like a frosty chill over an empty playground. It looked - it felt unnatural, as he stared at you without seeing. He blinked languidly for a moment, soaking in your words, before jutting his bottom lip out and trying his best to grin at you. ‘Well, my childhood wasn’t so horrid either. My brother took me and Ken camping once, and although it was fucking sleeting down like bullets of pure fucking ice down by the stream, Connor did eat a fish that looked like a mouldy shoe and spent most of the night running off into the woods holding his ass.’

He snorts then, his little high pitched hyena laugh bubbling out of him as he places the back of his hand against his lips to try and hold it in, and you can’t help but laugh along with him at the sorry image of the supposed Roy brother patriarch scuttling around like a crab with diarrhoea.

‘That’s sweet, but do you have any other actual memories with your family where someone isn’t being ridiculed?’

‘Woah, hey-’, he holds both his hands up, and slides down from the armrest to come sit in front of you. ‘When you meet my brother, you’ll understand that he deserves it.’ You flush slightly at the implication, becoming rather uncharacteristically bashful around Roman, and glancing quickly down between your legs. Pulling at a thread until it becomes loose, you pray the timid fire glow is enough to hide from him the rushing heat crawling up your neck. Due to the fact that Roman also is shyly looking down at the toes he’s currently wiggling to busy himself, you both miss the way the other is blushing.

‘But...uh’, he starts finally after a moment of contemplation: a blessed few minutes of serendipitous indulgence, of growing warmth and familiarity, and just enough time for the two of you to realise how much your presence and conversation had only furthered endeared the two of you to each other, despite the hint of sadness that laced it.

‘I really - I mean, my dad was like, always busy.’ He scratches the back of his head, embarrassed by the way you tilt your head and look quizzically at him. He becomes hyper aware of how close his knee is to resting against yours, and decides to swallow the fear that seems to be clogging up the back of his throat, and shuffles forward until there’s finally contact. ‘And my brother was like, following in his footsteps and all that jazz’, his eyes widen as he holds his hands out by his side. ‘So there wasn’t really much time for... fun, I guess. Or mistakes. Or family.’

It breaks your heart to watch him deflate once he finishes speaking, and suddenly the austere, cold walls and empty, hollow halls of his apartment make all the more sense. He looks so worn out, so tired of having to hide himself away behind a big, empty mansion full of props and antiques and nothingness all put out for show, because that’s what he was. That’s how he saw himself. A big, empty, tired, twisted puppet trying to bend over backwards to escape the marionette strings of daddy’s love, not realising they’re choking him. It was a strategy, a way to protect himself: to become placid, to mask yourself as being one of them, to fit in with his father’s lifestyle, and maybe then the slaps and strikes and kicks and whimpers would feel like something good. Because he’s trying to be just like his father. So if he’s hit, it’s only because the puppet hasn’t quite danced to the right tune, that’s all.

As you glance around, you finally begin to notice how unused all the furniture in Roman’s apartment looks: the cellarette by the bar that looks as if it had been varnished yesterday, to the large screen television on the either side of the elongated room that Roman clearly only put on once a night to watch the news, to the velvet cushioned armchair positioned to sweep out and look across the skyline of the city, yet the headrest didn’t even have a dent. All these things. All this barrenness. It made you sick to your stomach. Here he was: a toy left on the shelf to collect dust, taken out to play with only when it suited the puppet master, and he was still so desperate for love that he still tried to copy his father.

And you could see from the way his eyes were beginning to turn blood shot as he slowly sat there and turned the cogs in the back of his brain over, that this was a thought he had had many times before.

You try your best not to look at him too pitifully, in case he might take offence and retreat back into his shell again when you hold out your hands to him. He swallows thickly, watching your every movement as your fingers unfurl over his knees, and you signal at him to come closer. For a moment, as he squints his eyes at you, he seems tentative. But then you roll your eyes, trying your best to still seem casual, and flutter your fingers at him again.

It takes less than a second for him to latch on this time, and his fingers grip into the sides of your skin so tightly you’re afraid he may draw blood. But then, you suppose, that’s all he’s been familiarised with.

‘It’s fine, I’m fine’, he tries to shrug it off, but his fingers only squeeze into yours all the more desperately. Worried he’ll try and pull away if you keep them suspended between your touching knees, you slowly pull them down to rest on your lap as he continues talking. He begins to play with your fingers almost subconsciously, looping them through his stout ones. ‘I mean, sure, my earliest memory is Shiv trying to drown me in the pool because she didn’t want so many older brothers to take all of daddy’s attention away from her. And Ken was never really present, dad was always shipping him away to some conference training or having him sit at his feet like his lap dog, but it’s fine. I’m fine. I grew up to be a well adjusted adult without any concerning issues at all.’

Although his tone is mocking, once he’s finished his rambling thought he lets go of your hand to rub his eyes. He does a half-yawn to try and cover the fact that they’re becoming rather bleary - to hide the fact that this is beginning to get at him, actually. And he’d rather stop now, if that’s alright. He’s the jokester in the family. The happy man. The go to cheer-upper. The pathetic one. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to cry in front of you. He was never allowed to cry.

He jumps when he feels your hand against his knee, and he sniffles slightly when he looks down and sees you’ve leaned closer towards him. ‘And your dad?’, you ask quietly, cautiously, pulling the hand of his you were still holding tightly into your sternum. ‘What was he like growing up?’

‘Well, I was annoying. I- I am annoying, so, you know-’

He chokes then, and this time he can’t stop the sob that breaks out from the back of his throat like an overdue bell chime.

‘I’m annoying. I’m fucking annoying, you know that?’, he chokes out between sobs, doubling over on himself, but he’s still laughing between each gasping breathe. ‘I’m such a piece of shit’, he states, doing his best to stop his lip from wobbling and the tears from clouding out of his eyes, but he doesn’t complain when you take your hand off his lap and guide it to the small of his back, just before the dip in his shoulder blades. Gently - ever so gently, as if you were cradling a new born child still so unused to human touch, you guide him down to lie on your legs. He goes easily, taking his hands back to lean them under his chin, and allowing you full utility of your fingers. You put them to good use, beginning to stoke back stray curls of his mother’s hair away from his face, tucking them behind his ear until his breathing evens again.

He watches the sun fall over the edge of the Waystar Royco building: a sight he has seen many times before, but one that feels all the more eerie as the slates of dark metal blot out the light like a flashy tomb.

You bring him back, pursing your lips together and trying not to laugh sorrowfully as he sneezes at the feel of your finger moving down his forehead to trace over the dip of his nose, and evidently tickle it. You move onto the curve of his left eye, and it fills you with at least a little comfort to notice the way he squeezes his eyes shut at the movement. What was less welcome, though, were the few pearly tears that slipped past the cracks of his eyes and began to trace down the old bruised shaped hollows of his cheeks.

‘God Roman’, you choke out, trying to gently turn his head so he’s looking up at you. For a moment, he throws a tantrum and shakes his head in refusal, but your fingers are unrelenting and all forgiving against the side of his jaw, and soon he can’t help but give in to the love he’s so desperately begging for. He allows you to turn him, still squirming in your touch, until the two of you make eye contact. And there’s such naivety there, such desire and craving and conviction and belief as he keeps his eyes trained wholly on yours, that the words just come tumbling out of your mouth.

‘I’m going to fight your whole family I swear. I’m going to fight them all, one by one, and then take over Waystar, maybe find out what the fuck is going on between this Cousin of yours and Shiv’s husband’, he chortles at that, and chokes a little, ‘and then the two of us can burn the place to the ground and ride off into the sunset.’

Although he feels only elation at your words, he starts to shake when you use the pads of his thumbs to gently, tenderly wipe the tears away from beside his nose.

‘Stop, please’, he whimpers, but you know he’s not talking about your physical actions. ‘My dad’s never going to die, even if he is gone. Just- just- get out while you can, okay? Just fucking run.’ He grabs up at your hands, and holds onto one intently. ‘Just fucking go, okay, because I will destroy you. I’m- fucking poison, alright?’

‘No, no’, you state more firmly, when you see the creases in his forehead begin to appear. He shakes his head, and his whole face crinkles up when you admit the one thing left unspoken between the two of you.

‘You - you’re worth it. You’re worth putting up with all of this for, Roman Roy. One day, you’ll be free, and we’ll get to make new memories. Better ones.’

‘Just shut up. Shut the fuck up. Please. Just-’

His words die out on his mouth when you lean down swiftly and replace them with your waiting lips. His hand falls from where it was encircling your wrist, and after a moment of stunned shock, comes up to press firmly against the nape of your neck. His widened eyes melt slowly into a blissful, languid close, and despite the fact that he has no fucking idea how to actually kiss someone he cares about, he does a mighty good job of latching onto your bottom lip and whimpering when you go to pull away.

‘You promise’, he whispers into the tense air between the tip of your nose and the side of his stubble. He leans up to kiss you again, and a bite of saltiness stings at your mouth. ‘You promise’, he murmurs again as he opens his mouth, refusing to break away from the kiss: instead breathing you in and licking the tip of his tongue against your own. Steadying yourself, you grip onto his biceps, and press a last, ardent kiss to his mouth by latching onto his top lip.

‘I swear, Roman, I swear to god I’m going to make up for all the lack of love your family has given you. And I’ll start right now.’

#succession #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #succession imagine #kendall roy #shiv roy #connor roy #logan roy #roman roy angst #roman roy fluff #kieran culkin #succession fanfic #succession fanfiction

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tacticaldiary · 1 year ago

Note

Hey there! Love your stuff! I was just reading some of your work for our favorite Scotsman and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to feed me more.

Picture this, Soap and Reader have been a thing since like forever. On the “Alone” mission or something, reader goes on a rampage to find her sweet sweet Johnny.

A Still Beating Heart

Pairing: Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"Like hell I was leaving you." Clicking her tongue, she shifts her focus on his wound that's bleeding through the hasty patchwork. "Not letting you bleed out now."

"You gonna kiss it better, hen?" A poor attempt at a joke.

"I'll kiss you all you want once we're safe."

A/N: This turned out way longer than I expected-

Masterlist

Rain obscures her vision as she runs, the image of Johnny hitting the ground after being shot playing over and over again in a dreadful loop.

He got away. He's gotten away. He's alright.

She chants it in her head over and over whilst navigating the winding streets of Las Almas.

"Watch it." Ghost barks yanking her to the side roughly when she almost crashes head-first into a crumbling brick wall. "Get your head on straight, Sergeant." Muted anger coats his words as he spits them out.

She grits her teeth in response, taking a second to survey her surroundings. They've stopped in an alleyway a good chunk of the way into the town. There's no doubt that Graves would be on their heels, they couldn't afford to stop for long.

Leaving two deadly soldiers who are witnesses wouldn't be a risk he'd take.

Three. She reminds herself with a fierce determination. Three soldiers.

How dare he. How fucking dare Graves turn around and betray them like he hadn't been their brother in arms for the last few weeks. The fact that he'd turned on them without remorse, shot her boyfriend without batting an eye was unforgivable.

Rage, hot and fierce scalds the blood running through her veins. Her mind is a storm of conflict, a desperate chant of Johnny's name on repeat. Between the anger, there's the blinding worry that accompanies it. It had all happened so fast she didn't get a chance to see where exactly he got shot, just that he'd fallen with a pained grunt, then Ghost was shouting at him to go.

Part of her rages Ghost him as well, for the way he'd roughly stopped her from lunging into the open to get to Johnny. It's not justified. Ghost had done his job as Lieutenant, had gotten them both and Johnny out of there in time.

Just barely in time.

While Ghost ventures farther into the alley, she clicks on her radio, switching through different channels. "Transmitting in the blind, does anyone copy?" She says into the device, frustrated when there's no answer, she flicks through the channels again and-

A raspy cough, a weak, familiar Scottish drawl.

She switches to it immediately, bringing the radio up to her mouth. "Johnny? I read you." The relief is palpable in her voice, a creature that settles with its claws still out. "What's your location?" She holds her tongue and her questions upon hearing heavy, raspy breaths from the other side. "Johnny?"

"Aye. 'S good to hear your voice." He manages. "I'm in...at the corner of a street. Edge of the town somewhere." There's a grunt from the other end, the rustling of gear and clothing as he sits up. "Is Ghost there?"

"Affirm." Her eyes snap to the man as he talks through his own radio. "There's a Church north side of the city. We'll recon there." His scouting must have resulted in something, then. It's a good plan, she'll admit. A structure with a solid vantage point gated off and less likely to be surrounded with its many exit points. Smart.

"Copy." Johnny's short response makes her frown.

"Can you make it?" She presses him. The short beat of silence has her heart sinking.

"'Course I can." He laughs but it's hollow. "Don't worry your pretty head about it. You'll see me in no time."

"Get moving, Soap." Ghost shuts down the conversation tightly, peering into one of the cracked open doors that lead into what looks like a clothing store. "Stay on my six," He tells her. "It's a straight path there, but we don't have a count on-"

"I'm going fetch him." Ghost exhales slowly, not turning around. "You and I both know he's lost an unknown amount of blood. I'm not risking losing him to that motherfucker." She snarls.

"You don't have his location."

"I'll scour the outskirts until I find him. You provide overwatch from the church. I will find him."

The fire in her eyes, the tight-strung posture...Ghost has little doubt that she would. They meet eyes, but she doesn't back down for a second, daring him to order her otherwise.

Finally after what seems like ages, he jerks his head behind him in silent, begrudging approval. "Thirty minutes, Sergeant."

"I'll only need ten."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tucked behind the counter of a grocery store, Soap clenches his jaw as footsteps pass through the window above him. This entire situation was a shit show.

The sting of betrayal was almost as painful as the insistent throbbing on his shoulder. He's already sure the bullet is lodged in there from the quick once-over he gave himself. Admittedly, it had taken him longer than he expected to get his bearings. Judging by the puddle of blood he woke up in, he'd already lost a good amount of blood before he'd roughly packed the still gushing wound.

Guerrilla warfare was bloody and made something vile crawl through Soap's veins. Every time he ties together rope and metal to pry open a door, or fashions a bomb out of a mousetrap, he can't help but think of the bodies he'd encountered on his path to the church. Children, women, men...nobody was spared by those fuckers.

It was vile, a kind of justice he didn't enlist to take part in. The very thing he's sworn to protect people against...

Soap is snapped out of his thoughts by Ghost's voice. They'd had some back and forth whilst they were moving, and Soap knows it's partly to keep him alert and present. Underneath Ghost's rough words, there was always a twinge of worry lacing his tone only someone familiar with the exact lilt of his mannerisms would pick up.

Once the footsteps recede, Soap groans quietly, pushing himself up to his feet with help from the wall. His legs protest, his arms ache and a deep exhaustion infects his mind, begs him to sit down for a few minutes and let go.

In an attempt to shake off the thoughts, he takes a deep breath and reaches for his radio to hear the one voice that always makes him snap to attention.

Soap's been thanking whoever was up there that she'd ended up safe with Ghost. It didn't ease his worry but it soothed it into something more bearable. She wasn't incapable by any means, but even the strongest person benefitted by someone equally capable by their side.

God, he hopes he reaches the church before he collapses.

Swaying suddenly, Soap curses under his breath and reaches to grab the counter to steady himself. In his haste, his arm crashes against a vase, sending it crashing to the ground.

The noise is accompanied by the yells of Shadows outside the store. Soap barely has time to curse himself out and make a lunge for the stairs before the soldier from before peers into the store, rifle at the ready.

Gunfire rains down on him, grazing his arm when he presses himself behind a brick pillar for cover.

Fuck. Fuck.

Sweat beads down his back as he struggles to keep himself upright, shaky fingers patting down his pocket for the knife he'd yanked out of a soldier's head an hour ago...has it been an hour? He doesn't know anymore.

Cautious steps approach him, his heart pounding against his chest as adrenaline pushes itself through his system.

It was strike now or get struck down. The element of surprise was the only advantage he had. His shoulder aches like a bitch but he sucks it up and tightens his grip around his knife.

It all happens at the same time.

Soap lunges out of his hiding spot, weapon raised as much as the fuzz around his vision will let him.

And he watches as someone else tackles the Shadow to the ground.

Soap stops in his tracks, tensing at the vicious way she slits the man's throat. Familiar hair, a body he's mapped out with his hands and mouth over and over again.

Her gaze snaps up to meet his, a shock down his spine.

"For someone so loud, you're good at staying hidden." She huffs, wiping the blood off of her cheek.

No. No, she couldn't be here. She was supposed to be with Ghost, not roaming the streets crawling with Shadows for...

For him.

The thought warms him from the inside out despite the situation. Who the hell is he kidding? He would have done the exact same thing for her.

The moment her hands touch his arms, all the energy seems to snap out of him. Johnny's knees give out, her hands barely catching him to lower him gently to the ground.

"Shit, Johnny?" Panic laces her voice. A hand slick with blood cups his cheek, slaps it gently to prompt his eyes to flutter open. "You gotta stay awake, okay baby? Come on." She doesn't relent until he listens, a hazy gaze focused on her.

"Ya shouldn't be here." He rasps out.

"Like hell I was leaving you." Clicking her tongue, she shifts her focus on his wound, bleeding through the hasty patchwork. "Not letting you bleed out now."

"You gonna kiss it better, hen?" A poor attempt at a joke.

"I'll kiss you all you want once we're safe." Hooking his uninjured arm over her shoulder, she helps her stand. Her heart clenches at the pained groan he tries to muffle. It's good that she had the sense to come back for him.

She doesn't want to think what might have happened if she'd been a second too late.

"That a promise?"

"A threat." She corrects as they stumble towards the backdoor. The weak snort she gets in response is more than enough to loosen the knot in her chest an inch.

Soap's laugh dies in his throat when they hit the streets.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He mumbles, looking around at the roads bathed in crimson.

Bodies and bodies of Shadows lay scattered around almost every alleyway they hobble through. Peeks through to the main roads show the same results. Black masked figures slumped over, limbs twisted and odd angles, necks slit open brutally.

"Had some fun getting to me, did ya?"

There's no response from her but a shrug.

There's no sorrow or remorse for what she had to do to get to him. A mantra of his name playing through her head, the desperation of getting to him and the rage of the situation mixed together had made each swipe of her knife, each broken bone easy.

She's painted the town red.

Johnny. She needed to get to Johnny and whoever was standing in her way had met their demise by viscous hands and an unforgiving sentence.

"I'm surprised you made it that far on your own." Keeping him talking was important. "Graves will face hell for what he's done." They duck into a street, the church in plain view.

"It's a bleedin' a war crime." Soap says. "Makes me want to commit a few of my own." His voice dips down to a growl. She shares the same sentiment.

"Amen." She mumbles back, peering out into the courtyard in front of them. A couple of figures patrol the area, breaking off of each other to peer behind parked vehicles and doors to different shops.

"Four hostiles in our path." A grimace. She gently lowers him down against the stone wall. "Stay here while I clear our path... not that you can go anywhere, actually."

Soap seems displeased about her going off on her own, but he knows that he's more of a liability than an advantage in a situation where stealth is valued. "Take 'em quietly."

"Copy." Her bloody knife spins in her hand. "Be right back, baby." Pressing a kiss to his temple, she slips out of the alley.

Johnny breathes out a shaky sigh, and lets his head hit the stone behind him. Itchy and restless from being able to do nothing, he loathes feeling so...useless. He's confident in her, how could anyone not be? But that doesn't quell the need to shield her from everything he can spare her from.

She was fiery and bright, everything he'd always wanted. She came into his life as a force to be reckoned with, butting heads with him and throwing insults back at his face as easily as he uttered them to her.

Love had hit him hard.

Stuck in his head, his eyes flutter shut against his wishes as he thinks. Just for moment, he tells himself. Just until she gets back.

Just a second of rest wouldn't hurt, right?

Somewhere in the depth of his mind, he knows that letting himself fall unconscious was the worst possible case in this scenario, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. The blood loss makes him tired and lethargic and before long he's fallen into the inky depth of sleep.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It had all gone to shit.

Three of the four guards she'd taken down quickly. It had been almost easy how fast and quiet they went down, gurgling on their own blood as her knife slid across the chinks in their armour, the skin of their necks.

The third guard had been a little too trigger-happy, though. A twitch of his finger while he was choking had set his gun going off with a bang, a bullet embedded into one of the cars nearby.

It had been enough to alert every goddamn person in the vicinity.

She's glad she left Johnny behind, at least his position wasn't compromised.

Just as the street started filling up, her radio had crackled to life, Ghost barking that the church had been compromised and overrun, ordering them to meet him at the end of the street to secure a vehicle.

She was already there, all she had to do was keep her position and stop the Shadows from flanking her until Ghost got there.

"Copy." She mutters into the radio, setting up the rifle she'd swiped from one of the corpses over the hood of the cars she's ducked behind. "Eyes on a possible vehicle." She relays over comms upon setting sight on a blue truck close to her, relatively unscratched. Firing off round after round, the soldiers drop like flies. The armoured ones are a little tougher to deal with, and need a more precise aim but she manages somehow.

She curses under her breath as more of the pour from the stores and alleys into the streets.

Just a little longer. Ghost was almost here, then they could secure a vehicle, grab Johnny and get the fuck out of here.

Wrecking carnage in his path, Ghost emerges from behind a barrier after what seems like an hour, and together the both of them climb into the truck she informed him of. "Stop by the far alley and I'll haul Soap inside so we can get the hell out of here." She grunts, firing off shots from the back of the truck as Ghost starts the ignition.

She gets an affirmative and they're on their way, ducking at the sound of gunfire and barked orders following them.

She jumps out of the truck and runs into the alley where she left him. "Time to go Johnny, come-..." She halts in her tracks, into a dead stop at the scene in front of her.

Blood splatters the wall behind his shoulder, the wound aggravated and bleeding through the improvised bandaging in rivers of red down his arm. He's...he's pale, shallow gasps of breaths that are barely there making his chest move in movements too small to be healthy.

Ghost yells at her to make it quick, and it's her Lieutenant's voice that brings her crashing back to reality. Swallowing back her panic, she hoists Johnny up and drags him into the back of the truck, yelling at Ghost to move as she lays him down as still as possible.

Bullets ping off of the metal, but all she can focus on is pressing her hands to Soap's wound. She leans in close to feel him puffing out short gasps of air.

Still breathing, she tells herself as Ghost makes a sharp turn. He's alive, he's breathing, he's here, he's not dead. Alive, alive, still alive.

With hands shaky, she pulls out a proper roll of gauze from her vest, the emergency first aid pouch she carries is worth its weight in gold.

"Don't you fucking die on me, baby." She whispers, voice cracking. "It's not allowed." She wipes the worst of the wound with disinfectant before packing the hole with fresh gauze.

There was so much blood pooling beneath him in that alley...and how much had he lost before that?

He needed a medic, and fast. She wouldn't lose him. Not him.

Not her Johnny.

Not the person that could coax a smile out of her even if she was in the foulest of moods. Not Johnny, who always seemed to know what she needed, what made her feel better. Not the love of her life who she'd seen a life out of the military with.

Please, not him.

Time flies by and soon, Ghost pulls over in front of a safehouse. When he exits the driver's seat and comes round the back to asses the situation, his heart sinks as he finds her curled up over Soap, lips pressed to his forehead as she whispers to him, her hand carding through his dirty hair as if he might wake up to feel it.

"Let's get him inside." He says, tone oddly sombre. If he notices how wet her eyes are, he doesn't comment on it, merely helps her carry him in silence. · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rudy had been a godsend. His safe house had been packed with supplies much more useful to Soap. He'd taken one look at Soap, at her wrecked and frantic state, and taken over. Ordering her and Ghost to start studying the maps to the facility they planned to break into, he started his own inspection of Soap.

She can't focus.

The maps mean nothing to her. The lines, the marks, the circles. It was meaningless gibberish to her when her boyfriend was-

"He'll pull through." She blinks back into the present at Ghost's gruff voice, head snapping up to meet his gaze.

"He better." A shaky inhale.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

When Rudy comes back to inform them that Soap is stable, her legs nearly buckle under her with a wave of relief. She pushes past him immediately to seek her boyfriend out, and finds him laying on one of the old cots pushed to the corner.

She takes a seat on the floor next to him, resting her head against the mattress. "You're an asshole." She mumbles after a second. "Scared the shit out of me, you know that?"

He probably can't hear her, but it doesn't stop her frayed nerves from talking. Her hand finds his and she squeezes it gently trying to bring some of her warmth into his cold skin. Sighing, she presses his hand to her forehead, shifting her grip so her fingers rested on his pulse.

Each steady beat loosens the knot in her chest, reassures her that he is alive.

Would he wake up soon? Would he wake up at all? The latter thought is quickly chased away, because there was no choice. Johnny had to wake up, he had to.

A world without him simply wasn't one worth having.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her back aches.

Forehead pressed into the mattress right by his waist, it's the first thing she registers as she's roused from where she'd dozed off. Blinking sluggishly, she groans as she feels a hand carding through her hair.

Just the right pressure, the feeling so familiar and warm and soothing-

Her eyes widen and she snaps up straight to meet a pair of tired but amused blue eyes studying her. Johnny's sitting up right in front of her, looking down at her in that soft way he always did.

"Rise and shine." He rasps out, and she almost sobs at the sound. Pushing herself to her feet, she wraps her arms around him the best she can without injuring him. "Easy." He winces at being jostled but holds her just as tight.

"Thought you were gone." She chokes out, trembling. "I thought-"

"I'm right here, bonnie." He whispers into her hair. "Right with ya. Gonna take more than that to do me in, right?"

She laughs wetly into his shoulder, as he runs a hand up and down her back as if she was the one who needed comforting.

Pulling herself together was a more difficult task than clearing the streets of Las Almas. Every time she thinks she's calmed down, she remembers how still and cold Johnny had been and she spirals all over again.

He clicks his tongue and manoeuvres them gently so he's laying down with her on his chest, careful to avoid his good arm. Her head is pressed against the centre of his chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat a balm against the rising and falling cycle of panic and grief she's stuck in.

Alive, alive, alive. Still alive.

Once her breathing evens out into something relatively stable, she tries to speak again. "Don't scare me like that again."

He hums. "I'll do better next time." A tired smile grows on his face as she pinches his side.

Alive.

He was still alive.

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(3/09/2023)

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heich0e · 2 years ago

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the heart is but a winding road p.2 - shouto todoroki/f!reader (1.8k) fluff, pro-hero shouto todoroki is not good with kids (lying), natsuo is the most big brother that ever big brothered, someone pls give the poor assistant a raise, i truly believe that shouto hyperfixates on random things for a few weeks at a time and you cannot change my mind, also i promise the 𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 is coming.. i just need to set the mood first.

p.1 - YOU ARE HERE - p.3 - p.4 (upcoming)

“What was I like when I was five?”

“Uh, dunno? Guess you were kinda—hey!” Natsuo doesn’t even manage to finish his thought before something (apparently very pressing) on his end of their phone call distracts him. “Aoi! You little—get down from there! Motherf—“

Shouto listens to the chaos unfold with a completely unchanging expression.

“Tou! Talk to your uncle for a second. Your brother's gonna break his neck!”

There’s a scuffle, and before Shouto can so much as protest there’s a little voice greeting him on the other end of the line.

“Hi Oji-chan!” Touma, Natsuo’s 7-year-old, says cheerfully after having evidently been handed the phone.

He hears a little giggle and the sound of his brother squawking incoherently somewhere in the distant background on their side of the call. This is immediately followed by a series of very loud crashes and a panicked string of words which, even in his limited knowledge of childrearing, Shouto's fairly certain kids are not supposed to hear.

“Hello,” he greets his nephew curtly. “If your father’s busy, I can—”

There’s a bit more shuffling, some disgruntled grumbling and laboured panting, and then Natsuo is taking the phone again.

“Sorry, sorry,” the older man says breathlessly, and Shouto stares up at the ceiling over his sofa blankly. “Oh, okay, what were you asking about?”

“Me. When I was five.”

“Oh, yeah!” Shouto’s brother laughs. “Dunno. You were round, I guess? And pretty squishy.”

Shouto rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

Natsuo laughs, loud and carefree like he always does. “Well, what did you mean, then?”

“What kind of stuff did I like?”

There’s a thread hanging from Shouto’s sleeve, and he fiddles with it while he speaks with his brother. It’s distracting, but he can’t quite grip the troublesome string to pluck it loose since he’s using his other hand to hold the phone to his ear.

Natuso hems and haws as he mulls Shouto's question over for a bit. “Soba and chewing on things, mostly.”

“I liked chewing on things when I was five?” Shouto’s reply is flat and unamused. He shifts to hold his cellphone between his shoulder and his ear as he lays back against the cushions of his sofa, snapping the string off easily once he has the use of both his hands.

“Yeah, you were always bite-y,” Natsuo replies simply.

The youngest Todoroki sighs. He rolls the thin bit of thread between his fingers for a moment, watching how the ends split and fray, then flicks it away disinterestedly.

“What’s all this about, anyway?”

There’s a significant amount of racket on Natsuo’s end of the call, but Shouto suspects that’s a fairly normal thing for his older brother’s home. What with two kids and more pets that Shouto can keep track of, there’s always pandemonium happening whenever he stops by to visit. He can’t help but think it’s a miracle that Natsuo managed to find anyone who would willingly subject themselves to that, let alone a partner as normal as the one he married.

“Nothing really,” Shouto mumbles. “Just curious.”

“Well, Yumi would remember that stuff better than I do anyway,” Natsuo chirps. “You could always ask her!”

“Yeah, thanks,” Shouto nods even though he knows his brother can’t see the gesture.

They end the call with vague plans to meet up for dinner the following week, though these plans often end up getting rescheduled or completely forgotten about in the stir of their busy adult lives. Once the line disconnects, Shouto is once more left staring up at the boring beige ceiling of his living room.

His apartment is always just a bit too cold. It’s been that way since the day he moved in. His hope in choosing such an upscale domicile had been that he wouldn’t run into issues like this one; it was newly constructed after all, and cost enough that things as simple as climate control shouldn’t be a problem. But no matter how much he fiddles with the thermostat, no matter the time of year, there’s always a chill that seems to linger in his quiet home.

He blinks up at the ceiling and listens to the pitter patter of rain outside.

It’s been raining for days now, with only the occasional break in the downpour that never lasts more than a few hours. His last four patrols have ended with him towelling off in the changing room at his agency, using his quirk to warm the terrycloth before he ruffles it through his drenched hair. His costume is fairly well-insulated, and repels the rain, but he still always feels so soggy by the time he gets home.

Suddenly, he thinks about a little yellow raincoat, and the thump of rubber boots.

Truthfully, Shouto’s not sure why he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that strange encounter from a few days prior. The little boy in the yellow raincoat and the ill-fated, crumpled receipt.

Maybe it’s because he can’t remember the last time a kid was less excited to meet him.

Maybe it’s something else.

Shouto’s expensive sofa creaks as he pitches himself upwards, reaching out towards the tablet he’d left resting on the edge of his coffee table. He unlocks the device, and realizes he’d left it open to a news article about the Recycling Hero he'd been reading earlier in the day.

He’s been reading a lot about Reductro lately—just about any resource he can find. News articles online, press releases, pamphlets that environmental activists are handing out on street corners. Hell, half the hits on the the guy's Heropedia page from the past week were probably thanks to Shouto.

Just earlier that very day he’d even placed an order online for a copy of the Recycling Hero's newest book.

Reductro, Shouto recently learned, has dedicated his life’s work to inspiring meaningful environmental changes around Japan; he uses his quirk that is capable of breaking down plastics and other complex carbon compounds (as well as his doctorate in Ecology and Environmental Science) to make significant improvements to the climate and the country. The man has a way of speaking that’s neither overly sanitized nor pedantic and inaccessible; kids love him for his exciting way of talking about the environment and why they should care about it, but he's equally capable of putting on a suit and addressing a crowd of adults. Above all else, he seems to be truly passionate about the work that he’s doing–a conclusion Shouto has inarguably come to through his extensive research, and by watching just about every video he's managed to track down online.

He hates to admit it, but the guy is kind of… really cool.

He gets why Naoyuki was so obsessed with him.

Shouto taps around the surface of the tablet for a moment, pulling up an article about a documentary that Reductro is in the process of producing about microplastics. He scans through the article—making a mental note to look up when it will be coming out and see if his secretary can get him an early cut of it—when an image at the bottom of the article makes him pause. It’s a recent photograph that, according to the caption underneath, was taken only a few weeks prior when Reductro was giving a presentation at a local elementary school.

A little voice rings in the back of Shouto's mind, from a rainy day not unlike this one.

“He came to my school last week and he helps to get plastic outta the ocean!”

Naoyuki may have been a bit of a menace, but he was well-intended. And ultimately Shouto has him to thank for opening his eyes to the prestige of the Recycling Hero.

He stares at the image lighting up the screen in his hands for a moment, his eyes scanning over the name of the elementary school a few times as an idea begins to take shape.

He reaches instinctively for his cellphone.

“Good evening, Shouto-sama,” Shoto’s assistant and secretary, Takahashi, answers on the second ring—just like he always does. “Are you well?”

“Hi,” Shouto greets the man in a relatively abrupt manner, brushing off pleasantries for the sake of saving time. “How hard is it to find a kid?”

There’s a few beats of silence as Shouto’s question lingers over the line.

“Such as a missing person’s case?” Takahashi-san finally responds, though the usually proper and eloquent man sounds uncharacteristically baffled.

“No,” Shouto shakes his head. He thinks about his next words carefully. “If i know where a kid goes to school and his first name, could you track him down?”

“Track… him down?”

For all the hard-fought takedowns Shouto has made in his career as a hero, he sure is losing this battle.

“He’s not a criminal or anything,” Shouto explains, and Takahashi hums understandingly, but it sounds sort of like when an adult is placating a child. “I met him in the street the other day."

"I see."

Shouto knows he still doesn't get it, and he wracks his brain for a way to make this whole situation make sense, even though it doesn't.

"He’s… a fan.”

Lying is bad. Shouto knows this. He happens to pride himself on knowing the difference between good and bad, as a matter of professionalism. But Naoyuki is a fan, for all intents and purposes.

Just not his.

“Oh,” Takahashi-san sounds more at ease now with this half-truthful revelation, “very well. I don’t suppose it would be all too difficult to find the child’s information. I'm sure the school would be willing to forward contact information for a legal guardian if your office were to reach out on official business.”

“His mother," Shouto replies immediately.

“Pardon?”

“He, uh..."—Shouto fiddles with the tablet in his left hand—"The little boy. He was with his mother when I met him. She’ll remember me.”

“I see. Please forward me the name of the institution and I’ll reach out to the school administration first thing in the morning.” Takahashi has always been exceedingly competent, since the first day Shouto hired him. He’s a bit stuffy, and Shouto’s pretty sure he’s never seen him smile, but the young hero strangely admires the man's no-nonsense sort of antiquated way of doing things. “I assume you’re looking to send some sort of gift. Perhaps a signed poster? Some merchandise?”

“Yes,” Shouto says, nodding. Then he pauses. “But not mine.”

“Oh?” the man on the other end of the line—who Shouto now realizes is likely at home during his off-hours that he rudely interrupted—sounds puzzled again.

“Takahashi-san…” Shouto stares down at the tablet in his hands, still open to the article he’d been reading before he picked up his phone to make this call. “Have you ever heard of the Recycling Hero?”

#shoto x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #todoroki x reader #shoto todoroki x you #shoto x you #shoto todoroki #bnha fic #bnha writing #writing

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nowoyas · 3 months ago

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Koi no Yokan 10: Get it out of your system (Nishinoya Yuu/Reader)

First - Prev - Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: this chapter was tough to write. please enjoy however you can.

Summary: The long ride back to Miyagi comes to an end. You open old wounds and gain a new one.

Warnings and tags: blanket series warnings. this chapter contains explicit death of a parent. also: implied animal death and implied/assumed homophobia (light). some suggestive themes.

Words: ~4700

The foretold Soba albums are remarkable. Despite his promise of unlimited access, Noya curates the photos for you, starting at the very beginning and not quite handing his phone over to you directly. You suspect this has more to do with the fact that you saw the text his phone unlocked on, and given the opportunity, you're fucking deleting the photo Tanaka sent him of the two of you napping together before lunch.

Instead, you lean in close to see his screen properly, head resting against his side. Initially, he'd shown a split second of awkwardness at the contact, but your attempt to respect his comfort level and pull away had seen him wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you right back down.

The photo he shows you now is one of the earliest: a girl, a bit thicker than Noya or the other sister you've seen but looking to be around his age now at the time of the photo, holds what's clearly Soba as a kitten—99% fluff and 1% anger. "This's Mei and Soba," Noya tells you in a low voice. "Mei and I were the ones that rescued her—I think this picture was right after we brought her back from getting checked at the vet? He said she was barely old enough to be separated from her mom, but when Mei found her, the mom was…"

You get the implication. "That's so sad. Do you guys know what happened to her mom?"

"We think she was hit by a car," he answers.

You nearly laugh. It's too perfect. "Mine, too," you whisper bitterly.

He tenses against you. "What?"

"Right in front of the house."

"Fuck, I'm so—"

You wind your arm around him, eyes locked on Soba and Mei. "Don't, Senpai. I don't want it."

He clears his throat awkwardly. Drags his thumb in mindless circles over your waist. "Okay. I won't, then."

"Tell me more about Soba?"

He obeys without a second thought, scrolling through to show you more as he continues telling you about Soba—early days, the household war over her name that the mysterious third sister, Satsuki, eventually won. (Apparently, he'd wanted to name her Miku. He refused to elaborate on this.) His arm doesn't leave you after that, either—one hand flicking through his photos, one resting too-hot on your waist.

It's a little weird, hearing him talk without raising his voice. Part of it, you think, is the weird tension that still hasn't quite left the others—the rest of the bus is relatively quiet. There's still noise, of course. But normally, Hinata and Kageyama would be at each other's throats, or else Hinata would be loudly chattering to someone—pissing off Tsukishima, or excitedly hyping up Tanaka. Unlike the bus ride down here, where the two boys weren't present, you're dimly aware in the back of your mind that they should be disrupting the peace.

"Hey. Where's your head?"

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't say that. You were all out of it earlier, too."

"Just… worried about those two," you whisper.

"Who, Shouyo and Kageyama?"

A nod.

"Is worrying about it gonna change anything?"

"It's not like I can just not worry about it. What, do you just decide not to worry and then not do it?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

You blink up at him, somewhere between awe and disgust. "That's insane."

"It took some practice. But, you know, unless you're gonna do something about it, looking at pictures of my cat is a way better use of your time. Otherwise you're just stressing yourself out, and that's the opposite of what we're trying to do right now."

"I don't understand how you can not worry about it."

"I mean, I'm worried. I'm just not paying too much attention to it 'cus there's not much point. Especially not when there's this picture of Soba in a bowtie Satsuki made for her you need to look at before I move on."

Oh my god that's the cutest thing you've ever seen. You coo, eyes sparkling at baby Soba.

"The fact that you have this many photos of your cat is still the most jarring thing to me," you tease. "Tough guy and his two thousand photos of his cat wearing cowboy hats and bowties."

"It's closer to one thousand, thank you very much. Soba's a very important cat." He clears his throat, drops his voice even lower, like he doesn't want anyone else to hear him. "My… I'm pretty sure she saved my sister's life."

"Oh. Like…"

He nods. "I don't really remember much, but our dad left when I was pretty young. I guess it probably messed me up pretty bad, and I used to be a lot more like Mei when I was a kid, but she always took it way harder than even Okaa-san did. She started doing stuff after we found Soba. I don't know where she went, but it was kinda like she brought my sister back."

"Are you just telling me this because I told you about my mom?"

He shrugs, the movement awkward with you pressed so completely into his side. "A little. It didn't seem fair."

…well, at least he's honest.

"But, I mean, I also just want you to know. That's okay, right?"

"…yeah." You shuffle a little, press your thigh into his in a way that's meant to be comforting. "Soba's a good cat."

He nods. "The best cat."

"And… thanks. For sharing and—and all that. I'm sorry about your dad and your sister."

He goes back to showing you photos of Soba in relative silence until his phone battery hits red. Then, it's you actually reading your book, half-resting it on his lap so he can read along if he wants. Impressively, he actually seems to be. He taps your side whenever he's done reading the page, and you nod whenever you're ready for the page to turn.

You don't untangle for the rest of the several-hour bus ride.

Back at the school gets you all a meeting, sat in a circle on the gym floor, and reminds you with stunning clarity that promising to tell Noya the story over dinner means you have to make a real dinner and actually tell him the story. The teasing from a few of the others on the way you were cuddled up when you got back to the school falls completely flat—you're too wrapped up in dread to even think about being embarrassed for the tangled legs or the comfort of Noya's chest beneath your ear.

So you respond the way you always do: get changed slow, linger in the changing room until Shimizu and Yachi have both gotten into their school uniforms and gone on ahead for the night. Check your phone in slow motion, pretending like you would have received any texts when the only people you talk to have been on a bus with you for the past five hours.

(Tanaka has texted you. Multiple times, in fact; you now have two pictures of you cuddling Noya awake and asleep, as well as several teasing messages about your new boyfriend.)

Eventually, you can't justify wasting any more time. Noya will come drag you out if you take too much longer. You meander past the gym just in time to see a panicked Yachi run past, yelling for an upperclassman—any upperclassman.

Then you hear the shouting inside the gym.

You poke your head inside, drop your bag as you watch Hinata clock Kageyama right in the face.

Not on your fucking watch.

Noya leans against the school gate with Ryu. He's waiting, of course, for you. His side feels buzzy where you'd spent the majority of the past three hours pressed into him. He keeps thinking, guiltily, about your leg pressed into his, migrating over the course of two hours until neither of you were acknowledging the fact that you were halfway in his lap. And now, dinner.

Later tonight, he'll text Ryu, a series of all-caps messages begging for divine answers on what the fuck it's supposed to mean when a girl goes out of her way to cuddle up to you. He won't include your dinner conversation, but he'll include a too-detailed description of how it felt when you sighed against him, the way you melted slowly over the course of the ride. He'll give even more details to Satsuki, red-faced and falling apart, desperate for a straight answer from the only sister available to give advice, and when she teases him—you should have just pulled her into your lap the rest of the way, stupid—he'll feel no more enlightened than before he debased himself asking for his sister's advice. He'll end the night with an embarrassing new search history that starts with how to tell if a girl meant anything by cuddling with you and ends with a browser in incognito mode, no new insights, a profound sense of guilt, and a mess to clean up in his bedroom.

For now though, he's fully not processing what Ryu's saying to him, though he knows it's about you, about the leap from teasing jokes to napping together.

He's processing it even less when Yachi runs up to them, white as a sheet and nearly screaming.

"Woah, Yacchan, what's—"

"P-please! I-in the gym, they're—they're gonna die!" she babbles, already crying.

Noya shares a look with Ryu and runs off ahead. Ryu can be the one to calm her down—Noya's faster.

This is how he finds Shouyo: rage in his eyes, voice hoarse as he shouts, cut off abruptly as he's thrown to the ground.

This is how he finds Kageyama: swinging back, hardly paying attention to anything except the middle blocker he's fighting before a fist closes in his shirt and roughly shoves him back.

This is how he finds you: right in the middle of it, taking a punch in the mouth clearly not meant for you as you throw one to the ground and roughly force the other back a good few steps.

"That's enough!" you snap. The other two are shell-shocked at the sight of you. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?"

"[surname]-san—" Kageyama starts, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to—"

"Be quiet. Both of you, sit. Don't even look at each other. You scared the hell out of Yachi-san, you know that?"

Noya stands, frozen, watching you stand over them with your hands on your hips like you didn't just take a punch to the mouth.

"Right. I'm sorry," they mutter in sync.

"I'm sure you are. Is this about the spike thing?"

They both look instantly incensed, talking over each other.

"He said he wasn't gonna set to me—"

"We don't have time to focus on this—"

Your voice cuts them off sharply. "I asked you both a yes or no question. I'm not interested in hearing anything else right now."

"…yes."

"Oi oi oi!" Ryu's voice cuts in, footsteps stuttering to a stop beside him in the doorway. "You two—"

You don't even look up at the intrusion. "One of you, find me a first aid kit. The other, go find me a couple rags and get them wet. Cold water, please. Yachi-san, take a seat. Your heart needs to rest before I enlist you in anything."

Noya's muscles tense, and he moves, remembering vaguely where the first aid kit is normally hung on the wall. Ryu silently moves to the storage closet to find some rags.

"Now. Admittedly, I'm still not that informed on volleyball. Is getting into fistfights with your teammates how you make it to nationals?"

"…no," Shouyo mutters.

"Do you win matches by scaring the shit out of the most gentle-hearted manager in existence?"

"…no."

"So what the hell do you think you're accomplishing right now? Fifty words or less from each of you. Hinata, you can start."

"He—he said that he wasn't going to set to me anymore! I'm just trying to improve what we have! If that quick is our greatest weapon, then—"

Kageyama growls. "Then you need to—"

"It's not your turn to talk." Silence. "You've got twelve more words, Hinata."

"…I'm not worth anything on the court without that attack," he finishes lamely. Noya might not have heard him if he hadn't come up beside you, placing the first aid kit in your waiting hand.

You crouch down, start rifling through the kit with a nod of thanks to Noya. "You're trying to improve things because you want to keep being a regular."

"…yeah. I just want to keep playing volleyball."

"Alright. Kageyama. Fifty words or less."

Kageyama grits his teeth. You're not even looking at him—instead, you're looking over Hinata, a bandage in hand.

"If we spend all our time and energy working on making a change that might not work, it's just going to hurt us more later. Hinata should be focusing on improving as an all-around player instead of wasting time on something we've tried before and couldn't make work. All this—"

"That's fifty."

"Oi—"

"I said fifty words or less."

"But—"

"You just punched me in the face, so sorry, but you get to talk when I say you get to talk. You used your fifty." You accept a cold rag from Ryu, press it firmly against a red spot on Hinata's cheek. "Hold that there. It's not quite an ice pack, but it'll help with the swelling and maybe prevent later bruising."

"Um, [surname]-san, your lip—"

"This isn't about me, but thank you for your concern."

"Oi, did Kageyama seriously—" Ryu whispers to Noya.

Noya nods. "I don't think she even noticed. He got her right in the mouth."

You shift to looking over Kageyama for injuries, roughly smoothing a bandaid in place on his face. "I know I'm new to all this stuff, but you two weren't there for the start of the training camp. Right now, the team is built around that attack. Without it, you can't win against high-level teams. And with it, you also can't seem to win, but you're much closer."

Noya winces. You're right, but…

When you're satisfied with the first aid administered, another damp rag being pressed against Kageyama's own bruises, you lean back, settling on your knees to look at them both. "I don't think Hinata's wrong for wanting to improve it when it's not working. And I don't think Kageyama-san is wrong for wanting there to be focus on improving in other areas. It seems to me, as someone whose entire job is to watch you guys and pay attention, that both of those things are going to be necessary if you want to start winning. But that's just me."

After a long moment of silence, you sigh. "How are both of you feeling?"

"Fine," Shouyo mutters. Kageyama simply glares at the floor.

"Good enough. Let's get this mess cleaned up and go home. Gym inspections tomorrow, so you have a day to work through your shit before practicing together again. Do us all a favor and use it wisely. Solve it however, I don't care, but no more scaring Yachi-san and no more actual fistfights."

You rise, move to help them clean up the scattered volleyballs and take down the net. Noya grabs your shoulder immediately, turns you to inspect the damage.

That would be what Hinata was trying to point out. Now that you're actually facing him, he can see the split in your lip, the blood lazily trailing down your chin.

"Nope," he says immediately. "Come on, it's your turn to get first aid."

"Senpai, I'm—"

"Bleeding. Those three can clean up just fine. Let me take a look."

You roll your eyes, but let him guide you to sit against the wall while he inspects your bleeding mouth. Yachi seems no better for the wear after returning—the fight's done, which leaves her full brainspace to panic over you and your bloody lip.

"[s-surname]-chan, h-how did you—"

You scoff at her panic, pat the ground next to you. "Sit down. You look like you're gonna pass out."

She obediently sits. Noya crouches in front of you, tilts your chin so he can dab at the blood running down your face. "I'm gonna kill him," he growls.

"Don't. I knew what I was getting into. 'Sides, he clearly didn't mean to hit me."

"But he did," he grumbles.

Your eyes slide Yachi-ways, amusement clear in your features. "Senpai. You realize you can't really do anything for a split lip, right? It's stop the bleeding and then go about your life."

"But—"

"Yachi-san, are you okay?" you interrupt him, turning to the poor girl. "You're still super pale."

She nods slowly. "I… it's not like I got involved in the fight or anything. It was just… scary…"

You flash a reassuring smile, reach over to pat her on the shoulder. "You did good. It's over now, yeah?"

"Right… d-do you think they'll be… okay…?"

"They will if they've got their friends with them through it."

Noya stands, helps you to your feet. Offers a hand to Yachi, too, who politely refuses. "I seriously thought you might pass out back there."

She shakes her head. "I'll be okay. Thank you."

You brush yourself off. "Sorry you guys had to see that, though. Yachi-san, if you're feeling alright, maybe walk back with Hinata? You gel pretty well with him, and I don't think either of them want to hear any more from me tonight."

She nods. You ask the same favor of Ryu with walking back Kageyama; effortlessly, everything is cleaned up, the two first-years involved in the fight get sent on, and you walk back with Noya, carrying the bloodied rag in your hand.

"You're learning a lot about me today, I guess," you comment, a thin veneer of amusement over your voice. "We haven't even gotten to the part where I cook you dinner to make up for telling you all about my trauma immediately after."

"Hey, I'm not complaining," he jokes. If he runs right at the dinner thing, you'll probably clam up again. "Stern [name]-san back there was kinda hot, though. You need a husband?"

Wrong thing to say, Noya, wrong thing to say—

You toss your head back and laugh. "I dunno. I've gotten a lot of applications recently. Pretty sure they're all the same guy, though."

"Damn. He must have eyes or something."

"I'm not sure he does, really. I'm kinda a mess."

He pulls you into a side hug. "You do a really good job of pretending not to be."

"You're not even going to deny it?"

"Oh, sorry, you're not a mess. You alone are the one human being in existence who has ever had it together."

"Thank you, thank you." You pat his chest. His nerves light on fire at the contact—he nearly misses a step.

You lead him past his own house, where you normally part. Your mind is somewhere else—he lets it drift there for now. There'll be plenty of time over dinner to figure out what's going on inside your head.

Your hands shake as you prepare dinner. You didn't really have much of a plan, but curry makes a lot and lets you eat well for over a week after cooking once, so you tie an apron around your waist, peel potatoes, chop garlic, and get nearly half an hour to think about the elephant before you let it into the room.

Noya, for his part, waits as you work. He sits at the table, watches you swish about the kitchen, watches you grate an apple and wipe down the salt container and dump lemon juice into your bowl of grated apple. He's patient, just to surprise you. When you throw stock into the pot and drop a lid on top, you turn to him at last, feeling the dread so acutely that you end up turning back to the sink and washing whatever dishes you've dirtied in the past half an hour.

"Did you want to wait until we were eating to talk to me about it?" he asks at last, head propped up against his hand as he watches you. "I can help with dishes."

"No," you say, too quickly. "I just—I need to do something with my hands. Sorry. I'm nervous."

"It's alright. You've got good reason to be. How's your lip feeling?"

"I've had worse."

He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't press.

You wipe the knife clean and sigh.

"Alright. I think—I think I'm ready."

Twenty months and five days before you make curry with Nishinoya Yuu sitting in your kitchen, your parents finally figure out how hard it is to love you.

Ten days before that, you'd taken midterms and simply chosen not to care about them. You did whatever, you rushed in, you didn't prepare. And you bombed two exams.

For ten days, you didn't tell anyone. You crumpled the test papers into the bottom of your bookbag and forgot about them. Who cared, anyway? It was midterms and you were fourteen. They weren't even final exams. You had other, more important things to worry about, like the new game that just came out and impressing Kasumi from your homeroom—so cool, so pretty, so unabashed.

(To Noya, you don't mention her name. You don't mention her gender, or her shiny black hair, or how soft it felt between your fingers. How easy it was to find excuses to touch it.)

Your parents cared. They were rarely both home after school. They both loved their jobs, loved to work, loved each other, and loved you less. Love was real and it was different from person to person—shameless, bubbly affection between your parents, the thrilling swoop of your stomach as you stole kisses with Kasumi behind the arcade and fished for extra yen to try one more time for the rabbit plush in the crane game.

The parent you got to have on November 11th, 2010 was your mom. You took an early bath, left your bag a mess on the living room floor. Emerged with skin tinged pink from too-hot water, already in your pajamas long before dinner.

Your mother stood in the living room, a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

Your math exam, a stunning twelve points out of a potential hundred at the top. You'd understood all the concepts, you just hadn't cared.

You always wanted to test whether people actually liked you.

If your mother loved you, she'd look at the paper and love you anyway. She'd work to love you, fourteen years old and filling out two answers on your answer sheet before doodling over the rest because you just didn't care anymore. She'd smile, exasperated, and ask why, and then no matter what you said, she wouldn't care about the answer because she'd love you anyway.

If your mother loved you, whenever she inevitably learned about Kasumi, about your infatuation with her berry-flavored chapstick and soft skin, there wouldn't be a fight. She'd look at you and see you happy with another girl. She'd smile, exasperated. She'd ask why, but wouldn't care about the answer. No matter what you said, she would love you anyway.

The way she looked at you wasn't loving. It was disappointed.

"Why does your test paper look like this, [name]?" she asked. In your memories, her voice sounds like ice, almost pretty in how cold it is. You're sure it probably sounded a little nicer at the time.

You'd mumbled something halfway truthful, something about you'll love me even if I'm a failure, right? and she'd looked actually hurt.

"You're not a failure," she said simply. "My daughter is not a failure. She's brilliant. She's just lost her way a little."

You didn't lose your way you loved her you loved her YOU LOVED HER—

You remember your temper flaring. You remember yelling.

You remember your mother going out for a walk—give me a minute. You calm yourself down, like we talked about, and I'm going to calm myself down outside, and then we can come back to this conversation, okay, sweetheart?

You remember sitting, arms crossed, on the couch. Screaming into a pillow. Screaming not into a pillow.

You remember laying on the couch, the way you always would with her when waiting for Dad to come home, late at the office again. The way you and Dad would when she was the one working late.

There was love in this house—once. The last time it had been here was November 10th, 2010.

Eventually, still angry, hoping to maybe yell at Mom in public so the neighbors would see how much she didn't love you, you stormed outside.

You saw your mom, returning from her walk.

You saw the car.

You're told that you screamed, but you don't remember it.

"So… yeah." The roux block breaks harshly in your hands with a crisp snap. Noya doesn't speak, so you keep talking. "Otoo-san has barely looked at me ever since. I don't blame him. I swing between trying to get him to be my father again and just not giving a fuck."

"Holy shit, [name]-san."

"I thought the whole neighborhood knew I got my mom killed."

He shakes his head. "I had no idea. Fuck, I'm—I'm so sorry."

"Please," you say, voice too sharp and jagged. You have to pause before you try again. "Don't be."

"What should I be, then?"

You stare at him a long moment, not quite understanding the question.

"…I don't know."

He stands, joins you at the stove. You stare into the pot, skim the scum pointedly to avoid looking at him.

"You know it wasn't your fault, right?"

"They never caught the driver of the car. He slowed down a little bit, started to get out, and then saw me and sped off."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

There was love in this house once. It was real, and took work, and it was earned.

It was warm and comforting. It felt like a hug from behind, standing at the stove and dissolving blocks of curry roux into a pot. It felt like quiet acceptance, like choosing not to leave when the door wasn't locked and no one was stopping you. It was sitting up on the couch, waiting for someone to come home from wherever they'd been out late to make life good for everyone else in the house.

It felt like the secret moments behind the shift from a question—why—to a smile, a decision.

There are realities you have to accept, and as far as you're concerned, there's realities you don't. One of the former is your mom's absence, the love that left with her. Still another is the raw facts of this scene: mixing curry, adding too much spice and still not enough, sitting in the living room and talking and laughing with Noya as he tastes your curry and promptly lets a marriage proposal leave his lips, breezy, easy, familiar.

"Nine hundred sixty-one," you say with a smile.

One of the latter types of realities looks more like this: a warm feeling in your chest, a familiar flutter in your stomach. The heat of his arm on your shoulder, the persistence of the smile on your lips. Complaints about the spice of the curry hurting your split lip met with playful teasing that you'll still think about laying on your futon tonight, long after he's gone home.

And you'll need one damn good yes to accept a reality you don't have to.

Later, you'll feel hollowed out from the mood swings of the day. Tomorrow, you'll feel too wrung-out to get out of bed in the morning. Tonight, you just feel warm. So warm, in fact, that you're not even mad when he pulls out his phone and produces a video of you, half-asleep and pressed into his side on the bus a few hours earlier, as proof that actually, [name]-san, you'll find I only need to ask nine hundred and sixty more times.

Nine hundred and sixty it is.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @kazunish

#my fics #nishinoya yuu/reader #nishinoya yuu x reader #yuu nishinoya x reader #yuu nishinoya/reader #noya x reader #noya/reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu reader insert

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drachonia · 25 days ago

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𝐦 𝐢 𝐧 𝐭 𝐰 𝐢 𝐭 𝐡 𝐞 𝐧 𝐯 𝐲 .

Kinktober Day 30 Nika Schwarz x OC (Sigrid)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: decided these last few fics are gonna be a few double prompts as an extra treat. <3 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @candiedcoffeedrops @candied-boys @natimiles 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: jealous sex, mild dirty talk, balcony sex/public sex.

Nika never had much patience when it came to Sigrid and business. Not in a sense that she frustrated him with how she acted, rather it was those around her.

Especially those that stared at her with less than good intentions. His fingers twitched toward where his pistol rested inside its holster, covered up by his jacket. Blue eyes narrowed with an icy stare as a man — he assumed someone affiliated to a business partner — lifted her hand, only for Sigrid to withdraw herself before he could make any further moves, a tight smile on her lips as she spoke. Just a quick glance over her shoulder and her eyes met Nika’s, seeing his face shift dramatically from cold to warm as he strode over with a graceful gait.

“Who’s this, rotkehlchen?” Nika sidled up to her, eyes flickering from her to the man who had introduced himself, “Callum Spencer, do you have business with the lady?” The man, a brown haired, green-eyed gentleman not too much older than Nika himself, frowned slightly in his direction. The elder of the Schwartz twins curled his lip in a smirk before responding in kind.

“Why would I not have business with my fiancée?” He arched a brow challengingly, ringed hand slipping down her back slowly, taking care to tease the exposed skin along her spine and flicking his gaze down to watch her shifting expression, finally pulling her by the waist to press into his side and fall against his arm. The man’s face contorted into a mix of embarrassment and anger, Nika managing a smug smile as he rested his chin atop Sigrid’s head, watching the unwelcome guest leave, leaving the pair with a few heartbeats of silence before Sigrid piped up, “Honestly, what’s your problem?”

“My gorgeous robin doesn’t seem to know her own charm.” He tilted her chin up with a finger, the silver of his ring brushing cool over her skin as he turned his head to capture her lips with his. The kiss was slow at first, building into a deep embrace, his hands wandering lower and lower as his tongue pushed insistently past her lips, forcing her mouth open further. Though, he internally groaned at the slight pressure she put on his chest, reluctantly drawing back.

“Not here. Somewhere private.” She huffed against his lips, short of breath. Nika wore a sly smirk from as he wrapped his arm back around her waist.

“It almost scares me how easily you know the layout of this place after only a few days here.” Sigrid breathed as Nika pressed against her out on the balcony laughing softly in her ear.

“Trade secret.” He purred, kissing her temple and squeezing her hips from behind before wandering beneath her skirt and pushing the layers up in back, gathering them off to one side and slipping his other hand to his belt as he kissed from ear to shoulder in a trail down the side of her neck.

Fingers grazed her folds through fabric, drawing small circles against her clit as she shifted against him, elliciting a faint groan from Nika.

“Fuck…”

“If you’re a good boy, you might do that soon.”

“Or I could just coax it out of you, I like seeing you give in.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, muffling a moan with a bite of her bottom lip and a roll of her hips back against her lover. Their moans mixed as they leaned out on the balcony, only obscured by thin curtains that flowed in the wind.

“Why did you even pick the balcony, Nika?”

“Because I want to see how excited you can get for me out in the open.” His voice was low and drawling, middle finger still circling her bud as her breathing grew labored, one thigh crossing over his hand slightly to further prove his curiosity right.

“Is that the sweet spot, rotkehlchen? Right there?” He hissed in her ear, rubbing a bit faster.

“N-No…deeper.”

“Deeper? I must have a needy girl…” he craned his head over hers as he tilted her chin back and stared into her eyes as she rubbed into his touch slightly.

There was no way either of them would come away from the party unsatisfied.

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trappers-cloak · 1 year ago

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The Buck and the Fox

Chapter 1 - The Shepard and the Angel

Chapter 1 of my ongoing fanfic, the Buck and the Fox.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x female oc, meet cute, introduction to my oc Diana Wegner.

word count: 2k

Diana Wegner

The sun was high enough - and hot enough - that Diana had ditched her coat. The great green thing hung over the rump of Althea, bouncing as the pair trotted along. Pluto let out a small bark below, nipping at the heels of a dozen sheep along the hillside. The wind billowing through the trees wasn’t nearly enough to stave off the heat, but it swept the sweat from her brow. The surrounding grass was a bright green, peppered with reds and pinks and oranges, all the herbs dotting the Heartlands. Diana could hear no sound besides sheep bleating. That sound was a welcome one, and she sent a silent thanks to God that no human voices polluted her ears.

A voracious reader as a child, Diana recalled poetry about hillsides like this. Emerson, Dickinson, even Shakespeare…she doubted they could imagine a moment this perfect. Something this devoid of a past.

The gunshot was, as one would guess, unwelcome.

All she had on hand was a repeater, a simple thing, slung across her shoulder. It would have to do as she took aim for the origin of the shot, somewhere up on the hill. Sure enough, two bandits rode above, aiming lower than she expected. She turned, and realized; they were here for the sheep.

With a blast, she narrowly missed the closer of the two, a large man on an even larger horse.

“Shit,” she muttered, reloading. What was the point of learning to shoot if she didn’t live long enough to use her skills?

She fired again. This time, the shot grazed the fat man’s arm, and he cried out in pain. His stallion shrieked and began bucking him off, with limited success.

Before Diana could load again, Althea stood and reared, kicking her front legs wildly. A gunshot sounded from the ground, and before she could blink, Diana was in the air. The impact of her back on the hill knocked the wind out of her, and before she could even collect herself, the other bandit was upon her.

It’s amazing how time slows down in the heat of the moment. Even with her death imminent, Diana could make out the green kerchief around his neck. Green eyes, a scraggly beard. She knew this man, or this type of man, anywhere.

The Irish accent gave him away. An O’Driscoll.

“Well, miss, think the boss man will reconsider-”

His words were cut off by a snarl as Pluto tackled him, barking and growling up a storm.

Good boy. Diana was free from the O’Driscoll’s grasp, but her gun was out of reach. She fumbled around for a revolver, to no success. Pluto was still laying into the skinny Irishman, but the big one had regained his senses and had started towards her again. She was outnumbered, and had no choice.

She took a deep breath, and screamed.

The sound of galloping filled the air. She was done for.

She screamed again.

“HELP ME!”

Two gunshots fired, calculated, separated. Pow! Pow! But the galloping didn’t stop. And the sound was getting closer by the millisecond. She began to scramble to her feet, pulling out her last resort - a small switchblade that Cripps had given her the day he taught her how to hunt. She flicked the blade open and readied her hand, turning to her assailant. She wondered who she’d face first - the big one or the skinny one.

It was neither.

“Woah… miss calm down, I ain’t gonna hurt’cha,” the man said, putting his hands up as he hopped down from his horse.

“Then drop your gun,” Diana said. It was all she could think of.

He tossed it to the side without a thought, and inched closer. She held out her lance knife, just the way Cripps taught her to. Her face was fixed in a snarl.

“Ma’am, I ain’t gonna-”

“Did you shoot them?”

“What?”

“Did you shoot them?”

“Well, yeah-”

“Why?”

“Well shit, I guess I was tryna save you, but if you’d rather be in a casket, who am I to judge?” he answered, slyly. He had a deep accent, a country one. She couldn’t place it.

Diana faltered for a moment, then said;

“You didn’t have to save me.”

“Well, it sure didn’t look like you were gonna do it yourself,” he countered.

She shot him a glare, readying a comeback, but instead? Instead she burst out laughing.

“Well, yes,” she said, between breaths, “I guess you’re right.” after a pause, she added,

“well? Is a lady going to have to help herself to her feet?”

The man started, and extended his hand down. She grabbed it, noting the sheer number and strength of the callouses coating it, and together the pair lifted Diana to her feet. For a very brief moment, Diana was chest to chest with the cowboy - well, head to chest, given that he stood nearly a head above her in height. Two parts of Diana burned - her cheeks with a blush, and her ring finger with shame and a grim reminder. The moment was over as soon as it began.

“Ahem…uh, thank you, sir,” she started, and sighed. “You saved my life. I owe you something for that at least.”

“Now, I don’t need anything, I was just bein-”

“Well at least a meal or a drink is in order!”

The man started again. “Ma’am, really, I-”

Diana sighed. “Please, mister, it's the least I can do. Plus,” she began, nodding over a few yards west, “I need your help. Those bandits must’ve gotten one of the sheep - look.'' Sure enough, a mound of white wool lay in the grass, the only sheep that had been lost in the raid.

“Help me get that poor soul back to Cripps, and you’ll be paid for your time.”

The man sighed, knowing he’d lost the exchange. “Fine,” he said, dejected. As the pair lifted the wayward sheep onto Althea, Diana spoke up once more.

“Thank you mister…”

“Morgan,” he paused. It looked like he was trying to remember what his name was. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Thank you, mister Morgan,” Diana said, and turned. “PLUTO!” she whistled. “ROUND ‘EM UP!”

Arthur Morgan

Dutch had told them in no uncertain terms to lie low. Besides making money, lying low was the top priority. So the O’Driscoll’s over on the hill should not have been his concern, and they weren’t until the bloodcurdling scream Arthur had heard from the middle of the herd of sheep. He may be trying to keep a low profile, but he wasn’t about to let some innocent shepard get herself killed. He imagined there would be some divine retribution for that, or some symbolism - something in his surrogate fathers’ books that would have damned him.

Now this same shepherd was leading him to some reward he felt he couldn’t accept. He had given his full name, his real name, to this woman, and he felt like he was 13 again. Breaking all the rules. He didn’t lie low, he didn’t mind his business, he didn’t keep himself a secret. And what would he have to show for it?

The smell of the stew pot hit him before he could see it.

“Sit down, mister Morgan, stay as long as you’d like,” the woman said, hanging her coat on a hook attached to a beautiful cherry tree. She had taken him behind what must be the trading post at Emerald Ranch - a small building bedecked with animal heads, hides and antlers. The camp spot was a cozy one, with the campfire and a great bronze stew pot as its centerpiece.

“Mr. Cripps is still working on the stew - the rest of the ranch hands are still tending to the sheep and the cows, but you can have first bowl once he’s done. He’ll be out any second.”

“Ma’am, I really don’t need any fo-” Arthur’s stomach growled mid sentence. He flushed, and the woman turned, and gave a slight chuckle.

“Riiight.”

“Well,” Arthur continued, taking a seat, “then thank you for your hospitality, Miss…”

She finished for him.

“Missus Diana Wegner. My husband owns this ranch. Forgive me for being blunt, Mister Morgan, but are you new around these parts?” She stuck out her hand, boldly. With purpose. A silver ring adorned it.

He took it, shook it, and responded.

“Yeah, well, my crew and I were workers in the north, and our factory got shut down, so we’re living in a camp near uh… Valentine?” he recited the story Hosea had told him. It was, to the old man’s credit, a great cover.

“I’m sorry to hear. Were you stuck up in the Grizzlies when that storm hit?”

Arthur chuckled, despite the memory being, at best, an unpleasant one. “Yeah, we just got out of it a few weeks ago. Lot of folk are still trying to get back on their feet,” he said.

“Well its a good thing you made it down here,” Diana replied. “I take it you’re doing the hunting then?” she gestured to the pelt on the back of Ares. “How much shot did that thing take?”

Arthur chuckled. “Not as much as you’d think. Damn thing nearly killed me. Apparently it’s some legendary bear - uncommon size.”

“You’ve got that right. Do you know how much that would be worth?”

Arthur shifted, uncomfortable. It would be just his luck to get robbed by the woman he saved.

“Not sure…”

“Well, me neither, but Mr. Cripps would have a field day tanning that thing. If you’d be interested in selling it here, I’m sure you could work out a deal.”

Arthur paused, wondering if this was a good chance to strike up some work - legitimate work, for once.

“If Mister…”

“Cripps,”

“Right. If Mr. Cripps buys this, would he buy other skins too, or…”

“Looking for employment, are we? And I thought men were all after something else!” Diana exclaimed. Arthur’s face felt hotter than hell itself. He could only imagine the shade of red it turned.

“Well, I- maybe,” he admitted. “I don’t know. As long as it pays.”

“That we do. In money, food, goods, or any combination.”

The backdoor of the store burst open, and an old man with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard stepped out, holding a basket of herbs and corn.

“And we have the best of all three!” he exclaimed, sauntering over to the pair. “I couldn’t help but overhear the entire conversation, and your hunting skills would make an excellent contribution to Cripps-Wegner Trading Co!”

Diana sighed, and gestured towards the man. “Mister Cripps, Arthur Morgan. Arthur Morgan, Mister Cripps.” Before she could finish, Cripps was shaking Arthur’s hand with an enthusiasm he had only seen a few times before - and most of those times involved Sean and Karen, back before Sean got captured.

Before she could make any more introductions, a bell sounded, and Diana’s head whipped towards the big green house across the road.

“Shit,” she muttered. “That’s dinner bell.” she turned again to Arthur, and held out her hand. He took it, not knowing whether to shake it or not. Dutch had taught him to kiss a woman’s hand when they gave it this way, but the wedding ring gave him considerable pause.

“Thank you, Arthur, again. I owe you more than I can describe. Enjoy the stew, and let Cripps know if you have any availability.” as she spoke, she transformed - she did up her hair, tossed her hat aside, washed her hands and changed into ladies shoes seemingly before Arthur could blink. She went from a rancher to a society lady in less than a minute. He hoped she didn’t notice his stare.

“Come back to Emerald Ranch soon, mister Morgan. Our saloon is closed and it mostly smells of sheep shit, but I’m sure you’ll find something here to your liking.” she turned, and after a few steps, shouted over her shoulder. “Mister Cripps! Save that sheep hide. I have a plan for it.” And she was off.

There was a pregnant silence between her departure and the voice of Mr. Cripps.

“So, mister Morgan,” he began, “are you gonna continue to make googly eyes at Missus Wegner or are you going to have some mutton?”

#red dead oc #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 #rdr2 community #arthur morgan #rdr2 oc #the buck and the fox #diana wegner

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nimble-stuff · 2 years ago

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XIII. Hurt Caretaker || The Hamato Brothers Mikey steps up to care for his brothers after an accident.

Fandom: FE3H

Also on AO3

Request a Prompt here!

@badthingshappenbingo

<< PREVIOUS || NEXT >>

“Get your feet off the dashboard, Leo!”

The yawn Leo unleashed on the world, cleaving his head in two, was exaggerated. Mikey could’ve fallen into it easy if he held it for a second or two longer, but instead, Leo put his hands behind his head. “We got a two-hour drive back home. I’m not spending it with my feet on the floor like a loser.”

Raph’s massive hands gnawed the back of the front passenger chair, eye twitching, the fabric stretching. Mikey hid behind his comic book.

“Putting your feet on the dashboard is a surefire way to break both your legs if we crash,” said Raph.

“Wow, you’re so negative. Donnie, take my side!”

“Donnie, tell him to put his legs on the floor where they belong!”

“I am DRIVING!” Donnie screamed. “If you don’t shut up, so help me, I’m gonna turn this car back around and take us back to Todd’s! If Leo wants to fracture his fibulas so bad, let him break them!”

“Are we there yet?” Mikey asked.

“Don’t make me reach back there, Mikey!”

“I was just asking, yeesh.”

Mikey skimmed his Jupiter Jim comic book, however the sick yellow glow of the highway streetlights made the images blur together, and Donnie griped every time he flicked on the interior lights. Perhaps they’d all gotten far too comfortable to the luxury of the Turtle Tank.

He and his brothers had spent the weekend’s up at Todd’s for a much-needed nature retreat, though Mikey suspected Splinter had suggested it get them out of his fur for a while. The trip was a resounding success, albeit Donnie spent most of the time on his phone and hissing at anyone who tried to take it from him, and Raph had a rather unfortunate encounter with poison ivy. However, there were highlights, and the highlights shone bright enough to cut through the gruff moments. Scaring unsuspecting tourists by pretending to be Bigfoot even got Donnie off his ass for a few hours, and Leo swore up and down that he’d seen the real Bigfoot lurking somewhere in the trees.

Regardless, Mikey wished they’d taken the Turtle Tank, which had ample lighting and entertainment to last them on the trip back, but Splinter had—perhaps correctly—pointed out that if they’d taken their preferred mode of transport, they wouldn’t leave the vehicle all weekend. Donnie had put up a fuss until they told him he could keep a stolen vehicle, and he and Leo went out and come back with increasingly impractical cars: sports cars, luxury vehicles, a classic New York taxi that Raph in no way could fit into. Finally, they’d convinced Donnie and Leo to steal a tasteful SUV that could accommodate Raph. Mikey was convinced that Donnie had spent most of the time on the weekend concocting plans to upgrade the boring SUV into something more to his taste.

The bickering settled, although Raph was still giving a churning, sour stink eye to the back of Leo’s head. Raph grabbed one of the Jupiter Jim comics on the seat beside him and hunched over. He had trouble fitting into most vehicles and even the SUV was pushing the comfort limits, so it was probably why he was cranky.

“Hey, Donnie, look out for that tree,” said Leo.

“The tree is on the side of the road, Nardo,” Donnie drawled.

“Yeah, but you could run into it.”

“Improbable.”

“What if the wind blows it over?”

“What wind? The forecast says it’s going to be a clear night.”

“Pft, are you gonna trust a weatherman over your own brother? I don’t think so!…Oh, look out for that rock.”

“What rock?!”

“The one on the side the road.”

“I swear in the good name of Grace Hopper, Leo—”

“Hey, maybe we can make a stop on the way back so we can stretch our legs?” Mikey suggested.

“The trip will take the whole night if we do that,” said Donnie. “It’s easier to drive straight home.”

“I wouldn’t mind a stop,” said Leo. “We drove past a diner on the way to Todd’s that claimed to have the best pancakes in the world and we absolutely need to verify that claim.”

“UGH. If we make a pit stop, will you stop being a backseat driver?”

“I, Leonardo Hamato, do solemnly swear to sit here quietly and not say a single thing if we stop at the best pancakes in the world.”

Donnie’s devious smile flickered dangerously in the rearview mirror. “Care to wager on that, Leonardo Hamato?”

“Oh, you are on. Okay, if I win, fix the Rock Band instruments like you said you’d do six months ago.”

“Those offensive musical abominations that offend mine ears?”

“Yup! You have to fix all of them, and then play with us.”

“I accept your terms. My victory is assured!”

Leonardo laughed, smiled, and mimed zipping his lips shut.

“Hey, what cover story do you want to use for this whole situation when we get to the pancake place?” Raph asked. “Comicon or off-duty stunt actors?”

“Naw, that’s just retreading old ground,” said Mikey. “How about: we are wild, rampaging college students wearing turtle costumes as part of our initiation?”

“You can’t pass for a college student.”

“Sure I can!”

“No, you’re too short.”

“I’ll stand on my tippy toes.”

“I think we could just stick to Comicon.”

“There isn’t even a Comicon all the way out here. No one’s gonna believe that.”

“I think we should pretend to be Bigfoot,” said Donnie, glancing behind him. “Think of it! We waltz in, take the eatery hostage, and demand—”

…

It came back slow.

Mikey’s whole body ached. Agony did clumsy somersaults throughout his body, his fingers tingled, and his toes twitched. He fumbled through a mental inventory of sensations that backhanded through his body in visceral heights, balancing on the edge of a skyscraper with the unspoken threat to throw him off. His breath clogged up in his too-tight throat. Panic raked one-by-one up his spinal column with a source he couldn’t place.

Minute flecks of light danced in the darkness of his vision. Mikey clawed at the black. His hands sank into something coarse and held tight to try to stop the world from heaving sideways. Fat red blotches smeared around him and he blinked to clear it, and he was looking…he was looking at the back of a car seat in front of him, his hands sinking deep into the fabric. The ceiling seemed far too close and a sudden, claustrophobic alarm finally let him go, and he was tumbling down the side of the skyscraper, and it took all his willpower to wake up before the pavement got too close.

He was upside down.

Mikey set his arms up—down?—to touch the ceiling.

He was upside down. In a car.

They were…they’d been on the road, hadn’t they? They’d been talking about pancakes.

He was upside down. Mikey felt his heartbeat all the way up to his head where blood pooled in his skull.

Mikey braced against the ceiling and fumbled for his seatbelt pinning him to the seat. He was a mounted butterfly trying to escape the curiosity of a morbid taxidermist, and it shouldn’t have taken as much effort as it did to release the seatbelt. His body fell with a thunk.

Adrenaline punched in, dulling the ache in his body, and he army-crawled over broken glass. Mikey shoved himself through the narrow opening of the shattered window. Out in the open, he realized they were in a copse of trees at the foot of a steep embankment. The SUV was turned over, a discarded child’s toy played with too rough.

They’d been on the road, hadn’t they? He was…they’d been driving. They’d been on the road. Memories fizzed together, hissing in his ear. World famous pancakes. They’d argued about a pit stop.

They.

Mikey swung around. Images of who sat where and when seared in front of his eyes. Donnie was driving. Leo in the front passenger seat. Mikey behind him. Raph beside Mikey. Around him presently was a mangled wreck not unlike the trash heaps he saw at the junkyard. The stringent stench of gas burnt his nostrils. Something liquid was trickling on the ground yet he couldn’t see where it came from or tell what it was.

Raph. Leo. Donnie. Raph. Leo. Donnie. Raph. Leo. Donnie. Their names repeated in his head like machine gun fire. The four of them, always together, always grouped together, dressed alike, watched the same shows, endured the same lectures from Splinter. In the car, together, like always, all four.

Mikey wasn’t even conscious of scrambling back to the car. “Guys?! Guys!”

He crouched by the front passenger window, terrified of looking, more terrified of turning away. When he peered inside, Leo’s wide, white eyes blinked back at him. His body spread out on the roof of the car.

“Leo!” Mikey exclaimed. “Leo, are you okay?”

Leo flashed a disarming, high voltage smile “Oh, would you look at that. I’ve been impaled.”

Mikey’s heart launched itself into his throat. There was blood spilling onto the ground.

The brothers never went far without their weapons. It was instinct. They were naked without them. Unfortunately, they’d never accounted for securing weapons in case of a car accident, and one of Leo’s katanas was wedged diagonally through his hip.

“Okay,” Mikey said. “Fuck. Leo, don’t try to pull it out.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“Leo, what should I do?! Leo?!”

Leo’s gaze went cross-eyed and tipsy-turvy. Okay. Concussion, maybe, and Mikey didn’t think have time to wait for Leo to pull himself together. Still pictures of cars exploding after accidents popped off in his mind, fireworks setting off one after another. He wasn’t so senseless with panic that he ripped the katana right out of his brother, but he felt close to it when he wedged himself halfway into the car to surve the damage. The hilt was caught somewhere in crushed-in dashboard. If he could just…

The moment he touched the katana, Leo cried out, eyes flaring.

“I’m awake!” Leo cried out.

“Leo, whatever you do, don’t move,” said Mikey. “And…sorry if this hurts.”

“Hm…incredible, horrible pain…Must be a Tuesday…”

Leo’s head flopped sideways, chest stuttering up and down. Mikey’s panic pressed hard against his eyes, threatening to pop them right out of their sockets. He tugged at the immovable metal keeping the katana’s hilt in place. Shit, if it had gone straight through Leo, he was pinned to the roof, too.

Mikey did a double take when he saw a body hanging from the driver’s side and realized it was Donnie, his gangly limbs jutting out like he was a tree struck dead by lightning. His face was slack, his eyes shut.

“Is that Donnie?” Leo asked. He sounded a little more alert.

“Yeah.”

“Is he okay?”

Mikey had to crawl on top of Leo to fumble for a pulse, but Leo didn’t complain. He seized Donnie’s limp wrist and found the pulse thready and weak.

“He’s alive,” said Mikey.

“What…What happened?”

“The car. It fucking crashed!”

“Were we in it?”

“Yup, we sure were. How do I get you out? I didn’t pay attention during any of the first aid stuff!”

“Don’t move me. Call for help.”

“Leo, we can’t call 9-1-1.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Mutant turtle thingys.”

“I think I need to get you guys out of here.”

“Don’t move any of us, you could make it worse…”

“I smell gas.”

Leo’s eyes sprung open. “Shit-fucking-shit! Alright. Well…if we can just move…move this…I can—”

Leo shifted a little. Then, a sudden, brief scream amped up through his body, skin blanching out to a light green hue.

“What is it?!” Mikey screamed too.

“So…funny story…Remember when Donnie said I could go ahead and break my legs?”

“Please tell me your legs aren’t broken.”

“Yeah, I think I lost the bet, too. So much for Rock Band.”

Shit. “Leo, where’s your other katana?”

“…What?”

“Your other katana. Where did it go?”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I can feel it, I don’t think it’s far.”

“Alright, I need you to teleport out of here.”

“Out of where?”

“Out of the car, bro. I think it’s the only way we can get you out.”

Leo’s teleportation was such a second nature to him that Mikey just saw his fingers splaying and knew it was imminent. Suddenly they were in the grass and Leo unleashed an unfettered scream that howled into the night.

Mikey scrambled off of him. Leo’s hand darted forward, and there was nothing in his eyes but raw instinct when his hands closed around the katana’s blade. Blood erupted from between his fingers. Mikey hovered in panic, divided between holding, waiting, and screaming himself, and all he could do was pry Leo’s fingers off the blade and hold him down tight until finally, blessedly, the scream faded into desperate breaths that jittered uneven through Leo’s whole body.

Mikey unwound the wrappings from his arm and packed them tight around the katana. On closer inspection, Leo had narrowly avoided being impaled, though that didn’t make the wound any less grizzly. The katana had sliced a few good inches into Leo’s hip and fell to the side the moment they were free of the car. Mikey shoved bandages onto the wound. Leo thrashed uncontrolled. With the hysteria Mikey felt came a simultaneous focus he wasn’t familiar with, and with it a nausea that made him want to fold into the earth.

Mikey didn’t realize he was whispering reassurances until Leo’s scream faded. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay, it’s just a cut. Everything’s alright, you’re out of the car.” It repeated, over and over, and he couldn’t seem to get himself to stay quiet.

Mikey pressed tight on the slice on Leo’s hip, trying not to think about how much blood his wrappings were absorbing. After a few minutes, Leo got a funny look on his face and, with what seemed to take a lot of effort, he refocused.

“Press…Press harder,” said Leo. He adjusted Mikey’s positioning a little. “Right here.”

He did so. Leo’s whole body tensed up tight like he was preparing to dash for the last slice of pizza, but he didn’t let up even when Leo groaned.

Mikey surveyed the rest of Leo’s body. His face was bruised and his legs were immobile. One was busted at the ankle, while the other was swelling up. Both were bruised black and blue, and he could only stand to look for a moment before pulling his gaze away. He didn’t see any bones sticking out, at least.

Raph and Donnie. Raph and Donnie.

Mikey pulled off more wrappings and tied them tight around Leo’s hip, securing the bloody wad in place.

“I need to get Raph and Donnie,” said Mikey. “Can you—”

“Yeah, I got it,” said Leo. “Go.”

“Do not remove pressure from that.”

“Wasn’t planning to. I like my blood in my body.”

They were about halfway up the embankment where Leo’s second katana was lodge in the grass, thrown clean from the wreck. The moment Mikey twisted his body to sprint back, an unexpected pain wrenched through his upper chest, a pain that made his vision go spotty and his lungs contract hard on themselves.

“Mikey?” Leo said behind him.

Mikey ignored him. Ignored the pain. Ignored everything. He rushed back to the front of the car to find Donnie exactly where they’d left him, still and pale.

“Donnie!” Mikey jostled his brother’s shoulder. “Wake up!”

Nothing. The steering column jammed up against Donnie’s chest. The torn remains of the airbag was the only thing that protected him, and it hung loose like everything else. Pain jolted back into Mikey’s body when he tried to shove against the crunched up steering wheel and he knew he couldn’t do it alone.

Mikey’s stomach dropped hard when he peered into the backseat and it was empty.

“Leo!” he shouted. “Raph’s not in the car!”

“What?!” Leo called back. “What do you mean he’s not in the car?”

“He’s not here!”

He hated the strangled keening noise his voice made. When he crawled out of the SUV, Leo reflected his panic back to him.

“Was he wearing his seatbelt?” Leo asked.

“No. No, he—it wasn’t big enough, we couldn’t get it on.”

“Are you telling me that Raph—resident safety expert Raph—wasn’t wearing one?!”

“He’s huge, Leo! We could barely squeeze him into this thing in the first place!”

Fear made his vision flutter—or was that something else?—and it was only thanks to the full moon that Mikey saw the flattened path the SUV had taken down the embankment. A trail of debris and mud ripped up the ground. The breaths Mikey took were difficult, felt thick in his chest like drowning in dirty water. Raph was big. He couldn’t be far.

Mikey wanted to scream when he saw Raph’s arm sticking out from under the car. Two things stopped him. First, the intense pain plunging into his chest when he gulped down a breath to yell. Second, the intense focus from earlier. He thought about Donnie lying limp in the driver’s seat, then down at the arm under his car, worry ripping him in two directions at once. Mikey went for what was right in front of him. He dove for the arm, and hoped that the rest of Raph was attached to it.

Mikey’s fingers only had to brush the knuckles for the hand to twitch.

“Raph!”

Bare-handed, Mikey clawed at the ground. Recent rainfall made it malleable and the earth crumbled into mud in his naked hands. He was holding his breath. It was the only way he could convince his body to move, because breathing and moving at the same time ached too much, and his dread was such that it muffled all noise around him. Mikey bent down and found Raph pinned under the SUV, face-first in the mud, head turned to his side. He’d crawled right overtop his brother to get out of the car and hadn’t noticed.

Raph’s facial muscles twitched. He was coated in head to toe in mud so deeply coloured it almost looked black.

“…Mikey,” Raph said. His voice was faint.

“Are you hurt?” Mikey asked.

“What happened…”

“Car crash. Can you push yourself out?”

Mikey seized Raph’s hand and tugged. Raph’s startled cry made him drop it fast. White-hot agony rippled through Mikey’s upper body, piercing his bones.

It hit him. Something was broken.

Shit.

“Mikey, c’mere a sec,” Leo called him.

It was Leo’s command voice, the one that Mikey could not refuse. He staggered to Leo, who took one critical look at him and prodded all the way up his arm until he got to a point that made Mikey flinch and crawl out of his skin.

“Does this hurt?” Leo asked.

Mikey cried out when Leo brushed his collarbone.

“Your collarbone’s broken. I…I think.”

“I need to get Raph and Donnie out.”

“Mikey, I love and appreciate your Superman tendencies, but you gotta let me wrap this up. Depending on how it’s broken, it could be bad.”

“Gotta get them out.” Mikey fumbled for his phone. The screen was shattered. He reached for Leo’s instead and was relieved to see it light up when he pounded at the home button. “You call for help.”

“Mikey, I don’t want you—”

“I smell gas everywhere. I’m not leaving Raph and Donnie anywhere near that car.”

Mikey mimicked Leo’s command tone as best he could and the results scared him when he saw Leo balk under the tone. He would do this. He didn’t know how, but he would.

He returned to Raph and pushed desperately at the SUV. There was a small tendril of smoke rising out of the rear, yet no flames. Not yet. Something else felt wrong, something other than Raph getting crushed under the car and Donnie being unconscious in the driver’s seat. Sweat beaded on Mikey’s arms as he shoved against the metal wreck.

“Mikey, you can’t lift a car with your bare hands,” Raph said hazily. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Then use your mystic mojo and get bigger.”

Raph’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“Raph, don’t pass out!”

Too late. Raph was gone, faded into unconsciousness.

Mikey’s senses lashed out. He perceived things he knew shouldn’t be able to: the molecules in the air, the energy of the surrounding forest, the electric taste of ninpō on his tongue. Orange tendrils erupted from his hands. One coiled around the body of the car and fastened around a tree trunk, the other around Raph’s upper body. Adrenaline made one hell of a painkiller, but he screamed in agony anyway when he gave the chains a tug and the car lifted.

Fuck, was it heavy. His arm was going to be ripped out of the joint. Leo said something incoherent, something that didn’t get past the pain-pain-pain screwing tight through his limbs. The impossible weight shoved his heart into his head. Then, Raph inched out from underneath the car. His eyelids shuddered. He opened them. On instinct, and barely awake, Raph’s heels dug against the ground and he helped him push out. Urgency overpowered the painful creak of Mikey’s collarbone, which he felt stressing and cracking in the confines of his body.

The moment Raph was clear, the car crashed down with a heave. Mikey made it two steps before he felt like he wasn’t on the ground anymore and he fell.

Leo called his name and didn’t stop. It filled the background as Mikey writhed and fought against the agony, lost and senseless in his mind. Reality was ripping away from him, only flickering back when Raph touched his hand.

“Thanks,” Raph murmured.

Raph was okay. Raph was out.

It was enough.

Almost.

Mikey struggled for air, and he couldn’t hide it, only able to take increasingly shallow breaths.

“Let’s…Let’s get you…um…over here,” said Mikey. “Lean on me.”

“Mikey—”

“Not taking no for an answer. Lean on me.”

“You want me to lean on you?”

“…Try not to lean too hard?”

Raph laughed a laugh which Mikey interpreted as agreement.

It took several tries before they found a comfortable way to move Raph. Well, comfortable enough. Leo was only a few yards uphill, but it may as well have been the summit of the Empire State building and all the elevators were out of surface. Raph didn’t complain, however his legs trembled underneath his massive body, and he had to support one arm on Mikey, and the other on the ground in a weird gorilla-walk to even move an inch.

“Take it slow,” Mikey urged him.

“Where’s…” Raph grunted. “Where’s Donnie…”

“He’s still in the car. I’ll get him out.”

“I…I should…”

“You need to move out of the way.”

“When’d you get so bossy? Is this a new doctor?”

“More like a rebranded version of Doctor Delicate Touch.”

“Man, everyone knows the spin-offs aren’t as good as the original.”

It took far too long to get to Leo’s side. The moment they were close enough, Raph collapsed and crawled the rest of the way.

“I lost the signal, but I got a hold of Dad,” Leo reported. “He said he’s gonna send Todd out to look for us and drive up in the Turtle Tank.”

“Better than nothing, I guess,” Raph murmured.

The moment Raph was safe, Mikey rushed back to the car. Two brothers down, one to go.

Ninpō flowed through him with natural ease—a life-giving energy that surged into his veins, and it followed him when he inched back inside the car. Donnie was still unconscious. Splinter had taught Mikey breathing techniques to use in meditation, but his breathing was short, reality was loosening its hold on him, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he faded. Free Donnie. All he had to do was free Donnie and he could let go.

Mikey raised his hand, and a liquid, orange energy enveloped the steering column. It was so easy that Mikey wondered why he’d never done something like this before, feeling no different from reaching out with his hand to push it aside. The metal creaked aside and finally, finally, Donnie was at an angle where Mikey could reach up and pull him free from the seatbelt. He used his own body to cushion Donnie’s short fall to the ground.

“It’s okay, Donnie, Mikey’s got you,” Mikey said soothingly.

He did his best to be gentle. However, gentleness was secondary to the smouldering smell from nearby, and he used the last vestiges of adrenaline to pull Donnie out.

When they hit the night air, Mikey was shaking all over, and terrifyingly Donnie was so still that he had to check for a pulse a second time. Still there. Still weak. Mikey yanked and hauled Donnie into his arms, ignoring the sharp, bone-crunching pain that speared through his upper body. What Donnie lacked in sheer weight he made up for in long limbs, and his hands and feet dragged against the ground as Mikey carried him back up the embankment.

Mikey collapsed next to his brothers the moment he set Donnie down on the grass, cradling his head. Out of the car, the thick blood saturating his mask was obvious. Leo checked Donnie over, face knitted together in concern, then dragged Mikey close.

“I’m wrapping your arm now,” Leo told him. “Does your neck hurt?”

Mikey was too breathless to answer with anything but a nod.

“It’s whiplash. Gives a good punch to the senses and you’ll hurt a lot tomorrow, but you should be fine. Just hold still.”

Leo wrapped Mikey’s arm tight around his body, and it felt a lot better once secured in place—less grating, less distracting. Once it was wrapped, he helped Leo do the best they could to tend to Raph and Donnie. It mostly involved keeping Raph still and calm, while Donnie didn’t need to be told at all as he lay unresponsive among them.

“We crashed?” Raph said.

“Kudos to Raph for pointing out the obvious,” said Leo.

“…Why? I thought Donnie was a good driver…”

“It’s not his fault. Another car crossed the centre line.”

“I didn’t see another car,” said Mikey.

“Yeah, I only saw it for a moment, and I think it drove off afterwards.”

“Dude! We got hit-and-runned like in the Simpsons?!”

“Yeah, and we were the NPCs.”

Mikey stared down the length of the highway, searching for a familiar set of headlights. He knew when help arrived when he saw an RV round the next bend, and propped on top of it were a set of alternating red-and-blue lights which were not street legal.

Even though he was light-headed, Mikey didn’t think he was so light-headed that he was imagining it when Todd hopped out of the RV decked out in full nurse’s gear.

“Have no fear, Paramedic Todd is here!” Todd announced. “Everything’s gonna be hunky-dory. I brought My Little Pony band-aids and a whole lot of love to snuggle the hurt right out of you.”

“I’ll take all the snuggles I can get,” Mikey said thickly.

“Nevermind, I want to go back in the car now,” said Leo.

Mikey laughed. In fact, he laughed so hard that he passed out on the spot.

-------

Mikey woke up to a blinding white light shining directly in his eyes.

“Morning, sleepyhead!”

Mikey squinted. Todd enveloped all of his vision and there was something over his mouth that he blindly slapped at.

“Ah, ah, ah—keep that on,” said Todd. “That’s life-giving oxygen you got there, the good stuff. Take deep breaths, little guy.”

He took Todd’s advice and the breaths came much easier than they had before, though his shoulder and arm throbbed. It took him a moment to realize that he was lying in Todd’s stupid RV, which had somehow been converted to a full-on trauma centre. There were four cots lined up on either side. Mikey kept the mask on, however sat up a little too quickly to let his legs dangle over the side of the bed.

Leo gave him a wave from one bed, and Raph was sitting in the aisle separating Mikey from Donnie, holding Donnie’s hand. Despite being bruised and muddy, he’d never seen Raph’s smile reach so wide.

“Are we all alive?” Mikey asked.

“Well, sure you are!” said Todd. “You took good care of your brothers. I’d offer lemonade but the most I can offer is some good ol’ fashioned intravenous fluids. You know, if you boys wanted to stay an extra few days, all you had to do was ask. Stay put now!”

Todd hummed on his way out of the RV, chipper as ever.

“How long have I been out?” Mikey asked.

“Few hours,” said Raph. “We’re back at Todd’s rescue.”

“You missed all the calls from Dad,” said Leo. “He’s called like five times already.”

“And he’s probably breaking a bunch of traffic laws while at it.”

“I told him to get some world famous pancakes on the drive up. He better deliver.”

“Is Donnie okay?” Mikey asked.

“Sure he is,” said Raph. He nudged Donnie a little. “Donnie, Mikey’s asking about you. Show him you’re alive.”

Donnie was still a moment. Then, his head turned slightly and one eye cracked open, bleary and delirious.

“Don’t want more s’mores…” Donnie slurred.

“No one’s gonna make any more s’mores for now, Dee,” said Raph. “Todd says he’s got a skull fracture and a broken wrist.”

“Will he be okay?”

“Of course he will. Donnie’s huge brain definitely gave it extra padding.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, well…cracked a few ribs, and I’m bruised basically everywhere…But my shell absorbed most of the damage.” Raph indicated an IV running into his arm. “Todd’s got me covered. Basically I feel like a car landed on me.”

“That’s exactly what happened to you.”

“And the feelings are lining up with the expectations. It all works out.”

Mikey’s gaze travelled to Leo next.

“He’s gotta set my legs, which is gonna suck big time,” said Leo. “He’s gonna wait until Dad gets here before doing that. On the bright side, I’m thinking of getting a litter for you guys to carry me around on for a few weeks.”

Of course he was cracking jokes. Mikey didn’t know what to say, so he just sat there in shock, then went to stand.

“No, no, don’t get up,” said Raph. He gently set Mikey back onto the bed, putting him into a lying position. “You need to take it easy. Todd says you broke at least a few ribs and your lung might’ve collapsed.”

“What?” Mikey said.

“Yeah, when you broke your collarbone, you were doing all that stuff with your hands and getting us out and, and it kind of…” Raph mimed a jabbing sensation. “Basically, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“You pulled a lot of mystic stuff back there,” said Leo. “We’re proud of you, but also worried.”

“Science is better,” Donnie mumbled incoherently.

“Donnie, you use mystic stuff now,” said Raph.

“…Science…”

“Whatever you say, Dee.”

“But seriously—are you okay, Mikey?” Leo asked.

Mikey answered by pulling Raph into a gentle, non-bone-hurting hug, unable to shake the image of the smouldering car and his brothers lying prone on the grass. They were okay and alive and solid in front of him. His body felt shaky all over. He felt hollow, like the panic and adrenaline of the moment had carved out a massive hole in his insides.

The discomfort binding his lungs fluttered in and out. The oxygen masked helped, pushing life back into him. His brothers had the same effect.

“You held it together back there,” said Raph. He tightened his grip. Just a little. “But if this ever happens again, promise Raph you’ll take better care of yourself. You got lucky his time.”

“I’m not sorry,” said Mikey. “I had to get everyone out of the car and I was the only one on my feet.”

“Yeah, and you were very nearly the one who almost died. Todd says…he says it could’ve been really bad. Like, real, real bad.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. Won’t lie, that kinda scares the heck out of me.”

“I’m not out to get myself hurt, I just did what I had to do to make sure you guys didn’t get dead. Looking out for each other goes both ways.”

Leo and Raph didn’t have a rebuttal to that. He couldn’t reach Leo to join the hug from across the aisle, so Mikey made a mental note to give him a big squeeze later when he’d been dosed up with enough pain medication. The hollow space in his chest filled in a little.

Of course, all of that was interrupted when there was a loud, snotty sniff, and Mikey realized that somehow, someway, Todd had ended up in the middle of his and Raph’s hug.

“This is so heartwarming!” Todd sobbed. “You boys are an example to Todd Scouts everywhere! Bring it in!”

Raph and Mikey screamed when Todd pulled them in for a very-bone-crunching hug.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #rottmnt leo #rottmnt donnie #badthingshappenbingo

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 5 months ago

Text

“I like watching Mother Nature do her thing,” he explained, his voice soothing and even. “She’s angry, letting it all out.” He squeezed your hand as you rested your cheek on his back, already tired of watching the sheets of rain and extreme wind bully everything in their paths.

There's a wink wink nudge nudge here somewhere. Will, do you like violent women?

You sighed and nodded, flicking the Zippo lighter you held on and off a couple of times before walking into the living room to join him, knowing that out of all the people to have by your side during an emergency, Captain William Miller was the best and most capable one.

And the hottest!

“It’s going to be a long night, sweetheart,” he spoke softly, his eyes flickering over your chest and then up to your lips. “We’re going to have to ride this thing out.”

Alone, stuck in a house with this man!?!? I would have a heart attack!

“Fuck me, you’re gonna make me cum in my shorts.”

I love this so much, she's so hot and he's so into her that his man ego doesn't matter.

“I need in there,” he growled, his head shaking to the side a couple of times like there was no way he could handle another second not being inside you, his fingers slipping into the crotch of your saturated panties to pull them to the side before running his index and middle fingers through your slick.

You pleaded over and over, his name like a song with the storm as your instrumental background, desperate for release as you ground against his face, your heels digging into his waist as he in turn dug his mouth harder into your cunt.

OOOOO that's very Hozier of you!

“Hey, focus on me,” he ordered, his eyes a turbulent blue when you met them. “Look at me.” “You’re safe with me, sweetheart,” Will promised, his voice intoxicating and comforting all at once. “I’ve got you, you can relax…”

I am screaming!!!

Pairing: Will 'Ironhead' Miller x female reader

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Hurricane. Power outage. Oral sex (F receiving). Unprotected intercourse.

Summary: A hurricane rolls in and knocks out the power, allowing Will to make good use of the time waiting it out with you.

A/N: I've had this idea toiling around in my head for a bit, and when we recently lost power at our cottage, I decided to go for it. I have no experience of hurricanes so I apologize if this isn't accurate, though I tried to remain vague. A big thanks to @rhoorl for the Florida hurricane knowledge and to @ramadiiiisme for supporting this idea through to the very end 💗

---

The sight when you reached the top of the stairs stopped you in your tracks, admiring Will standing by the large window of your living room looking out at the wrath of weather outside, his expression content and thoughtful.

You set down the pile of various candles you had collected from every room in the house, smiling despite feeling a tangle of nerves in your stomach at the potential strength of this growing hurricane.

“Should you be standing that close to the window?” you asked, causing Will to smirk and glance over his broad shoulder at you.

“She’s starting to really ramp up out there.”

You sighed in response, dreading the thought of it getting any worse, the rain already accumulating to the point that the drainage systems on the street couldn’t keep up with it.

Will remained in place, staring back out at the palm trees swaying wildly, the bend of their trunks impressive, seeming completely unbothered by the storm and almost calmed by it.

Coming up behind him, you wrapped your arms around his waist and brought your hands up to his chest, feeling him take a slow breath in as he covered one of your hands with his.

“I know what that’s like,” he finished, exhaling another slow breath that you felt fill and deflate out of his lungs.

Will turned and gathered you in his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his somber admission now an afterthought. “So, what did you manage to scrounge up?” he asked, his tone lighter than before.

“Oh, just every candle I’ve ever bought or been given,” you smiled, turning your head to look at the array that was spread out on the kitchen table. “It might look nice when they’re all lit up, but the combination of scents might be a bit offensive.”

Will laughed, his body moving against yours with the motion of it, and you smiled and looked up at him, his blue eyes bright in the dim grey of the storm.

“I just hope the power stays on a bit longer,” you wished out loud, knowing however many candles you made glow wouldn’t be enough to outshine the encroaching dark from the storm let alone the fact that it was creeping later into the night.

“Hmm, yeah, the air conditioner is hardly keeping up as it is,” Will explained, his hand smoothing up your back where it dragged your shirt along with it, the stickiness of your skin and clothes already beginning to feel intolerable.

The lights flickered and the sound of the power surging through the house made both of you part slightly to glance at your surroundings, the warmth from the light of the lamps that were turned on illuminating your belongings for the last time before everything went dark.

Will chuckled while you groaned, his hands rubbing up and down your arms. “Well, sweetheart, it looks like you’ve got a superpower.”

You shot him a glare as you walked over to the table, starting to distribute the candles throughout the kitchen and living room, but not lighting any yet since some light was still coming in from outside.

Will sat on the couch, grinning as he watched you, almost seeming like he was pleased and entertained by the situation.

“How long before you turn on the generator?” you asked, testing your luck even though you knew what the answer was going to be.

He shook his head as he laughed again, “Not until I need to. We might have a ways to go here and I’m not wasting gas in the first few hours of this.”

His eyebrows crept up his forehead as he spoke, his voice stern and amused all at once. “You’re going to have to be patient and trust me.”

He had already spent hours checking the house to make sure everything was secure, gathering supplies like gasoline and food and water, and hauled sandbags all morning with Benny and Frankie that they distributed out to the neighbours, even making a point to check in on some of the elderly ones.

“C’mere,” he purred, beckoning you over to where he sat comfortably, his long legs spread wide with one arm draped over the back of the couch.

He looked at you adoringly as you moved toward him slowly, his smile growing to pull out the creases beside his mouth that couldn’t be kept hidden in his beard, and you matched it with your own sly grin, suddenly forgetting everything that was happening around you as you became pleasantly distracted by the man sitting before you.

You straddled his lap, pulling up the hem of your flowy skirt as you did, seating yourself directly on the bulge in his workout shorts that elicited a low moan from him.

“It’s going to be a long night, sweetheart,” he spoke softly, his eyes flickering over your chest and then up to your lips. “We’re going to have to ride this thing out.”

It was said with such implication that despite the heat, you shivered, goosebumps crawling up your back and down your arms, and you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth as you squirmed on his vast thighs.

“And what are your suggestions for…riding… it out, Captain?”

Will shrugged and smirked, his eyes glowing the same way his skin was from the humidity that hung heavily in the room, his hands groping at your hips.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

You smiled as you cupped his cheeks, loving the way his dark blond facial hair felt against your palms, and pulled him into a kiss while arching your back to get your body closer to his at the same time, both of you breathing out in the relief of your lips meeting.

Will set the pace, starting off with slow rolls of his tongue with yours, his hands carding up and down your body languidly, reminding you that there was no hurry in any of your actions and that you had all the time in the world to do anything you wanted with each other.

You slid your hands down the thick column of his neck to his chest, feeling his pulse hammer against them, landing on his chest where his body heat poured off of him, the cotton of his t-shirt damp and clinging to his form.

It took everything in you to maintain composure, thankful for Will reminding you to slow it down whenever you found yourself moving your hips faster, his hands pressing and digging into your flesh to force you to keep the steady rhythm that he started.

The slick that already saturated your thong teased you the more you ground your aching core against him, feeling his hard cock straining against the material that contained it, the excitement and anticipation of having him buried inside you intensifying by the second.

The skin on your chin and lips were already raw from how long you had been kissing, the steamy makeout session only made better by dry humping each other until you both were on the verge of finishing how you were, your whines and moans growing while your movements decreased to be as light as possible in an attempt to prolong this intoxicating tease.

Will kissed and sucked at your neck and chest, having already exposed more of you by tugging the neckline of your shirt to the side with eager hands, his breath fanning over your sweat-coated skin when he sighed deeply through his nose.

“Fuck me, you’re gonna make me cum in my shorts.”

He huffed out a laugh, but his admission only spurred you on more, grinding harder on him until his humour faded out and was replaced by ferocity, growling as he pressed his lips against yours again, the sweat that saturated his beard transferring onto you.

The storm was still going strong in the background, sheets of rain pummeling the house and striking the window with a sound that mimicked waves crashing the shoreline, the nerves you felt about it shifting into a frenzied arousal that you directed onto the man beneath you.

Your hands struggled to get under his shirt, the material so stuck to his stomach from his sweat that the skin on your palms dragged along his abdomen, the tackiness making it difficult for you to peel it up over his head.

It hit the floor with a slap, the weight of it evidence of how much the heat and you were affecting him, and you smiled against his lips at the sound of his breath hitching as you slid your hands down his chest to land on his solid pecs while your lower half continued to torture him.

You touched him everywhere you could reach, smoothing down his stomach and back up again, cradling the sides of his neck and then over his shoulders, and finally up to his hair where you let your fingers rake through it until you knew you had made it stick up in a spiky mess, deepening your kiss as the sensation made him press harder into your mouth.

The window rattled from the force of the winds, disrupting you enough that you broke your kiss and turned to look at it, the thought of it possibly shattering filling you with worry as you were reminded of your vulnerability.

Will placed his hand on your chin, his thumb smoothing it while his other fingers tucked up under your jawline, guiding your head back to face him where he silently assured you that everything was fine, his eyes reflecting a surety and vow of protection that no amount of reinforcements on the house could ever match. He adjusted the pad of his thumb so it sat on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly to part it from the upper one, and it surprised you to see how quickly his expression changed, his eyes darkened so much by lust in a matter of seconds that the look in them rivaled the clouds spiraling outside.

He kissed you desperately, his hands falling to your waist where he lifted your shirt upward, only pausing the union of your mouths long enough to remove it from you, your braless chest grazing against his when you leaned into each other again.

Goosebumps broke out across your skin despite the humidity clinging heavily to the air around you, your nipples hardening and feeling incredibly sensitive each time his body brushed against them, your needy moans pouring into his mouth the more his hands roamed over your mostly bare form.

You could hardly handle it anymore, desperate to feel him deep inside you, moving your hips back slightly so you could access him, tearing the front of his shorts down where you reached in for his cock. Will was helpful, lifting his ass off the couch so his shorts could slide down his thighs in order to expose all of himself, his expression serious with brows furrowed and knitted tightly together as he watched you grip him in your hand and began stroking him tip to base, smearing the precum leaking from it all over his silky shaft.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you back to sit directly on top of his groin, guiding your motions as you rocked your covered pussy on his bare cock.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he hissed, holding your skirt up so he was able to watch you grind along his length, pressing his cock flat against his lower stomach where drips of cum spilled onto the smattering of flaxen pubes.

A slow sigh of approval passed your lips as you continued to languidly ride him, your eyes closing as you lost yourself in the sensation and moaning when you felt Will capture one of your breasts in his mouth and spin his tongue around your nipple.

You could feel him growing more impatient, his lips moving faster along your chest where he eagerly worshiped your tits, his fingers clawing at the thin material of your skirt as if he was ready to rip it to shreds to get at you, and his breathing became more laboured, his chest rising and falling quickly while the exhalations from his nose ghosted against the crests of your breasts.

Your mouth pooled with saliva as he drove his long digits in and out of you in broad strokes before bringing them up to his mouth to suck them clean, his other hand angling his cock to line up to part your folds while you lifted yourself up on your knees to allow him access to enter you.

You sank onto him slowly, letting him fill you inch by inch until you encased him completely, his blue eyes locked with yours with an appreciation held in them that made your heart beat faster.

Remaining still, you leaned forward and kissed him, your hands holding onto either side of his face, deepening your kiss as you relished in the fullness he provided without moving.

When you parted, Will gave you a soft smile that made you melt, his fingers coming up to trace along the side of your cheek.

“I love you,” he said, the surety in his words clear, although his expression was a thrilling mix of adoration and something waiting to be unleashed, the suspense of experiencing either rough or gentle treatment exhilarating you.

“I love you too, Will,” you breathed, not daring to look away from him.

A strong gale slapped the side of the house, reminding you that the hurricane blasting outside wasn’t to be forgotten, but Will immediately drew your attention back to him, his hands smoothing up your back to hold you against him in a firm, but soft way, his lips pressing onto your shoulder and across your collarbone to your neck, alternating between kisses and nips that told you his control was beginning to falter.

You started moving on him, riding him in careful waves that felt so incredible you weren’t sure how long you could keep it up, knowing that whether you moved slow or fast, you would be reaching your climax in no time.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised, resting his back against the couch to watch you, locking his hands on your hips to force you down hard each time you lifted yourself up and almost off his cock.

He was completely enamoured, looking at you as if anything could be happening outside that window and he wouldn’t care to notice, his eyes dancing over your form in a struggle to choose which part of you he wanted to see the most.

Finding the perfect spot that made you thrum with ecstasy, you rolled your hips and bounced up and down, your swollen clit hitting the base of his cock in a shattering blow each time, your skin tingling from head to toe as your orgasm built.

“You’re right there, aren’t you?” Will asked, his words breathy as he admired you sliding on him.

“Yes, fuck!”

Will thrusted up into you a few times, your cries growing loud enough they almost drowned out the noise of the hurricane, your nails digging into the flesh on his shoulder as you approached your high.

“Hey, hey, hold on,” Will interrupted, though his voice was soothing. “Not yet.”

His eyes were big and bright despite the dark grey that had fully consumed the room, and although you were taken aback by him edging you, you couldn't deny the trust you had in him to look after you.

“Sit down,” he ordered, nodding to the space on the couch beside him as helped move your legs off of his.

Will stood and removed his shorts that sat halfway down his legs, stepping out of them before moving to kneel on the floor in front of you, his thumbs smoothing on your knees in a way that contradicted the way he forcefully pressed on them to encourage you to spread your legs for him.

He kissed his way up the inside of your right thigh, a low growl coming from him as he inhaled deeply when he reached your core, and then moved over to your other thigh, peppering wet kisses slowly away from where you needed him most until you were squirming where you sat.

“Will…” you breathed, shifting your hips to try to bring yourself closer to him.

“Let’s get this off,” he grunted, his patience thinning as your skirt was preventing him from taking everything he wanted.

He reached behind you, his fingers easily finding the zipper and pulled it down, keeping steely eye contact while wiggling it off your hips with the help of you shifting from one cheek to the other until he peeled the flowy fabric off of your body.

The creases on his forehead were pronounced as he continued to look up at you as he tugged at the waist of your thong, sliding it down to expose your dripping cunt that his eyes were now fixed on as he guided the wet piece of cotton to your feet.

Will hooked his arms under your legs, letting them relax on his biceps, his tattooed forearms wrapping around your thighs to hold you securely. He pulled you toward him, bringing you to the edge of the cushion so you were flush with his face, his nose brushing your folds before his tongue swiped through the mess he had already made.

A long moan toppled out of you as you raked your fingers through his hair, lifting your hips slightly to get even more contact with his talented tongue that licked at you slowly and precisely in an effort to wreck you.

He picked you apart minute after agonizing minute, continuously bringing you to the peak only to stop you there each time, the violent storm outside going ignored and nothing compared to the one raging inside you.

As always, Will was completely focused on his mission, working you with the expertise he had come to master over all the hours spent learning your body, knowing the exact amount of pressure placed on the perfect spot that would send you soaring.

Not once did his hands leave their hold on your legs, completely unselfish in his art and not even considering touching himself, his generosity and the thought of his leaking, rigid cock left waiting for attention adding to your demise.

He had you where he wanted you, and pushing your tolerance a little further, Will unraveled one of his arms from around your leg and slipped his hand between the sofa and you, fingering you slowly while he sucked at your over-sensitive clit, the precise hook of his fingers making you clench around them like a vice.

And then he stopped.

You cursed loudly, whining and squirming as he sat up and looked at you with a satisfied expression, his face glistening from your pleasure.

A stray branch from a tree flew by and struck the house, drawing both of your attention to the window, but Will was quick to recover where your focus belonged.

He stood, a slight hitch as he straightened his long legs, his body that had been put through so much physical turmoil over his years of service known to cramp up if left idle for too long.

Will gripped at your knee, pushing it toward the back of the couch so your body was forced to spin and lay down, crawling between your spread legs until he was positioned over top of you with his arms braced on either side of your shoulders.

He kissed you intensely, moaning into your mouth as his cock nudged where he had left you aching for relief, savouring you like he had gone without the press of your lips on his for days.

His hand found yours, interlacing your fingers as he brought your arm above your head, laying his body completely on yours so he covered you entirely, protecting you with all he had.

He was heavy, but comforting, his weight assuring and a reminder of his strength and unwavering love for you, and at the same time it came as a warning of the crushing power he could choose to have, like he was a hurricane all in himself and you were in his path of destruction.

Will paused in kissing you as he adjusted his hips, looking down between your bodies to watch his cock easily push through your tight folds, a shaky breath exhaling from his parted lips as his brows knitted tightly together at the sensation of being back in your embrace.

You looked to the side to see out the window as another blast of wind surged against the house, only to have Will squeeze your hand that he still held in his, his voice calm and even.

“Hey, focus on me,” he ordered, his eyes a turbulent blue when you met them. “Look at me.”

You nodded, holding his gaze as he began to move inside you, the feel of him stroking your walls in long, slow drags making it difficult to keep your eyes open.

Your free hand ran along the flexing muscles of his back, clawing at his sweat-coated skin as he found a pace that brought you right back to the point he had left you at more than once, your head tipping back into the couch as you were dragged into the throes of pleasure even more intensely than before.

“You’re safe with me, sweetheart,” Will promised, his voice intoxicating and comforting all at once. “I’ve got you, you can relax…”

He spoke against your neck before moving his mouth back to yours, kissing you gently before probing his tongue in, the tempo of his thrusts deepening now that he knew you were succumbing to everything he was giving you.

He moved on you like the wind moved the rain, pushing and forceful, seeking his own release as he rolled against you with fervor and breathy moans were exchanged between your mouths as you chased your highs together.

Your whole body tensed, convulsing and giving up all control as he fucked you through the shattering orgasm made even more powerful thanks to how he had edged you, feeling yourself release on his shaft that alternated between being buried deep inside you and pulling out almost completely.

Will pressed his mouth hard on yours before breaking the seal of your lips, allowing his laboured breaths and rough grunts to sound out as he fought to follow right behind you, the cadence of your contracting walls coaxing out his end.

You could feel him pulse inside you, filling you to the brim with his thick, hot seed that was always generous in its quantity, his pace remaining steady though his rhythm began to break.

Drops of sweat from his brow landed on your chest, his harsh movements shaking the accumulated moisture off of him, continuing to buck into you erratically until he had nothing left to give.

He crashed against your lips again, transferring even more sweat from his efforts onto your skin, his hand releasing yours where he brought it to your head and smoothed it over your hair, kissing you slowly but purposefully as he gradually let the rolling of his hips fade out.

After a minute, Will pulled out of you, reaching for some tissues out of the box on the side table and handed them to you, taking some for himself for you to both clean up. He stood with a grunt, looking down at you with an extended hand to take the soiled tissues from you, the muscles in his cheeks flinching wildly as he clenched his teeth together.

Will paused for a minute, looking out at the tempest scene, all of his veins raised as blood pumped strongly through them, his muscles accentuated beautifully from his efforts, and you couldn’t help but fall even further in love for him, his face stoic and almost unreadable, but only you knew how much emotion lingered beneath.

He sighed as he moved again, stretching his weary limbs while stalking to the kitchen, and you wondered if he had any idea how much you worshiped him even as he did the simplest of things.

You laid there listening to him rummage around, looking out the window at the ever-present hurricane, the room almost completely dark as night had successfully consumed the sun along with the storm.

Will returned with two glasses of water and set one on the table, passing the other to you.

“Drink up, sweetheart,” he drawled, smirking as he spoke. “The eye hasn't even passed over yet, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

The wink he sent you went straight to your core, your anticipation of whatever else he had planned for you enticing you and almost had you hoping this hurricane would last for days.

You returned his smile as you brought the glass to your lips, sipping it as you watched him sit on the couch beside you and grab the lighter off the coffee table, flicking it on so the warm flame illuminated his dewy, gorgeous features in the otherwise dreary dark. He lit the two candles that you had placed there earlier before grabbing his own glass and downing the contents of it, seeing the way his throat moved as he swallowed making you thirsty for more.

He sighed when he finished drinking, running his hand over his face to rid it of the sweat, and looked back over to you still laying where he had left you.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, his eyes slowly traveling up your naked form until they landed on yours.

You shook your head ‘no’, giving him a sated smile, thinking how you would happily give up air conditioning and electricity permanently if it meant sharing more moments like this with him.

Will gave a nod and laid down beside you, helping you shift so there was room for him to lay with his front against your back, spooning you comfortably where you both were able to face the window.

His arm draped over your waist and tucked under yours, his hand cupping your breast, and tangling his legs with yours, brought his groin as close to your bum as he could.

He hummed against the back of your neck, his nose brushing your damp skin, and you smiled when you felt he was hard again, his cock pressing between your cheeks.

“You’re going to outlast this hurricane,” you giggled, squirming so your bum rubbed along his shaft, making him growl against your skin.

“Damn right, sweetheart,” he chuckled, his hand running down your stomach and around to your ass, spreading your cheeks apart where he slowly pushed inside your tight walls.

He kissed your neck, the sensation of his beard on your skin making you moan and shiver, his hand returning to your breast where he tugged and pinched at your peaked nipple.

“We're going to need to pace ourselves, here,” he warned in your ear, beginning the slow drag of his cock out of you before slamming it back in, the conflict he felt between wanting to keep you safe and seeking to destroy you playing in his mind.

---

Comments and reblogs are the lifeline of fanfic, so if you enjoyed reading this story, please consider sharing your thoughts with me and others! 💗

Taglist:

@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls

@littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie

@rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @casa-boiardi @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989

#will miller #will miller smut #will miller x female reader #triple frontier #charlie hunnam #will miller x reader #will 'ironhead' miller #william miller #william 'ironhead' miller #triple frontier fic #will miller fic #charlie hunnam characters

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charnelhouse · 3 years ago

Note

I am begging for you to let them fuck me in a scare maze

A/N: Venom/Eddie Brock x F!Reader. rough sex. throat touching. cum licking. semi-public sex. venom being a baby.

“I will eat your liver, you ugly little beast,” Venom hisses as he wraps his claws into the squirming teenager's shirt.

“Venom!” you chastise - pressing your palm to the swell of his upper arm. “Put him down.”

“He attacked you!”

“It’s a haunted maze and he didn’t touch me,” you snap as you take both of your hands and try to wrench his huge wrist to the side. You offer the teenager an apologetic smile. “Sorry - sorry - he’s a bit protective.”

Venom releases him with a grunt. The boy crumples to the floor, moaning and shaking and then promptly running back behind the curtain.

“We’re gonna get kicked out,” you groan as you step deeper into the maze, tugging Venom along with you.

“I do not understand why you would choose to be scared on purpose.”

“It’s exciting. It’s like an adrenaline rush.”

“Doesn’t seem very exciting,”he growls just as a clown with macabre white and red makeup and blood-slick teeth bursts out of the side of the wall.

Venom shrieks and swats at the head which goes bouncing off. Your stomach drops - hands flying to your mouth as you mutter: “Oh Venom - what’d you do…”

But you realize there isn’t any spurting blood or bone fragments. Just stuffing. A dummy.

Thank Fuck.

Venom quickly slips back into Eddie. It’s always smooth - like water rushing over stone. Everything is distorted momentarily before Eddie’s face crystalizes through the black, oily texture of Venom.

“Was Venom too scared?” you tease - letting Eddie tug you against his side as you stroll down another abandoned hallway. Lights sizzle and flash. There’s some background noise - screams and howls and creaking floorboards. It’s all very fun.

Eddie pinches your ass. “He didn’t like that. He said he’s just taking a break.”

There are more dummies. More doors that open up to reveal blood-damp demons and white-faced brides with carving knives and mascara soaking their cheeks.

“You wanna makeout?” Eddie asks. “We’d fit right in.”

The whole park had been filled with hormonal teenagers kissing and dry humping and not giving a fuck. The air was aching with the scents of deep autumn: bubbling cider, buttery popcorn, funnel cakes and the earthy insides of pumpkin. The wind snapped and sent leaves crunching beneath your boots. It felt good. It felt normal to have gorgeous Eddie Brock in a sweatshirt toss his arm around you and guide you through the rides and the mazes and buy you too many sweets.

It was like...an actual date.

You tilt your chin up as you study his face. He’s unbearably good looking: the soft fall of his dark hair, the pillowy lips, the pond water eyes that have a tendency to appear sleepy.

“Yeah,” you grin. “Let’s find somewhere private.”

***

It’s totally dangerous. It’s totally possible that you’ll both get caught, but who could care. You’d spend a night in jail for public indecency if it meant Eddie Brock could finger fuck you within an inch of your life in a haunted maze.

There was no one else around and the park was at closing time. It was practically two am and you were so tired you almost felt drunk. Your inhibitions had dissipated with each scrape of Eddie’s teeth across your skin.

“Fuck,” he rasps as he presses his thumb beneath your jaw - the pulse of your heart ringing through your veins. He sucks at your throat - mumbling between kisses: “You taste so fucking good.”

He’s probing and teasing and then there’s Venom slipping out of him - the tendrils unbutton your jeans and travel down the front of your panties. He runs the tip of a tentacle through your folds - flicking the crest of your sex as he hums beneath Eddie.

“Tender,” Venom practically sings. “Tender and wet and ours.”

He pushes down and then inside you - spearing your cunt and making you choke against Eddie’s tongue.

The lights glow red. The dummies and baby dolls and fake corpses all watching as Eddie and Venom pull you apart with such precision. They know exactly what to do - how to make you cum in seconds. Eddie tears himself away from your mouth and he looks hungry - his lids heavy and his pupils blown out and his lips glistening with spit. He grips your hips before twisting you around, shoving your front hard against the wall. Your cheek is wet with whatever the wall is painted in. There’s the smell of plastic and corn syrup and you buck up against Eddie when he grinds into your ass. He’s got one hand clasped around your throat - fingers digging into your jaw and the soft yielding flesh of your face. He plants the heel of his other hand against your clit and rubs in time with each diligent thrust of Venom’s tentacle that is taking you from behind.

Your thighs tremble with it. There’s a knot of pleasure in your core slowly tightening up - threatening to burst and blow and you moan - all desperate and weepy.

“Hear that,” Venom or Eddie or both of them together whisper into your ear. Venom speeds up his pace - the piece of him inside you begins to swell and thicken - stretching you impossibly open as your body sucks him deeper. “Look how wet your pussy is - dripping - how well you take us, little one. All tight and ready and frantic for us - wants us to take her in a dirty maze where everyone could see.”

You whimper - fingertips scrambling at the walls - cunt clenching as your pleasure starts to rise higher - flooding your belly, then your chest and then climbing all the way up your throat. If you screamed now - it would surely spill across the floor - wave after wave of it.

You feel more tendrils - more tiny sucking mouths across your tits. They rise beneath the cotton shirt - yank at your bra until they settle over your nipples and latch. Eddie’s touch has not left your clit - his tongue hot against your shoulder before he sucks marks into the nape of your neck. He rutting himself against you - the bulge of his cock nudging your ass, but he doesn’t use it. He doesn’t shove himself in there with Venom. He just plays your cunt with his fingers and your skin with his mouth and oh - an orgasm sneaks up on you and makes your walls flutter around Venom’s thrusting tentacle.

“That’s our girl,” Eddie rumbles because you’re sure he felt how tight and hot you got just then. Venom and him share the same body - Eddie feels what Venom feels and so on and so forth and you reach behind you to grab at him - to graze his cock and he inhales sharply: “We don’t have time, baby.”

“Yes we do,” you say - hoarse and wrecked. You turn around swiftly, Venom falling out of you and you nearly clench again at the sight of that black tentacle glistening beneath the sizzling apple-red lights with your cum. You rip your jeans down as Eddie unzips himself and then he’s inside you before you blink.

He lifts you in his arms - burying you into the wall. Your cunt is still tender and pulsing from your last orgasm - still gaping from Venom’s thickness. Eddie fills you to the brim. It’s all fucking worth it, too. You see his expression go slack when his cock breaches you - his mouth parting before you capture it with your own.

“Go hard,” you urge as your tongue strokes his.

He doesn’t respond, but rather makes a deep, animalistic snarl from somewhere in the center of his chest. He fixes his grip beneath your thighs, drawing his cock all the way back - head nearly popping out of you before slamming forward. It stings in a way - hurts because you’re still raw and shaky, but then it blooms into true pleasure. It breaks you open and makes you cry out with each snap of his hips. You can feel Venom squirming inside him - feel him invigorating and guiding Eddie - swelling hot beneath his skin and then you feel something nip at your clit before fully sucking it and you convulse. You entirely fall apart with the surprise of your own climax shuddering through your body. Eddie isn’t far behind - spurred on by the sound of your soaked cunt taking him to the hilt over and over again - the muddled noise of his balls smacking against your flesh. It’s dirty. It’s feral and wrong, but it works. It’s you and Eddie and Venom turning an innocent date night at a Halloween festival into a filthy fuck in a maze.

Eddie sinks his teeth into your shoulder when he cums.

“Fuck,” he heaves. “Fuck fuck Christ fuck.”

“Yeah,” you murmur - hoarse. “Ditto.”

You can feel Eddie’s seed already dripping - sliding out of you as he sets you on your feet.

“Shit,” you pant - still trying to find your head and your equilibrium because your heart has left your rib cage. “It’s - fuck - I need something to wipe it.”

Eddie offers you his shirt, which is adorable, before suddenly turning back into His symbiote. Eddie’s lopsided - fucked out grin just sputters away to enormous - hulking Venom. You watch his pink-red tongue unfurl from his jaws before he gently pins you to the wall.

“Let me,” he coos.

His tongue drags over your thighs - licking away the stickiness of Eddie. The salt of him and you. Venom hums in contentment. But he also doesn’t stop and that tongue slithers higher before he pushes it inside you - making you squeak. Your knees nearly buckle, but he holds you up with his gigantic claws - his tongue careful and soft as it wiggles deep.

“We - we need to go, Venom,” you stammer - your gut spasming at the sensation of him thoroughly licking you out - fucking you deep with his tongue.

“No,” he says. “We will go after I’ve had my fill of you.”

#venom x reader #venom x female reader #venom x you #venom imagine #eddie brock x you #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock imagine #eddie brock #eddie brock x female reader #venom #venom x eddie brock

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rotworld · 2 years ago

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3: Outnumbered

you can't outrun a pack of wolves.

->explicit. contains noncon, gangbang, gore, murder, semi-public sex, feral behavior, predator/prey, implied captivity, conditioning, mindbreak

Fifteen seconds per house. That’s all you can spare. Stagger up to the porch on your bleeding, blistered feet, bang on the door, and try not to hope too much. “I need help,” you tell whoever might be listening. Fifteen seconds. If nobody answers, you have to move on.

You try cars when you see them, wave down anybody who passes. Hobbling down the side of the highway, you look like a ghost or a bad Halloween prank. The sores and scrapes on the soles of your feet heal up, scab over, then start bleeding all over again. It’s a spotty, uneven trail, splatters and dragging footprints in crime scene red, but it’s a trail all the same. They could track you with less. A young couple sees you, slows and thinks about it. They pull over and you hurry to the passenger side window. “Please help me,” you beg them. A heavy full moon pushes through the clouds.

They leave you there. Speed off without a word. Too much time wasted. You keep moving, follow the lights.

WELCOME TO SUMMITVILLE says a weather beaten metal sign. It’s midnight and there’s nobody around, just long, empty streets and shuttered storefronts. Not good, you think. Too small. Not safe. There’s a gas station on the corner and you limp through the doors. Harsh, fluorescent light stings your eyes. Cold. Smooth, hard floor. Not dirt and twigs, at least. You grab a bag of chips, a cold drink. Eat here? Keep walking? Fifteen seconds. Shouldn’t linger any more than that. You’re so tired, hurt so much. You lean your forehead against the refrigerator doors. Deep breaths.

“Holy shit!”

You drop everything. No. Not him. Not any of them. Just some guy. Works here, probably. Wears a blue shirt and khakis, headphones around his neck. He’s staring. His eyes move down to your torn t-shirt, the sweat and grass stains, nothing but underwear underneath, then flick back up again. Doesn’t quite meet your eyes because he’s looking at that ragged neckline hanging off one shoulder, at the marks underneath.

Like spots. Like clumsy basting stitch. Crescents of teeth, the flesh sunken and scarred. All over your throat and shoulders and forearms.

The rumble of a motorcycle pulling up outside makes your heart skip a beat. Been here too long. You shove past him, pulse racing. Enclosed. Trapped. The door opens, bells chime. “‘Scuse me,” you hear, a casual, bored drawl, and you go completely still. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Crouch between a line of beers and a row of cheap candy and listen. The guy in front of you hesitates. Looks at you, then glances towards the front of the store. “Anybody home?” The next words are sharper, more impatient. He leaves, and so do you. EMPLOYEES ONLY says the door, but it’s unlocked. A back exit down a short corridor. Voices from the front of the gas station drift by.

“What can I get you, sir?”

“Lost my dog somewhere around here.” You can hear the cruel smirk in those words. “Seen any strays lately?”

Back outside. Chilly wind. Cold pavement. It hurts, everything hurts, but the pain will come and go. They won’t ever stop. Fifteen seconds. You follow the railroad tracks downtown. Hardware. Auto shop. Antique store. Everything’s closed and dark and dead. The night is cold and your fingers are numb. There’s an old place, worn brick and empty windows, ancient FOR RENT signs slathered in graffiti—an open door in an alley. Could stop, catch your breath. Fifteen seconds. It lures you in but you freeze in your tracks halfway to the door. Voices. Growling. You wedge yourself behind a dumpster as footsteps pass by.

“...can’t fucking believe this. I told him to get one of those GPS collars, y’know, with a tracker on it? Now we’re gonna be out here all fucking night—”

“Quit your bitching. You got a nose, don’t you? Don’t need a fucking GPS.”

“Who was on duty, anyway?”

“I dunno. Forest, I think.”

“Gonna fucking kill him when we get back.”

“Alpha beat you to it, I think. You see him tonight, don’t make eye contact. Haven’t seen him this pissed since the territory dispute.”

They pass without stopping. Footsteps fade. Forty seconds, way too long. You slide out from behind the dumpster.

You hear a growl.

You look back only for a second. You need to check. Have to know your chances. The wolf comes prowling out of the abandoned building, half in shadow. Too dark to make out details, but a varied coat, you think, a light muzzle, a dark stripe along the spine. Teeth bared, he sinks low to the ground and snarls. Your final warning. No time to think. Doesn’t matter who it is, anyway. A wolf is a wolf and you’re delirious with exhaustion.

The blisters on your feet split open and every pounding step across concrete feels wet and sharp. You hear the wolf right behind you and then a pause, a growing gap, and you know he’s about to lunge. You throw yourself towards the curb just as a huge, powerful body slams into the pavement where you were just standing. You both lose time, scrambling, pushing yourself to your feet. He recovers faster. Can’t last like this. The world bobs and trembles all around you, dark and hazy at the edges. Have to hide. Break line of sight. You weave into another alley. Climb a fence clumsily, scream when jaws snap like a bear trap around your ankle, but you hold on. You slam your heel against the wolf’s face again and again until the jaw loosens, teeth slipping out of new, fresh marks. You land hard on the other side with a grunt. Not good. Everything hurts, more than before. The wolf paces on the other side, panting, irritated. Yellow eyes watch you scrape yourself off the pavement and limp away.

Your legs protest, knees buckling. You suck in a ragged breath. Not now. Not like this. Have to hide. You drag yourself down another quiet street. There’s a howl behind you. Another answers up ahead and you veer off in another direction. Where? you think, looking around wildly. Where, where, where? Lights. Follow the lights. Streetlamp. Traffic stop. Headlights. A car trundles out of a small, crowded parking lot. Light. Noise. People, there are people here!

You shove through the doors and you’re engulfed in it. People! Neon and the stench of alcohol and talking, laughing, bodies shoulder to shoulder at a bar counter. It’s packed, it’s busy, it’s safe. “Help,” you say, but it’s too loud. They can’t hear you. Music, blaring guitar, a sports game on the TV in the back. “Help me. Please help me!”

You go to the bar, slam your hands down on the counter. So much dirt and grime, blood under your nails. The bartender takes one look at you and fumbles, drops the glass in his hand. You hear it shatter under the counter. “Christ,” he says. “Is, uh…is that—?”

“That’s them, yeah.”

You choke on a gasp. Fuck. You didn’t look close enough. Weren’t paying attention. People, you thought, and charged in without a second thought. Right next to you, seated on a barstool, elbow on the counter and chin resting against his hand—

“Sit,” he commands. A shiver runs down your spine. You fight the impulse to obey. Your body revolts, breaking out in a cold sweat. Those animal eyes are even more frightening in a human face. “Gone for a day and forgot how to behave already?” You’re acutely, painfully aware of everything, from his casual posture to the lazy smile on his face, the neon shine reflecting off of his leather jacket. “You’d better close for the night,” he says. The bartender doesn’t even stop to grab anything, doesn’t say a word, just walks straight out the doors and never looks back. A few other patrons follow, but a few stubborn stragglers refuse to move. One of them gets between the two of you, drunk, slurring his words.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he says, just before his face is slammed into the bar counter.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You stand there, your gaze trained on the floor and your bare, mangled feet, as shouting turns to squealing and dies to pained groans. You hear his nose crunch. You hear his face turn to tenderized meat. You hear stools scraping the floor and clattering, overturned, as everyone else makes a dash for the doors. The only one left squirms helplessly in the grasp of your alpha, hair caught between clawed fingers. There’s no anger on your alpha’s face, no strong attachment to the violence he’s inflicting. He reaches across the counter and grabs an empty beer bottle, smashing it into a pronged, jagged weapon. It goes into the man’s throat with swift, brutal precision, a hard squelch and splatter. The body slumps over the counter, clawing at a bleeding, gaping wound, and then falls still.

Your alpha wipes the blood on his jeans. He leaves the corpse there, ignores it as he takes his phone out of his pocket. He texts someone, lets out an amused exhale. You take a step back and he pins you in place with nothing but a sharp glance. “You wanna make this worse?” he asks.

You can’t breathe. You’d thought about this—had nightmares, woke up screaming—thought about what you’d say to him. Now, nothing comes to mind. Instinct tells you to lower yourself. Sit or kneel. Show your throat and apologize. “Please,” you say, a sob building in your throat. “Please, I want…I don’t—”

“Don’t wanna get punished?” His eyes are amber, burning gold. “Shouldn’t have run, then. Easy as that.”

“I wanna go home.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” he asks. “You should be grateful. You’re not gonna freeze to death tonight.”

“That’s not my—”

The bar counter cracks and splinters as he slams his fist down. His whole body lurches forward as he just narrowly holds himself back from lunging at you. Your alpha exhales, runs a hand over his face. His ears have grown pointed, lightly furred at the tips. You listen to his harsh, uneven breaths, a curved fang retracting back behind his lips. “You’re lucky,” he mutters. “So fucking lucky I give a shit about you. You remember the territory dispute? Remember all those bones we found in that basement? The chains on the walls? You want that to be you?” You shake your head and he growls. “I asked you a fucking question. Is that what you want? Do you want me to treat you like shit? Wanna get forgotten in some musty fucking dungeon, never see the sun again?”

“No,” you sob. The dam breaks. Everything you’ve been holding in, all the pain and fear and helplessness comes surging out at once. You collapse, your knees bruising on the wooden floor. You can’t run anymore. This is as far as you go. Your alpha appraises you with cold eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say.

“You don’t mean it,” he murmurs.

“I do! I’m sorry! I’m…I don’t want…”

The doors open behind you, cold air rushing in. There’s a commotion, a few shouts and jeers and clapping as people—not people, not really—start to file in, surrounding you. You see familiar work boots, lace-up, steel-toed. A few pairs of slips on and tennis shoes. You cry out when somebody’s hand closes around the nape of your neck, squeezing, forcing your head down against the floor. A warm body folds against your back and you hear snickering.

“I almost had you!” you hear, a boyish singsong that devolves into laughter. Sully rocks his hips and he’s naked, you realize, just shifted back. His cock is hard and throbbing against your ass, rubbing a damp spot of precum into your underwear. “Aww, are you tired? Poor little human all tuckered out? That’s okay. We caught you now, so you can relax.”

“Wasn’t you, jackass. They’ve been running all fucking night,” Basil mutters. He’s standing to your right, dirt caked to his sneakers.

“But I’m the one who herded them here,” Sully insists. You whimper when he starts humping you, his hips pumping in quick, animal motions. It’s reflex more than conscious thought, the familiarity of your warmth and softness under him.

“We all herded. You just got the last stretch. Y’know, the easy part.”

“You’re just mad ‘cuz you’re not ranked high enough to have a taste till we get home.”

“Stop fucking fighting,” the alpha says. There’s no real bite to the words, just bemused affection. “Let Blake through.”

The crowd parts. Sully’s grip on your neck eases and someone kneels in front of you. Gentle fingers caress your chin and urge you to look up. Faded jeans. Aviator jacket. Dark hair streaked with gray and silver and stern, worried eyes. Your beta says nothing. You feel small under his scrutiny, embarrassed and ashamed. He examines the swelling on your bruised cheek, the scrapes on your forehead.

Finally, he says, “We were worried about you.” His palms are warm and soothing against your skin and you fight the urge to lean into him. “You could’ve gotten hurt out here, you know. You could’ve gotten into serious trouble. Not all humans understand or respect pack laws. Are you listening to me?” He keeps his voice gentle and steady, never raising it, never growling. His thumb strokes your cheek. “I think you are. I think you’re just being difficult. That’s okay. You were difficult when we found you. Do you remember that? We trained it out of you. I’m surprised you got this far. You’re not going to run again, though, are you?”

You swallow hard. The others are quiet. You hear a barstool creak as your alpha stands and approaches. It’s hard not to whimper or flinch. He doesn’t intervene. He just stands there at the edge of the circle. You feel his gaze burning into your skin.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” your beta says. “You’re not going to run again, are you?”

You tremble. It’s hard. You want to speak. You want to promise him you won’t run, you won’t disobey, you’ll do everything they tell you. You want it all to stop. But you know how this is going to end. You don’t want this to be for nothing. Your only freedom is this small act of defiance, resisting everything they drilled into you. It’s all you have left.

Your beta pets you like a dog. His touch is gentle. He strokes your hair and the smallest whimper escapes you. “Max,” he says. Someone behind you steps forward. “Basil.” You hear spluttering, a shocked, “Wait, I…really? Holy fuck. For real? I can?” that your beta ignores completely. “Sully.”

“One step ahead of you. Hold still, cutie.” Sully rips your clothes off in shredded fistfuls, uncaring of how his claws carelessly slice into your skin. “Oh—fuck, sorry, alpha. I think that was your shirt.”

“It’s fine,” your alpha says. “Reeked of outsiders anyway.”

A panicked, “Wait!” slips out before you can stop it, a scared noise that draws their attention like bloodhounds to a deer. “I can’t…hurts…”

“It would hurt less if you hadn’t made us chase you this far,” your beta says calmly. He holds you still as the others close in, his grip on your chin tightening. “It wouldn’t hurt at all if you didn’t run away.”

Sully fucks you open with hard, punishing thrusts, spurred on by your shrieks and crying. “Fuck!” he groans, hips pumping until you’re completely, painfully full. He grabs your ass with both hands, squeezing and kneading, sinking his claws in. You yelp when he slaps you, the shape of his palm seared into your skin. “Ngh, you feel so good!”

You’re in such agony that you don’t realize someone else is touching you, not until you feel a large, calloused hand fold your fingers around a hard cock. “There we go,” Max’s low, quiet voice murmurs. “Just like that. Now do it on your own.” Max is so big he fills your palm. It’s humiliating, how easily you give in. They trained you so well that you don’t have to think about it, squeezing just above the engorged flesh of his knot and making him moan.

“Do I just—?” Basil shifts nervously on your other side. “Should I—? I mean, I don’t wanna overstep…”

“Come here, Basil,” your beta says. He almost trips over his own feet in his rush to obey. Every set of eyes in this room is looking right at you, watching you quiver and moan. Sully slams into you from behind and keeps a firm grip on your hips, keeping you from moving away. He’s already close, too pent up and excited from the chase. He starts rutting mindlessly, nipping at your shoulders and the side of your neck.

“Gonna cum,” Sully mutters.

“No knotting,” your beta says.

“Aw, but—but!”

“Sully,” your alpha growls.

All the air in your lungs leaves in a rush when Sully tears out of you. You hear him snarl, sounding just like he did as a wolf, and then his teeth are in your neck. He latches onto an old scar, tearing the bumpy flesh open again. He doesn’t let go until his harsh panting evens out, until the obscene, slick sounds of him jerking off slow from their frenzied pace and you feel his cum splatter across your back. “Just you wait,” he mutters, kissing the bloody bite he leaves behind. “Gonna fuck you stupid when we get home. Gonna stuff you with my knot all night.” His weight leaves your body and you’re cold, your back arched and your entrance spasming, clamping down on nothing. You wanted him to cum inside, and the realization makes you feel sick.

Your beta shows Basil how to hold your jaw. How to stroke your hair, how to pull when you misbehave. Just enough force to make your scalp burn and tears prick your eyes. Someone else takes Sully’s place and fills you in one brutal thrust and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Holy fuck,” Basil gasps. You take him easily. You barely gag. His length fills your mouth and his tip bumps the back of your throat, and your instincts are pleased, purring. You don’t feel human anymore. “Shit, they’re—so fucking good!”

“...long drive back. Shouldn’t stay too long,” you think your beta says, but you aren’t listening. Can’t, not with all the growling, the slap of flesh against flesh, the ringing in your ears as your toes curl and you feel the smothering rightness of your place here on your knees. Max cums on your hand and then he thrusts his softening cock against it, smearing his scent between your fingers and over your wrist. Marking you. Making you theirs again. Basil starts to move his hips, a slow, shaky pace as he praises you breathlessly, calls you good and sweet and perfect. The praise makes you giddy and you relax your throat, drooling around his length as his balls slap your chin.

“...few more times, just to be sure,” your alpha says, his voice sounding so far away. His eyes find yours and you try to bare your neck to him even now with Basil fucking your throat, arching your back and meeting the thrusts of the person behind you, presenting yourself just the way he likes.

Your alpha smiles for the first time that night and everything hurts so much less.

#rotpeach writes #original #goretober #dedicated to everyone who wanted last years werewolves to be meaner #boy do i have the pack for you lmfao

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wondernimbus · 4 years ago

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two sworn enemies pt. 2 — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: maybe being fancied by draco malfoy isn’t so bad, after all.

requests are closed for now. please refrain from plagiarizing my work!

click here to read pt. 1!

"Why is it so bloody cold?"

[Y/N] is decked out in full winter apparel; a knitted Gryffindor sweater, ear-muffs, and a scarf that she has half of her face buried in.

Sitting in the Quidditch stands with the rest of her friends, she grumbles, "It's not even a Gryffindor match. We don't really have to be here freezing to death."

"Well, it's common courtesy," says Hermione, but she's just as cold as [Y/N] is; there's bits of snow stuck in her hair and the tip of her nose is pink.

Ron snorts loudly. “We’re here to watch Slytherin lose," he says matter-of-factly, still in the process of smearing streaks of blue paint across his cheek.

[Y/N] watches him, nose scrunched. "Well, aren't you the Ravenclaw fanatic."

He gives her a grin and holds out the small tub of paint. "Want some?"

She bunches up her lips in thought, then reaches out to take it. Annoyingly enough, Ron pulls back at the last moment, grinning wider than ever, and says, "Or d'you want to show support for your boyfriend Malfoy? Hermione, why don't you turn this green—"

[Y/N] dives over Hermione and Harry to smack Ron round the head, only for the pair to hold her back and push her into her seat.

Exasperated, Hermione huffs, "Honestly, Ronald, will you stop bringing that up?" She glares at him. "You know fully well [Y/N] doesn't like it."

Ron (and Harry, although he isn't as boisterous about it as the redhead), thinks that the "blond ferret" taking a fancying to her is one of, if not the most hilarious thing to have ever happened in history. Annoyingly enough, Ron has made it a habit to tease her about it every chance he gets—this one being one of them.

"If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Ron fancied Malfoy with how much he talks about him," grins Harry. This earns him a smatter of blue paint across his face; Ron had flicked it at him.

With one last eye-roll, [Y/N] tears her gaze away from Ron and digs her nose further into her scarf. It really is very cold; snow is falling from the sky, seeping into her clothes, some landing on her hair and on her face. Thankfully there's not so much of it that the players on the pitch wouldn't be able to see around them, but still—[Y/N] imagines that it'd be a lot colder for them, having to fly around the stadium with the cold wind whipping at their robes.

There’s a buzz of loud chatter hanging in the air as conversations from all around them overlap over one another. The entire stadium is slowly filling up; students trickle into the stands, a majority of which have adorned themselves with blue accessories as a show of support to Ravenclaw. One side of the stands, however, is entirely green. Through the snow, she can see a big serpent-shaped balloon hovering over the Slytherin side.

"They’re coming out!" someone exclaims.

Sure enough, when [Y/N] looks down at the pitch, players from both teams have appeared and congregated at opposite ends of the pitch. Slytherin and Ravenclaw; whichever house wins will play Gryffindor for the house cup. Most bets are on Slytherin, but [Y/N] would have to be dead before she is caught anywhere supporting them.

"Look, it's [Y/N]'s boyfriend," gushes Ron.

More out of habit than anything, [Y/N] shoots the redhead yet another brief, scathing look. Draco Malfoy is there, even though he's nowhere near being her boyfriend, pale face set into a stoic expression of calm as he stands with the rest of his team, one hand on his broom and the other on his hip—and this specific image has her thinking back to what happened two weeks ago on this very same pitch, except the stadium was empty and it was only the two of them on the grounds; when he'd confessed to liking her.

As if Malfoy has somehow heard her thoughts over the noise of excited chatter coming from all over the stands, he looks up, eyes sweeping the seats in search for someone before finally, they land on her.

When he meets her gaze, [Y/N]'s breath isn't knocked out of her chest, nor does she start blushing madly. But she doesn't burn red with annoyance, either. All she does is stare at him, eyes narrowed, watching as his lips split into a wide grin and he raises his hand to wave at her.

She rolls her eyes, but thankfully—thankfully, the scarf tucked around her neck, reaching up to her nose, conceals the smile that tugs at her lips.

"May I ask everyone to please find themselves in their seats before the match begins," McGonagall’s voice echoes around the stadium, giving [Y/N] a reason to break eye contact.

She tears her stare away from Malfoy’s, inhaling a deep breath through her nose, feeling oddly exhilarated.

But this isn't anything new. That slight feeling of breathlessness, that unfamiliar sensation tickling at her stomach whenever she spots a certain someone in the hallway; she's been feeling it a lot lately, and though the cause seems to be pretty obvious, that is another thing she'd have to be caught dead before doing: admitting that she reciprocates some of Malfoy’s.. peculiar feelings.

"And they're off!" Dean Thomas announces. [Y/N] watches as the players soar high into the air until they're mostly level with the stands, a blur of blue and green robes rapidly zooming around the pitch. Slytherin is already in possession of the quaffle; not a surprise, considering Ravenclaw isn't exactly known for their exceptionally talented Quidditch team.

Malfoy, meanwhile—[Y/N] tells herself that the way her eyes dart around the pitch in search of a certain platinum blond is because she wants to watch the game properly and not for other reasons.

She spots him hovering somewhere above the rest of the players, face screwed up in concentration as his gaze moves around the pitch in search for the golden snitch. He looks even paler in winter, set against a backdrop of a cloudy sky and snow—

[Y/N] jars herself out of her thoughts and blinks, side-eyeing her friends (specifically Ron) to make sure they hadn't seen her.. observing the Slytherin seeker. (Not like it matters; it's not as though she fancies him, but Ron would certainly take it the wrong way.)

"Go Ravenclaw!" Ron practically screeches, waving his Ravenclaw banner in the air—when did he get that? "Kick Slytherin’s arse so Gryffindor can crush you in the finals!"

[Y/N] snorts. "Have it all thought out, don't you, Ron?"

"Go on and cheer for your Slytherin boyfriend, [Y/N], no one's stopping you," says Harry, grinning. She turns to face him, mouth open in disbelief, and lets out a quick breath of incredulous laughter.

"So, Harry," [Y/N] says, suddenly deadpan. ”I see you've chosen Ron’s side."

Harry snickers, then shrugs.

"Oh, Malfoy’s seen the snitch!" someone shouts from beside them. [Y/N] turns back to the game to see Malfoy zooming down the pitch, clutching the front of his broom as he swerves past Slytherin and Ravenclaw players alike in pursuit of the tiny golden ball all the way on the other side of the stadium, where [Y/N] and her friends are sat. He has the upper hand—Ravenclaw's seeker is only just now starting to fly after him, but she's a good distance behind and Malfoy is gaining speed.

"He’s gonna catch it!"

"Ravenclaw's even worse than I thought," grumbles Ron, slumping down in his seat.

But just as Malfoy passes by them, somehow, despite the fact that he is in pursuit of the bloody golden snitch and on the brink of securing victory for his team, he slows down just the tiniest bit, and then, in true Malfoy fashion—theatric as always in his displays of affection—he catches her eye and yells “This one's for you, [Y/N]!”, a grin on his face before he hurtles down the pitch, stretching out his hand towards the fluttering snitch—

"Malfoy’s got the snitch!" Dean Thomas screams into his microphone. "Slytherin wins!"

[Y/N] stares, feeling oddly warm despite the wintry weather, as Malfoy spins around in mid-air, triumphantly holding up the snitch for the rest of Hogwarts to see.

"Blimey," gapes Ron, wide-eyed, staring not at the Slytherin seeker but at [Y/N]. "That was—"

[Y/N] looks away from Malfoy to meet Ron's gaze, maintaining indifference. "He’s quite the charmer, isn't he?" she mutters, and hopes that her friends will think that the blush on her cheeks is because of the cold and not because of something—someone else.

But that's ridiculous. It is because of the cold, isn't it?

"It may be Malfoy," says Ron slowly, shaking his head, "But you can't deny that was bloody romantic. Felt like I was watching something out of one of those Muggle films."

"Yeah, we'll have to ask him for tips," says Harry, and starts laughing when [Y/N] rolls her eyes in response.

—

Malfoy may have stopped sending her Howlers, but that hardly matters because he has found every other way to pester her.

This includes consistently yelling out her name and shouting random pick-up lines every time he spots her in the hallway, as well as sending people to do her bidding—no longer first-years, but Crabbe and Goyle, who show up at random intervals everyday presenting her with a batch of different pastries. She always sends the pair off, but only after Ron and Harry accept said pastries for themselves.

"Blimey, this is heavenly!" gushes Ron, taking a passionate bite off of his second red velvet cupcake. "You sure you don't want a bite, [Y/N]? Hermione?"

[Y/N] offers him an exasperated smile. "No, thank you, Ron."

"Don’t thank me, thank your boyfriend."

The four of them walk into the dingy Potions classroom. Snape is nowhere to be seen, but it's only a matter of time before he swoops in all bat-like, so [Y/N] and Hermione quickly take a seat at their regular desk, right next to Ron and Harry.

"Have you done your homework?" asks Hermione, pulling out an assortment of parchment from her bag.

[Y/N] hums in response. "I doubt mine is half as good as yours, but hopefully I’ll scrape an acceptable."

"Oh, you're a good student, [Y/N]. Don't bring yourself down."

"Hard not to when I’m sitting next to the brightest witch in our year," she nudges Hermione’s shoulder, smiling. Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes, but it's clear by the pleased look on her face that she doesn't hate [Y/N]'s honest flattery as much as she lets on.

[Y/N] drums her fingers on the desk to pass time, not quite paying attention to the students filtering into the classroom. Or at least not until one of them calls her name and drawls, "Is someone sitting here?"

[Y/N]'s head snaps around to see none other than Malfoy, gesturing to the desk to the left of hers and Hermione’s. "Mind if I,” he pauses, grinning, "Slytherin?"

She purses her lips into a thin, tight line, inhaling deeply as she fights to keep her cool. Yes, there are times when Malfoy's gestures have her questioning her own hatred for him, but this—this is not one of them.

"That," she says, voice mostly level. "Is your seat, Malfoy. I don’t see why you have to ask me."

Which is a lie. [Y/N] knows why, of course. To get her attention. To woo her. But part of her wishes that Malfoy would realize that everything he is doing, from the overbearing pick up lines to the cupcakes to his constant public declarations of love, isn't something that [Y/N] thoroughly enjoys. Does she want him to stop yelling at her in the hallways? Yes. Does she want Crabbe and Goyle to stop bumbling up to her everywhere she goes (outside of the girl's bathroom is one example) offering cupcakes and pie and tarts? Yes. But does she want Malfoy to stop trying entirely?

Maybe not. Maybe part of her wants to give him a chance. He does seem to truly hold feelings, judging from his confession back at the Quidditch stadium, unless he's a terribly good actor.

And it wouldn't just be him she'd be giving a chance, either. Perhaps she'd also be doing so to herself. Because, over the past month, it's baffled her how quickly her feelings for him have shifted. Or maybe it's not a change of feelings, but rather realization that under all that sneering and pureblood prejudice, Draco Malfoy is a boy.

An annoyingly attractive one.

But there is so much more that [Y/N] dislikes about him. His snootiness. His arrogance. His lack of consideration for other people's feelings. He may be tall and lithe and undeniably handsome, and he may have very soft-looking platinum blond hair and stormy grey eyes like dark clouds, but he is also a prick. And that wins over everything else, no matter how.. visually pleasing he is.

So when a paper bird flutters in front of her halfway through the lesson, when Snape’s back is turned, [Y/N] hesitates. She knows fully well who it's from, despite not having to look to the side and meet his gaze.

From beside her, Hermione whispers, "Get rid of it, before Snape sees."

Exhaling, [Y/N] snatches the paper bird and quickly unfolds it.

She doesn't know what she's expecting to see, but it's certainly not the words "meet me at the Astronomy tower after dinner" scribbled across the parchment. And with a drawing of a face blowing kisses, no less.

[Y/N] sighs.

—

[Y/N] has no real feelings for Malfoy, so succumbing to his mysterious evening request at the Astronomy tower shouldn't mean anything.

Scratch that: it doesn't mean anything. Not to her. (Or so she tells herself.) This is a chance for her to tell Malfoy to sod off and to stop courting her. And for good, this time. No matter what that annoying little voice inside her head tells her, she can't possibly even consider the idea of actually giving in to him. (And to herself.)

So she's going to put a stop to it, once and for all.

"I’m going," she decides over dinner, slamming her palms down on the table.

"Going where?" asks Harry.

"The Astronomy tower," she replies resolutely.

"What, to go star-gazing?" Ron snickers. [Y/N] glances at him and realizes, quickly, that telling them had slipped her mind—she'd been far too preoccupied with her own conflicting thoughts.

She shifts in her seat. She doesn't necessarily need to tell them, does she? It's not as though it's important enough to share. And besides, Ron would only badger her about it. Mercilessly. [Y/N] can already picture him in her head, talking about Malfoy and snogging under the stars and Merlin-knows-what-else.

"Nevermind," says [Y/N], taking a bite out of a muffin and looking away. They don't need to know; it's not as though it's important.

—

After [Y/N] has walked up all of the stairs to get there, only taking one or two shortcuts, she's out of breath, but she creeps into the Astronomy tower anyway. It’s mostly dark save for the faint moonshine filtering in from the open sides, and, well—there he is.

Malfoy’s arms are crossed over his chest, his back mostly turned as he stands dangerously close to the railing, looking out over the dark landscape. Dim light catches on the side of his face, illuminating the grey of his eyes.

The curve of his nose.

Pale skin.

White-blond hair.

[Y/N] finds herself staring, one hand on the doorframe as though for support, brows furrowed in the middle in a slight frown as she watches him.

He looks lost in thought. Even from a few feet away, [Y/N] can see the far-off, distant look in his eyes. Like storms brewing behind dark clouds, she thinks to herself. It’s a quiet little whisper in the back of her mind that has her heart doing odd little flips inside of her chest that she never knew it was capable of.

But then she blinks.

This is the last thing [Y/N] needs. To see Malfoy stripped of his arrogance—to see him as he is, bathed in moonlight, glowing, almost. To look at him and to see a boy with eyes like molten silver and nothing more—it's the last thing she needs to convince herself that she doesn't feel something for him that isn't hatred.

No, she doesn't need this.

She turns around, breath caught in her throat, and starts walking down the steps. Accidentally, stupidly, her foot catches on a metal step and a loud clang echoes around the silent tower.

[Y/N] pauses, eyes wide.

"[Y/N]?" Malfoy's voice says. He can't see her. It’s too dark, and [Y/N] is too far down the steps.

She swallows. But instead of dreading what could come, she finds herself waiting, half-hoping that he'd check the staircase, that he would see her and—

And then what?

[Y/N] rushes down the steps, ignoring the loud noise her footsteps make on the way. This is the last thing she needs.

—

[Y/N] doesn't like Malfoy.

[Y/N] doesn't like Malfoy, and she is determined to make that clear. (Both to herself and to her friends, although the former seems to be taking a lot more convincing.)

"What is there to like about him? He’s nothing but an annoying pain in the arse who has an overwhelming amount of pride and arrogance simply because of his blood—which is not only something that he never rightfully earned but is also something that shouldn't even bloody matter, except he thinks that it does solely because he is an absolute nutter who has nothing better to do with his life other than leech off of his parents' money and shove it in other people's faces."

Ron meets Harry’s gaze from across the table, who seems to be trying very hard not to laugh. Swallowing down a forkful of pancakes, Ron looks back at [Y/N]. "I’m sorry," he begins slowly. "But remind me again why we're talking about Malfoy?"

"I’m not finished, Ronald," [Y/N] snaps, shooting him a dirty look. Ron raises his eyebrows. "As I was saying before someone so rudely cut me off, Malfoy is a nasty little git who finds joy in making other people suffer. he probably has tiny puppies locked up inside his basement just so he can laugh in their faces and revel in their misery because he is that horrible of a person—"

Harry lurches with poorly suppressed laughter.

"An absolute terrible excuse for a human being! He basks in other people's humiliation—mine, for example!—and I would much rather snog the Giant Squid than ever actually consider his—" She pauses, gritting her teeth. "Odd.. requests."

"It’s not like he's asking you to murder house-elves," Ron mutters.

"Something that I would rather do than date him!"

"[Y/N]!" Hermione gasps, looking genuinely offended as she, for the first time since they'd arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, looks up from the homework she's rushing to finish. (As if her five pieces worth of parchment aren't enough—Flitwick had only asked for three!)

"Sorry, Hermione," [Y/N] says, offering her an apologetic look that she only half-means. This quickly turns into a fierce look of challenge as she swivels back around in her seat to face the redhead sitting next to her. "Honestly, since when have you started defending Malfoy?"

Ron blanches. "I’m not defending him!" he says indignantly, setting his fork down on his plate. "It’s just.. yeah, it's a bit odd that he's declaring his undying love for you out of bloody nowhere, but he's stopped badgering us, hasn't he? Nasty little ferret hasn't said a word to Harry for weeks! And that goes for me and Hermione, too!"

[Y/N] narrows her eyes at him. "So you think it's great that he's stopped annoying you at the cost of my suffering?"

"What suffering!" Ron exclaims. "He’s been treating you like a bloody princess!"

"Oh, why don't you just snog him yourself, then, if you think so highly of him?"

Ron’s jaw drops in shocked offense.

"Alright, that's enough!" Harry announces, reaching over the table to shove the two apart from each other. "Why doesn't one of you switch seats with me before you end up strangling each other?"

"I don't know, Harry," [Y/N]'s lip curls. "I might have to hold Ron back before he goes running off to his ferret prince—or should we just let him? Merlin knows he'd love to, won't you, Ronald?"

Ron’s teeth are gritted; his eyes dart around the food on the table as though looking for the most effective weapon. He seems to be choosing between a green apple and rhubarb pie.

Thankfully, Ron never gets to take his pick. The bell rings, saving everyone in the Great Hall from witnessing what could have possibly been a brawl between friends. "Come on, let's go," says Harry quickly, relief evident in his tone of voice as he ushers the pair to their feet. "Wouldn’t want to be late for class."

—

[Y/N] doesn't like Malfoy.

[Y/N] doesn't like Malfoy, but why does she find herself staring at him whenever she comes across him in the hallway the next day? Why, when Malfoy meets her gaze, does she look away and pretend to be immersed in something else?

And why in the bloody hell, when Malfoy playfully winks at her during Potions class, does she find it very, very hard not to smile?

She walks out of the dungeon classroom in a hurry with Ron, Harry, and Hermione, not wanting to spend a minute more in Malfoy's presence; she doesn't particularly enjoy being suddenly hyperaware of every move he makes, every little glance he sends her way when he thinks she isn't paying attention. It’s as though something in her system has gone awry. Is that why her heart feels like it's about to hop right out of her chest? Is that why she can't stop wondering what would've happened if she'd stayed at the Astronomy tower?

"Hey, wait up!” Harry calls loudly as they walk up the stone steps leading away from the dungeons and into the main hallway, which is bustling with students.

[Y/N], who had been walking far too fast in front of the three, looks back over her shoulder and sees that they're a few feet away. She stops, seemingly flustered, and waits for them to catch up.

"You look like you've wet your pants," says Ron.

"I’m not you, Ron," she retorts.

"Oh, can you two please stop bickering for once?" says Hermione, exasperated.

From behind the three, Draco Malfoy emerges from the potions classroom and begins walking up the stone steps. [Y/N]'s hands clench into fists at her side as she discretely presses her back to the stone wall at her sides.

The blond doesn't even as much as glance at Ron, Harry, and Hermione as he passes by them on the steps. [Y/N], however—once Malfoy has reached the step below the one she's standing on, he pauses, no less than two feet away from her, and quirks an eyebrow.

"What?" [Y/N] scowls, trying not to look at the strand of blond hair dangling in front of his eyes.

Malfoy’s gaze dances over her face. "Was it you?"

She meets her friends' eyes over Malfoy's shoulder. Ron and Harry have their eyebrows raised; Hermione looks concerned. [Y/N] takes a moment to compose herself—tries to force her heart back into her chest—before she folds her arms across her chest and looks at the Slytherin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"At the Astronomy tower," Malfoy says, and moves up one step so that he's standing on the same one she's on. A foot away. "I heard someone last night, while I was waiting for you."

Oh, Merlin.

"You came, didn't you?" he presses on.

"No," [Y/N] lies, and hates how defensive she sounds. She shifts a little on her feet, her eyes skirting away to look at a random spot behind Malfoy. "I was.. at the library. Doing things of actual importance."

There’s a slight pause as Malfoy's nose wrinkles. "Must’ve been someone else spying on me, then," he finally says through a scoff, but [Y/N] knows disappointment when she sees it. He rolls his shoulders back and puts on his signature smirk, inclining his head towards her as he takes another step up the stairs. "Better hurry and give me an answer, [Y/N]," he tells her, grinning. "Before one of my admirers get to me first."

[Y/N] watches as he walks up the steps and disappears into the hallway.

"The library?" a voice says incredulously. She turns back to Ron, whose face is scrunched in disbelief. "No, you weren't! We were waiting for you there and you never came."

[Y/N] folds her arms across her chest indignantly but doesn't respond, instead walking up the stone steps.

"Malfoy said he was waiting for you at the Astronomy tower," says Hermione slowly as they trail after her; [Y/N] speeds up her pace. "Is that why you mentioned going there during dinner last night?"

[Y/N] emerges into the main corridor first. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did!" bursts Ron, sounding downright triumphant.

"Congratulations, Ron, you don't have the memory range of a teaspoon, after all," [Y/N] mutters, looking around. Malfoy is walking down the hallway a few feet ahead of them, Crabbe and Goyle at his side.

Ron ignores her. "I bet you did go. I bet you did spy on him—" And then he gasps, looking as though he's unearthed the secret of life. "Merlin’s beard, you really do fancy him, don't you?"

[Y/N]'s footsteps falter. Ron, Harry, and Hermione stop right with her.

Hermione is the only one who doesn't look stunned out of her mind. Looking between the two boys, she rolls her eyes and scoffs. "Honestly, is that so hard to believe?" says Hermione, frowning. "I understand that it's Malfoy and he is a prick, but [Y/N] is perfectly entitled to fancy whoever she likes." She turns to [Y/N]. "It’s fine, [Y/N], you don't have to feel guilty about it. Anyone would catch feelings if someone started doing such sweet things for them, even if it were someone like Malfoy."

"Blimey," says Harry, breathless. "Which part sealed the deal, [Y/N]? The pick-up lines? Or was it the cupcakes?"

[Y/N], who had been opening and closing her mouth like a fish blown out of water, finally stops trying to find words that just aren't there and instead drags her palm across her face in frustration. "I don't.." she says, sounding defeated, but really—now that she's faced with such confrontation, it's easier to admit to herself that maybe.. maybe she does fancy Malfoy.

Ron’s lips have split into a jubilant grin. ”I called it!" he says, smacking Harry's shoulder. "Bloody knew it!"

Hermione reaches out to rub [Y/N]'s back. "Don’t feel too bad about it, [Y/N]. I sort of knew—you looked at him differently after he confessed to you on the pitch."

[Y/N] sighs, realizing that no amount of denying it will convince her friends. Or herself.

She does fancy Malfoy.

Properly acknowledging it—finally admitting it to herself—is oddly relieving. She’s been keeping her feelings cooped up inside of her chest despite the fact they are so much bigger than her, and now that she's letting them burst free.. now that she's coming to terms with them..

Well. It’s not the worst feeling ever.

Ron is still beaming, looking as though he's won the lottery. And apparently, in a way, he has: "Fred and George said it'd take you a month longer to give in. I said it'd take you less—guess I’ve won myself two galleons!"

[Y/N]'s mouth falls open. "You bet on this?"

Ron raises his eyebrows, as though surprised to hear that she didn't know. "Uh, I and the entire bloody castle."

Struck by a sudden burst of both annoyance and confidence, [Y/N], scowling, detaches herself from her friends and strides down the hallway towards Malfoy, full of intent. He hasn't noticed her yet; his back is still turned, but she catches up to him easily. And when she does, she unceremoniously bumps her shoulder into his and grabs his hand, quickly interlacing her fingers through his.

"What the hell—"

Malfoy, obviously taken aback, tries to pull his hand away, sneering, until his gaze lands on [Y/N].

"Keep walking, Malfoy," she says scathingly, not quite looking at him.

Baffled, Malfoy stares at her, then down at their hands, which are now tightly interlocked between them. [Y/N] scowls resolutely at the hallway ahead of her.

And then Malfoy laughs, more out of disbelief than amusement.

"Keep walking," [Y/N] repeats, this time turning to look at him, fighting to keep her gaze indifferent. The last thing she wants Malfoy to know is that there is an onslaught of tiny little butterflies rampaging in her stomach and a tingly feeling spreading from their hands all the way up her spine and into her heart.

Malfoy’s lips tug up into a wide grin—a real one, [Y/N] thinks. Not an arrogant smirk or a deprecating sneer; one that she can't ever recall seeing. But now that she has, she finds herself wishing he'd do it more often.

[Y/N] tugs him along as she walks, feeling the stunned stares of her friends boring into her skull from behind. (Ron is going to have a field day about this.)

"So," Malfoy begins, and she doesn't have to look at him to know that he's still grinning down at her. "Changed your mind, haven't you?"

[Y/N] rolls her eyes; she doesn't fail to notice the way that the students they're passing by are staring at them, eyes wide, whispering to themselves. "Isn’t this what you wanted?"

Malfoy shrugs. "Among other things."

She side-eyes him, muttering, "Does that include snogging?"

He makes an amused sound at the back of his throat. "You said it, not me."

[Y/N] has to grit her teeth to stop the corners of her lips from tugging up. They turn a corner down the hallway, disappearing from both their friends' views (assuming they haven't followed them). At this thought, [Y/N] takes a brief glance over her shoulder—and sure enough, there's a redhead peeking out of a group of very confused Ravenclaws.

Cursing Ron Weasley inside her head, she turns her gaze back ahead of her. ”I have Charms class next."

Malfoy raises his brows. "And what do you expect me to do with that information?"

"Walk me there," says [Y/N] briskly.

She can practically feel the surprise radiating off of the blond next to her. A moment later, he throws his head back in a loud laugh. "And you want me to be late to Transfiguration? It’s all the way on the other side of the castle."

[Y/N] hums. "Can’t even do that for the girl you fancy?"

There’s a beat of silence. His grip on her hand falters a little as he says, voice still nonchalant and yet at the same time holding an undeniable sense of sincerity, "I could if I knew she wasn't leading me on."

"She isn't," [Y/N] says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

Malfoy is staring at her with his brows pulled in together just slightly at the middle, giving off the impression that he's trying to decide whether or not she's being serious. He slows down his pace until he comes to a full stop, urging [Y/N] to halt alongside him until they're standing in the middle of the hallway, oblivious to the stares following them and the redhead a mere few feet away.

"How do I know this isn't a prank?" says Malfoy, lip slowly curling as he narrows his eyes at her, the first few traces of suspicion etching itself onto his face now that the whole ridiculousness of the situation has finally sunken in. [Y/N] can't blame him; her antics—suddenly marching up to him in the hallway, grabbing his hand and walking with him as though they've been doing it for years—all of it is uncalled for after having ruthlessly turned him down so many times before. But [Y/N] can't delve into a discussion of her conflicting emotions—at least not right now—so she hopes, at least for now, that he will take her word for it.

She clears her throat. "Well," she begins, looking down at their hands; Malfoy’s grip has gone slack. "If I wanted to hold your hand, I’d do it because I wanted to. Not because I wanted to get a rise out of you." She lets her gaze go back up to his, brows rising in familiar challenge. "I don't stoop that low, Malfoy. You’ve been in love with me for years—shouldn't you know that by now?"

There are a few seconds in which the blond standing before her still looks at her with a scrutinizing gaze, lips set into a thin, hard line and his eyes swimming with conflict that [Y/N] wouldn't have been able to see from afar, but sees in perfect clarity now that she's standing a mere foot away from him. But then, after what feels like ages, Malfoy nods, slowly, frown smoothing out into an expression of—could that be relief?

"I will be late for Transfiguration, you know," he says, lips quirking up into a grin.

[Y/N] laughs. (A real one, Draco thinks to himself.) This time she doesn't try to stop herself from smiling; just lets her lips do so of their own accord. It feels nice. Freeing. "Better just one of us than two, don't you think?" she says, mirroring his playful grin. "And besides, Goyle can stand in for you. You two do have quite the resemblance."

"Oh, sod off."

And it really is very odd, because everything about this shouldn't feel right; they've been enemies for the longest time, and a year ago, [Y/N] would have been revolted at the mere idea of ever coming close to Draco Malfoy—but it does. That is, it feels right. Like they've been this way for ages and this playful, harmless banter is the most natural thing.

Draco isn't perfect—Merlin, does he have a long way to go—but if he means to stop being a prat as long as [Y/N] is at his side, then she is willing to venture into whatever has formed between them.

And if this little bond is going to involve any more of this—this being her and Draco exaggeratedly swinging their arms between them as he walks her to Charms class with their fingers still intertwined, snickering, waiting for one of them to start complaining about their arm sockets hurting—then maybe it isn't the worst thing ever, after all.

9K notes · View notes

muichiroslover · 3 years ago

Note

hey! if it's not too much trouble, could you maybe write a part two to the meliodas fic where he kept touching up on elizabeth? i honestly just want that i dont care the plot or what not haha. if not that maybe the ban one? your first one btw so yeah. only if it's not too much trouble!

alright alright you guys keep asking for pt 2 for this story and I was contemplating but I decided to follow all your wishes and do it 😭

Thank you for sending in an ask, hope you enjoy it’s not a problem! (●’◡’●)ﾉ♥︎

(Not proof read!!)

Pt 1 here !

Pairings: Meliodas x fem!reader

Genre: Angst to fluff

Warnings: none

______________________________________________

Meliodas sighs as he sits down at one of the tables, he put his face in his hands and let out a long groan

The door swung open and he looked up in hope but was let down when it was Ban who stumbled in still drunk

Meliodas watched as his Best friend approached him and then sat in front of him

He burped and pointed a dramatic finger at Meliodas

“You knoww Captain youuuu are an idiot!” He says loudly almost falling off his chair and Meliodas raises a brow at him

“You let Y/nnn goooo and for what??” He asks as his head falls sideways and he falls asleep for a split second before waking up with a jolt

“Youuuu better apologizeee to her before she really *burps* leaves you for good” Ban says and with that his head fell to the table and he knocked out

Meliodas sighs, Ban was right, in the sudden rush and adrenaline of the moment where you both were yelling he said he wanted to break up and immediately regretted it, he was just mad

He rubbed his forehead

But he had no reason to be mad, he was the one acting bad towards you, not the other way around

“Stupid, stupid” he whispers as he hits his forehead with his hand, how was he supposed to fix this

He looked over at the door and saw your shoes and sighed

“Stupid Y/n...why would you run out without any shoes..” he says as he picks them up and opens the door

You had only realized the pain of the pebbles under your feet to late, the damage had been done and your pride was the only thing you had left so you definitely weren’t going back

You sigh as you rub your arms as another gust of wind hits you

You felt like crying but also you regretted adding that last part last time a little, maybe you went a little too far with that comment..?

You shook your head

‘No Meliodas was the one who started all of this, just find somewhere to sleep tonight’ you think, well until you tripped over a rock

You groan as you grab your feet, it hurt a lot more since you didn’t have any shoes on

You pull your legs up into fetal position as you started sniffling, you didn’t wanna cry right now but the mix of alcohol and the bad night that only seems to get worse crying seemed like the only relief you could get at the moment

“I figured you’d need these” a voice says

You look up as your glossy eyes meet with apologetic green ones, hands holding your shoes

You furrow your eyebrows and look the other way as you continue to cry, Meliodas’ face shifted in sadness when seeing you turn away from him

He slowly approached you and placed your shoes down and crouched a little ways in front of you, you looked over and grabbed your shoes before turning away again

Meliodas sighed as you began putting them on

He plopped onto the ground and sighed again as you side eyed him, trying to figure out what his plot was this time

“What do you want Meliodas?” You say lowly and he looks at you with a sad expression, but you weren’t gonna fall for it you kept your expression hard and cold as you looked at him

“Y/n I don’t want to break up..I’m sorry I said that at the spur of the moment and the second I said it I regretted it..I’m really really sorry” he finishes and you scoff

“You can apologize for that but you can’t apologize for everything else” you say coldly and he nods

“You’re right, but please Y/n” he begins and your eyes widen as he bows his head onto the hard path of dirt and pebbles

“Please give me another chance” he finishes and you sigh

“Get up Meliodas” you say but he doesn’t move a muscle, he stays fully bowed

You crossed your arms and squinted your eyes

‘Yeah right, he’ll give up after a few minutes’ you think

You were wrong, you sat there for at least an hour and he was still bowed over in front of you, no words said

“Meliodas hurry and get up your gonna hurt your head” you say trying to pull him up but he wouldn’t move an inch

You let out a huge sigh as you sit in front of him

“I apologize for saying that last part about your dad too...” you look to the side and sigh then look back at Meliodas

“Fine I guess I’ll give you another chance..but don’t expect me to forgive you so easily..” you say and his head flies up as he grins

“Really?!” He says happily and you sigh as you move closer and flick a rock away from his forehead

“Really..” you say and sigh as you get up and start walking back in the direction of the boars hat

From that day on Meliodas started trying extra hard to make you forgive him, and never once has he touch Elizabeth since that night

“Hey Y/n I made breakfast! Let’s eat together” he says happily as you walk from your room tiredly from just waking up

“No way, that’s asking for death” you say and he laughs as he just starts following you everywhere

You were in the bathroom brushing your teeth and you slowly looked to the side to see a fluff of blonde just smiling at you as you brush your teeth

You finish and go to fix your hair and see from the mirror him watching you

You go to your room to change out of your sleeping clothes and turn as you shut the door in Meliodas’ face who almost followed you in

You sighed but a smile slowly slid onto your face as you got ready in your room in a good mood

#angst #fluff #romance #fiction #imagines #oneshots #scenarios #writing #ban x reader #sds meliodas #meliodas x reader #seven deadly sins meliodas #meliodas #ban sds #sds anime #sds x reader #seven deadly sins #seven deadly sins ban #angst with a happy ending

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shoutogepi · 4 years ago

Text

Entertainment

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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 5.3k

[ ☁︎, ✘ (nsfw 18+!) ] angst, smut

𝐛𝐢𝐨 : Much to your chagrin, you realize you have feelings for your explosive coworker with benefits... (continuation of FYIJM/Orange Lambo)

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : ahaha whaaa i bet you had thought this series was abandoned! well, surprise update. i realized the other day that i hadn’t updated this series in a year oops so... have this haha. for those of you who foresaw the angst... great job hehe. also please beware this is unedited... and for that i apologize~

𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : once again, reader is meant to be a fellow pro hero working at the same agency as Bakugou! so Y/H/N is meant to be read as “your hero name”.

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─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🄳ark shadows stretch along the tiled floor of the office, cast by the bright moon hanging high and proud in the sky. The fumes from the bustling city are strong challengers to the magnificent orb of light, but they only succeed in swallowing the stars twinkling across the planes of the sky— for the moon beams through them and illuminates the tears glittering down your cheeks.

Bakugou’s hand is firm around your throat as he presses your form against the glass of the floor-length window, your nipples dragging along the chilled surface. You sob in pleasure as his hips dig into your ass, his cock plunging into you. As soon as your mouth opens, his palm slides to cup around your cheek, shoving two thick fingers between your teeth and pressing down against the back of your tongue as far as they can reach. His movements are rough and ravenous, and flush with desire.

Just how you like it.

And he knows it.

Your teeth clamp around the digits and Bakugou releases an angry moan, hooking the fingers around your teeth and throwing your head to the side. “Fuckin brat,” he snarls, his other arm tightening around your stomach to press your back snug against his sturdy chest. “You’re gonna pay for bein’ bad, slut.”

His hips begin to slap mercilessly into you, his hard cock smashing deep into your core, again and again. Your disobedience withers as you’re overwhelmed with pleasure, body melting from his touch to curl into the curves of his instruction. Spine arching and feet sliding apart to welcome him even deeper inside, Bakugou grins at how easily you're broken, his hand leaving your waist to clap against your ass.

A moan decorates the glass with frosted white as you shuffle forward from the spank. Somehow his name tumbles from your lips in a winded cry, and his teeth sink into your neck as his growl vibrates across your heated skin. Your pussy clenches down on his thick length, and he moans even louder into your neck. His palm plants tiny explosions onto your ass as he slaps you another time, only prospering further as you clamp onto him again. “Fuck, you’re tight for a slut, y’know that?” He groans, tongue flicking along the fresh indents of his teeth on your throat.

“If anyone’s the slut here—“ you gasp as his fingers finally move out of your mouth to snag around your neck again. He squeezes the sides of your throat, daring you to finish your sentence. But you’ve already started your counter, and you aren’t backing down now. “— it’s you.”

Even if you had managed to snag a final breath as you finish talking, it’s stolen from you when a feral Bakugou roars behind you, ripping you from the glass and pivoting to shove you across the surface of his tidy desk. You whimper as his cock drags along your slick walls, his balls beginning to slap into your clit mercilessly and sending tingles through your skeleton. You swear and he laughs harshly, both hands gripping onto your hips as he hammers you into the desk. “I’m the slut?” He parrots, giving your non-reddened ass cheek a hard blow with his explosive palm. “When you’re the one who’s begging for me to fuck this sloppy little cunt? Look how wet you are,” he comments, a thumb trailing over your ass to touch the excess slick at the base of his cock. “Shit,” he grumbles as he moves the digit over your ass, dipping into your puckered hole easily with plethoric lubrication.

You whine at the stimulation, his thumb diving into you and rubbing inside. “Katsuki, a-ahh,” you gasp as his hips begin to pick up the pace again, an expletive falling from your lips after a moan.

“Y’like that, hah? See, you can’t even prove your case, Princess,” he chuckles, rolling his hips to grind against your sensitive walls. The action makes a purr of pleasure rumble from your throat, back bowing to offer your ass to him even further, meeting his circling hips. Your submission only spurs him on, his hands pushing your hips back into his in perfect synchronization. “Whose pussy is this?”

The question falls from his lips without thought, and his vermillion eyes widen as he realizes his mistake. Yet what horrifies him is that you don’t pause— you don’t even stray from your perfect speed to match his hips, not even a second out of line— you moan, and reply to him eagerly, “Yours, Katsuki— yours!”

And even though terror floods past the dam he’d so carefully constructed around his heart, his body crumbles at your answer, the spring in his stomach compressing as he nearly cums right there and then. He wants to choke out that he’s close, but somehow he croaks out a command instead. “Then cum for me. Cum on my cock— fuck...”

In your haze of lust you don’t notice how soft his voice has become. You let yourself topple over the edge, pussy squeezing him tight as your orgasm washes over your body. It’s sinfully encaptivating; a tiny morsel of what you can only imagine heaven must feel like. Bliss crashes through you like heavy tides on a rocky sea wall, drenching you completely in sweet, refreshing euphoria.

Bakugou’s tempo is swift and hard, but he relents after a few seconds with the way you milk him like a vise. He gasps as he nearly cums inside you, pulling out at the very last second and painting your back white with his load. He groans as his fist jerks around his cock, head thrown back in ecstasy as he empties his balls onto the canvas of your moonlit skin.

It’s quiet, save for the cocktail of ragged breaths huffing from the pair of you— coming down from your highs and minds clearing of the lust that so easily had dominated you just moments ago. Bakugou falls back into his desk chair, free hand opening a drawer to grab a package of wet wipes. He snags a sheet from the container, hissing as the cool wipe slides along his aching cock. A second towelette glides down the expanse of your spine as he cleanses you of his release, and you hum as he drags the other side of the cloth between your thighs with care.

Cautiously you crawl off his desk, legs twitching as tiny, lingering shocks from your orgasm zip along your limbs. As the lascivious fog begins to clear, the air in the room becoming still and laden with perspiration from your passionate session, your stomach begins to turn. Your brain begins to work again, your heart seizing in your chest as you watch Bakugou tug up his pants. No part of you wants to follow his actions, and yet your body moves on its own, fingertips dragging your leotard up your legs. It’s his office you’re in this time— and he clearly wants you to leave if he’s dressing this quickly.

Bakugou doesn’t say a word, red eyes flicking over your hurried figure. He frowns, though that’s not unusual for him, and swallows back the lump in his throat. Would you stay if he asked you to? The answer surely must be no, and he growls at the thought of fucking this up— whatever this is— by asking stupid questions. What you said was in the heat of the moment, prompted by him himself; certainly you were just desperate to cum, desperate for your high. And yet he can’t stop himself from calling out to you just as you’re about to slip around the corner of his office door.

Bakugou looks just as surprised as you when your name slips from his lips. You stand there in the middle of the doorway, frozen with your doe eyes glued to him expectantly. He doesn’t know what to do— what to say— but somehow he manages to speak. “Grab your stuff and meet me in the garage in five.”

He wants to slap himself. Did he really say that?

You’re stunned, frozen to the spot and blinking at him blankly. Your lips part to respond to him, and yet nothing comes out. All other words failing you, the only thing you can think to say is—

“Okay!”

You blurt out like a buffoon, turning on your heel and making your escape down the hallway, away from the intensity of his gaze. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you try with all your might to squash down the giddy butterflies bursting in your stomach. Logically, it would be sound to assume he’s just taking you to your apartment. It’s late, and the city is dark and filled with all kinds of characters— not like you’re a fellow pro-hero who can protect yourself of anything.

You try your hardest not to let your imagination wander as you’re packing away a few folders from the safety of your office, but you just can’t help the warmth that rises to your cheeks. Perhaps he’s taking you somewhere else? But then again, at this hour, the only other place he could really be taking you is… his place.

No. No way that could be possible. Just— no! You shake your head, smoothing down the skin-tight material of your hero suit before grabbing your bag, jacket thrown over your shoulder as you rush to the elevator.

Bakugou is already in the garage, leaning against his sleek, orange sports-car with something akin to a grimace marring his handsome face. At the sight of you exiting the elevator doors, he pushes himself upright, bulging biceps uncrossing as he makes his way toward the driver’s side of the vehicle. “You sure take your time, Princess,” he comments, vermillion eyes twinkling with snarkiness. “No wonder you’re always playing catch-up on the agency leaderboard.”

Just like that, he’s back to being Bakugou.

“Playing mean to cover up being decent for once?” You retort as you swing the passenger door open, slinging your bag onto the ground before your legs follow, ass meeting the expensive leather seat.

All he gives you is a classic tch, in true Bakugou fashion, before the engine roars to life. You give him your address before he can ask, and he responds with a grunt before he shifts the vehicle into drive. The noise echoes off the cement walls of the garage, and the car’s purring continues as it exits the building. The lacquer shines glossy in the moonlight— the very same moonlight that had kissed your lewd face just ten minutes ago as the man beside you had ravaged you. The recollection makes your eyes move away from the blonde, instead opting to focus on the very interesting interior of the door.

The drive is quick and void of sound, save for the howl of the wind pouring in from the cracked windows. There’s no music, and no conversation, but still, you can’t help the content blooming in your chest. This is the first time that Bakugou has offered to drive you home. Well, besides that one incident that happened a few weeks ago when he took you to that park and… took you for a ride, so to speak. And in this very vehicle. The memory makes your heart race, your teeth taking your bottom lip prisoner.

In no time, you’re pulling up in front of your apartment complex, and your breath hitches as the car comes to a stop. The air is heavy and full of tension, and you can’t help but steal a glance over at Bakugou. The blonde is sitting rigid in his seat, brow furrowed and frown evident on his lips. His hands are wound tight around the steering wheel, and it takes a moment for him to face you directly.

Before you can make a word— a sound, even— Bakugou’s hand cups your face. His touch is gentle, patient as he brings your face to his. When your lips meet, a whimper crawls from your throat. His mouth is warm, movements cautious as his lips brush against yours. The sweet, smoky, caramel-like smell of him twists around your senses, and you lean into his touch, enamored.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced with him...

And it’s over immediately.

Bakugou moves backwards, crimson eyes wide and watchful, wary of your every move. Your lips are still parted, and you blink at him as you take in his retreating face, dazed. There’s a pregnant pause as you take each other in, your fingers going to brush your lips in shock. His eyes trail over your lips before he looks at you again. Maybe you’re just imagining it, but there’s something in his gaze that looks a lot like longing.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

His deep voice rumbles in his throat, and goosebumps rise along your skin as his saccharine choice of words sinks in. Your brow furrows as you soak it in, lips parted but no sound coming out.

The look you give him is inquisitive.

But Bakugou only sees it as accusatory.

His demeanor hardens by the second— the brief softness that had just been exposed fleeting fast as his arms cross over his chest. “You gonna sit there all night, dumbass?” He hisses, beautiful red orbs turning into slits.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, reaching out to him. It’s the only thing that your body allows you to say, shellshocked at the vulnerability you’d just seen from him— a revelation as impressive as if you had discovered a new species.

Bakugou only glares at your outstretched fingers, jamming his finger into the side of the door to unlock your own. “Just get out,” he orders. And somehow seeing you flinch at his words, watching as the hurt flashes on your face for just a moment— it spurs him on. “I got someplace to be already.”

With a tight chest, you push your door open, grabbing your bag and casting one last, furtive glance at the explosive man. But his eyes are only on the steering wheel, so you sigh and pick up your jacket from the seat. “Goodnight, Boom-Boy,” you murmur as you retreat from the vehicle, allowing the door to shut.

Little do you know, his gaze follows you until your figure disappears through the heavy doors of the foyer, leaving him alone to the torments of his self-loathing and frustration.

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

Unsurprisingly, you don’t have a great night of sleep. You toss and turn in your sheets, rewinding and replaying every second of interaction in his outrageously-expensive car. Overthinking every word, every pause, every look. All he had wished you was an honest “goodnight”, so why did it feel like there was so much more?

This had been the first time you’d caught a glimpse of what lies beneath the hard, spiny exterior of the man, and yet, it had been but a speck of dust in the wind. You’d seen it for one second. One exhilarating, butterfly-inducing second, and then— it was gone. Vanished. By the time you’d gotten your bearings, it seemed like the man’s shell was even spikier— more abrasive than even his explosive locks, and far more capable of hurting you.

And perhaps you were a little hurt— you mean to say, you are. But that makes you question if you’re just picking up signals that he’s not even aware he’s sending. You’re second-guessing yourself in every sense at this point. All over one kiss, and one “goodnight”.

But it wasn’t just a “goodnight”. It was a “goodnight, princess”. As if that would make such a difference.

A part of you, probably the majority, to be honest, is being rational about this. The two of you haven’t really spoken much about your… relationship, if you even dare to call it that. One evening it had just sort of… happened, and since then, it’s been happening, without much pause. For months, this has been going on. And it was great, at first. The two of you were in exactly the same boat: pro hero, no time for a committed relationship— nor a want for a committed relationship, pent-up and needing some kind of release… and oh, there’s also that white-hot tension that pulls the two of you together every time you see each other. That intensity, that passion, rivalry, and desire— it’s no wonder the pair of you ended up in this seemingly-eternal rendezvous. It’s clear what you both want, what you need— it’s sex.

It’s just sex.

But of course, there’s this small part of you— well, maybe it’s larger than you’d like to admit— that hopes he feels something… more. That he could possibly want you, for more than your body. When you think about it like that, it sounds stupid, like you’re some lovesick preteen who fantasizes about the captain of the football team of something. Reality isn’t really that far though— instead, you’re a fool of an adult who fantasizes about snuggling with her sworn rival-slash-coworker.

Acknowledging it like that sounds rather pathetic, you know... yet you just don’t have the strength in you to squash that ember of hope burning bright in your heart. You don’t want to watch it extinguish, you don’t want to lose that— lose him.

Yet at the same time, you know you can’t keep doing this. Your despicable feelings for the hero only seem to be growing by the day, and you need to cut this thing off sooner rather than later if he’s not on the same page as you.

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

Somehow you find yourself at the door of his office, the bright sunlight of the early afternoon streaming in through the hallway windows and warming your skin. It’s shut, as usual, and it gives you the opportunity to take a deep breath before your fingers find courage to curl into a fist, and tap against the hardwood.

“Come in.” His tone is gruff and curt as always, and you quickly fix your hair before you turn the handle, slipping inside the room and letting the door shut with a quiet click.

Bakugou is sitting behind his desk, an open bento-box and a half-filled form on his tablet laying before his hulking frame. Slitted vermillion eyes land on you, quickly morphing into a curious, cautious gaze.

“Y/N,” he greets, a blonde brow rising to land higher than usual on the tan skin of his forehead. The mask of his hero suit sits limply in the corner of his desk, his handsome face on display for you to drink in.

Your eyes flicker all over him, gliding along his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of the firm muscles on his chest. You can’t help but check him out, knowing fully well what’s underneath that tight suit of his. Bakugou smirks at you, taking his time to inspect you just the same.

“I need to talk to you,” you say, the words spilling from you without much of a thought.

After a tense pause, the hero stands, capping his lunch and making his way around his desk to sit on the front of it. He motions for you to come to him, and your feet move instinctively forward, following his command as you’d done so many times before.

As soon as you’re within arm’s reach, he pulls you to him, and stands you between his legs. Even sitting perched on his desk, he’s still taller than you, and he leans his nose into your neck as his hands glide along your spine. “Yeah?” he purrs, fingers splaying to drag against your skin through your thin hero suit. “And what do we need to talk about, Princess?” His lips flutter on the flushed skin of your neck, taking the hem between his teeth and pulling it back to reveal the darkened evidence of your latest session. Seeing his mark on you excites him, and the heat from his palms bleeds through your suit into your skin.

You can’t help but lean into his caress. His sharp cologne mixes with the honeyed, sugary scent of his skin and envelops you whole, pulling you in like a riptide lurking beneath an innocuous wave. A fragment of a moan escapes you when his mouth lands on the skin at the base of your neck, sucking gently and laving his tongue along your flesh.

“S’a little early to be foolin’ around,” he admonishes teasingly, voice deep and like thunder in your ears, an omen of the approaching storm. But your body wants it— craves the heavy deluge and the fear of scorching lightning that might just strike along your skin. “You like the thought of gettin’ caught, hah?” Bakugou chuckles lowly, teeth grazing your jaw. “Dirty little girl…”

Your palms glide down his thick arms, lamely stiff as your mind is screaming at you to stop— that this isn’t what you came for. Yet his touch makes you woozy, your judgement clouded as you choke on a wanton moan. “N-No, Katsuki,” you whine, fingers curling into his shirt to steady yourself.

“No?” He moves back, an ash-blonde brow rising in mock. “You’re not a dirty girl? Hmm, my memory’s pretty good, Princess, and I’m recalling some pretty irrefutable evidence that’d suggest otherwise.”

His hands slide down to cup your ass, thick fingers crawling between your thighs and prying at your flesh. He fingers over your covered slit, grin widening as you stiffen in his hold, a moan lingering in your mouth.

“No, I meant… I mean, I actually want to talk,” you sigh as you step backwards, away from his muscular body. You move far back enough for his hands to drop from your figure, your arms crossing over your chest defensively as you look toward the ground.

Bakugou seems confused by your refusal, but he clears his throat and adjusts his pants before he shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant. “Okay…” he sits up slightly, still half-sitting on the ledge of his desk.

There’s an awkward, heavy silence between the two of you as he waits for you to talk. You know he’s waiting, but with every second that passes, the pressure in the room intensifies and makes it more and more daunting for you to speak.

“Do you like me?”

Bakugou’s expression stays guarded, the only indication that he heard you being a raised, unimpressed brow. “Hah?”

You swallow, even though your throat is drier than ever. He’s really going to make this harder than it has to be, isn’t he? But you’ve already prepared to deal with him, in all respects, here and now. “I mean— what is this to you?”

He seems a little flustered now, his eyes darting away from you as his cheeks pinken just a shade. Letting out a scoff, he growls, “I don’t know what you mean by… this.”

His playing dumb doesn’t appease you— in fact, it infuriates you. How dare he act like there’s nothing to discuss between you two?! You’ve indulged this man with vigorous extra-curricular activities for months at this point, and he has the audacity to think he can give you the go-around?

“Fuck off Bakugou, you know what I mean.”

“Oi oi oi,” he moves his big hands, patting air toward you condescendingly. “Let’s not get all upset in the middle of the day. We can talk about this later.”

Bakugou can see immediately that he’s said the wrong thing. Your face screws up and your inquisitive gaze becomes a glare, squaring your stance and your arms sliding uncrossed so you can park your hands on your hips.

“No, fuck that, we’re talking about this now!”

Seeing you pissed off must’ve pissed him off too, because now he stands upright and his menacing gaze burns down on you. “What’s there to talk about? I thought the whole point of it all was to not have to talk about jack shit.”

“Well this isn’t just jack shit!” you snarl, frustration building at how thick of a skull this man has. God, you admire whatever hell of a woman pushed his fatass head out of the womb. “We need to establish what this thing is so we can act like adults for fucking once in our lives! We work together, for fuck’s sake, we need to be responsible about this!”

“Hah?” Bakugou seems more agitated than before, his lip curling as he brandishes his signature sneer. “We’re fucking around, shitty woman, isn’t that the most adult activity we can do?” As if he hasn’t lit your fuse enough, he throws up some patronizing finger quotes when he emphasizes the word.

“So that’s what we’re doing, Bakugou? For months, we’ve just been,” you squint at him, only serving to amplify your unrelenting glare as you throw some aggressive finger quotes back at the man in front of you, “fucking around? Making eyes at each other across the conference table, and spending our nights together, just ‘cuz?”

Bakugou growls in irritation, swiping a large hand over his face from top to bottom as he hisses out profanities. He mutters something under his breath, clearly not wanting to deal with the conversation you’re forcing on him right now.

After waiting for his response for a moment but only receiving radio silence, you continue. “I’m a person, Bakugou, and in case you haven’t noticed, so are you! You can’t just ignore your feelings and act like no one and nothing matters to you!”

“Feelings?!” he shouts with contempt burning in his scarlet eyes, as if some atrocious, vile flavor gushes onto his tongue merely from uttering the word. “Oi, the fuck do you get off talking about my feelings? You don’t know shit about me, Y/H/N.”

His use of your professional hero name makes you bristle in fury, anger flaring and rationality fleeting. Everything’s escalating too fast— this isn’t the way you wanted this conversation to go. Your heart leaping into your throat, you muster the courage to change the tides, to tell him how much you want him. “Fuck you Katsuki, I know you have feelings for me! Because I—”

“I don’t have fuckin’ feelings for you!”

An arrow to the heart— the first sign of damage appears on the thumping muscle in your chest. But still, you continue, too stubborn to back down at this point. “Oh really, Boom-Boy? Then why the fuck are you still here, stuck in this godforsaken tryst with me? What am I to you, huh?”

Your stupid nickname for him makes his fists clench, steam nearly visibly blowing from his ears. “I’m not fuckin’ stuck! You— You’re just—” he buffers, rage still broiling in his gaze as he tries to come up with the most fitting word. But he doesn’t have much time— you’re glaring him down with your hands on your hips, cornering him against his desk and he yells out the first word that comes to mind.

“— entertainment.”

…

The tension in the air thickens noticeably, and you put all your effort into forcing your face not to reveal the hurt that pours into your bones. So this is what it feels like to put your heart on your sleeve… it fucking sucks.

Bakugou seems just as surprised as you are, maybe even more— his jaw hangs open cartoonishly and those red eyes are fixed on you, no longer harsh slits but wide, round orbs.

No matter how hard you try not to show your true emotions, he can clearly see that his words have stung you. The silence that fills the growing void between you two is deafening, weighing down his body as if he’s drowning in his immediate regret. But he doesn’t say anything, he can’t— you’d poked and prodded the sleeping bear of his ego and what he’d said couldn’t just be brushed under the rug and overlooked.

Entertainment. You’re nothing more than that to him. Why did you ever think you could penetrate through the booby-trapped walls around this man’s heart? Of course he didn’t want you for anything other than your body. Of course he didn’t.

For that one moment, you let him see it. You don’t hide the pain that washes over you, and you look him straight in the eye.

Bakugou stifles, throat tightening as he examines your crushed expression. He feels like he’s trapped, a fly that’s landed on a sticky trap that he can’t escape, a sinking feeling weighing down his chest, screaming at him to do something— say something— anything to mitigate the wound he’d just blasted onto your heart. “Y/N…”

And just like that your defenses come back online. He watches as you square yourself off, the soft vulnerability you’d revealed disappearing as your eyes became vacant of emotion. If anything, it looks like understanding, and it squeezes Bakugou’s chest like you’ve pulled a string tight around his lungs.

“Okay,” you murmur, your voice calm and low.

Bakugou is frozen, body unwilling to suck it up and take back the word even though his heart is so desperately screaming at him to do so. But he just can’t, he can’t take it back because then he’d have to admit it was a lie he only threw out in an attempt to save his own feelings from getting hurt. If only he knew that causing your pain would hurt a thousand times more.

You clear your throat awkwardly, taking a step back from him. Gaze dropping to the floor, your arms come out to cross atop your chest, a makeshift shield for your battered resolve. “I don’t think we should do this anymore,” you whisper, but Bakugou hears it clear as day. He can’t breathe— he’s stuck to his spot as if that damn Icyhot bastard had frozen him himself. “I just… I've worked too hard for my career to be derailed by... whatever this was…”

Somehow Bakugou nods, even though he doesn’t want to. His body moves on its own, on autopilot, as his own arms cross over his chest, and he sits back down on top of his desk. He’s still looking at you, chest heavy with bated breath.

“If the public were to find out about us fucking around, that would become my reputation as a hero, and… I just— I can’t, Katsuki.”

Your voice trembles as you whisper his name, and Bakugou’s heart feels like it’s being stabbed over and over again.

“From now on, we’re just Ground Zero and Y/H/N, okay? Back to normal…” you smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Not at all.

Bakugou finally gets some control of his body, lips parting as he desperately searches for the right words that could somehow reverse this mess. All that comes out is a rough “Fine.” He cringes, frustration with himself building now more than ever. What’s wrong with him? That’s the opposite of what he wants, why can’t he say anything?!

You avert your eyes once more, turning to leave. Halfway through the door, you look back at him and pause. “See you around, Boom-Boy,” you breathe, the click of the door following, and leaving Bakugou to sink into his own self-loathing and regret.

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

AWAA so reader and blasty have finally realized their feelings for one another... unfortunately this is a bakugou fic so of course he sucks at communication. i’m sorry if he’s ooc, as i said in my notes i havent written for him in a year lmao RIP. anyways i intend to make a fourth and final part with the resolution sooo i hope that i will have enough motivation to make that happen soon!

as always please let me know if you enjoyed! <3

➥ masterlist

#bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki fic #bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bakugou fic #mha x reader #mha smut #mha fic #bnha x reader #bnha smut #bnha fic #bakugo smut #bakugo fic #bakugo x reader #idk man i suck at tags

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