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kiridarling · 4 years ago

Text

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒.

katsuki bakugou | birthday gone wrong (aha), f!reader, baker!reader, pro hero!katsuki, blizzards, angst and smut, exhibitionism, cockwarming, begging, confessions. minors dni!

— 4.7k words

Wanna blow off some steam?

“Surprise!”

Katsuki jumps ten feet high, and the plastic grocery bags precariously balanced on each finger tear without a second thought. Apples hit the ground with a thud and the egg carton with a depressing slap; one that signifies the crack of at least half a dozen. Katsuki looks at the crowd, red-faced and livid, and Eijirou Kirishima intercepts the awkward silence with:

“Happy Birthday Bakubro! I know y—“

“Said that I didn’t want a fuckin’ party?” Katsuki growls, groceries forgotten on the forgotten. Eijirou looks guilty and chuckles, scratching the back of his head.

“W-Well, yeah, but—“

“Everybody out.”

People sigh, and you think you hear Denki whisper told you he’d kick us out. You hate to say that you foresaw a similar outcome. Katsuki’s never been one for people.

Especially you.

“Awe come on, Kacchan,” Izuku says with hands on his hips. “We came all this way! Just let us stay for a little bit.”

“Yeah!” Eijirou seems to cheer up once given a sliver of hope. “Plus, we got cake and stuff. And Just Dance.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes, but you know better—he’s always had a soft spot for the redhead. You all wait with baited breath, wondering if this entire evening was a bust, as Katsuki weighs his options in a pool of fallen groceries.

“One hour.”

Eijirou gasps so hard he chokes, and Katsuki’s generosity earns him applause from the audience. (Plus whoops and hollers from Denki and Mina.)

“And I mean it—y’all have sixty fuckin’ minutes before you’re gone without a goddamn trace. Kapeesh?”

“Kapeesh!”

Katsuki sighs, rubbing at his temples as he steps over the mess at the front door. You assume he’ll make Eijirou clean it up. “Whatever. Where’s the fuckin’ cake?”

Ah.

“In the kitchen, my good sir!” Denki says as he ushers the ash-blond into the said kitchen, the rest of the party hot on their heels. Eijirou grabs the cake from the fridge and you’re tense until the plate hits the marble of their island.

“Flavor?” Katsuki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, I dunno, [Y/N] made it,” Eijirou throws you under the bus, just like that, and you want to scoff at the way Katsuki freezes—if only for a moment. Eijirou’s oblivious as ever, “[Y/N]?”

“It’s red velvet,” you say, trying not to burn under Katsuki’s carmine eyes. You don’t know why he doesn’t look away.

“Frosting?”

“Buttercream.”

As if you’d give him anything else.

Eijirou tries his best to cram 26 candles into the cake before being forced to opt for 23 lest he ruin your decorations. Denki presses him to make a wish and Katsuki rolls his eyes as he blows out the candles. Eijirou wipes an invisible tear because ‘his boy is getting so old.’ Mina and Jiro cut the cake and people seem to enjoy it, and you think that maybe, reuniting with your high school friends after so long isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be.

Even if he said he never wanted to see you again.

“—due to the incoming blizzard, we highly suggest all those who reside in the red and orange zones stay inside until it passes; which should be around ten am tomorrow morning.”

You spoke too soon.

Katsuki turns to the crowd, and you know what he’s going to say before his lip curls.

“Out.”

“Kacchan, don’t be unreasonable!” Izuku says from his comfortable position on the couch. “We’d get caught in the storm if we leave now.”

“Not if you’re fuckin’ fast enough,” Katsuki growls, pulling the greenette’s to his feet by his hair. “Get out, I’m not bunking with you fuckers overnight.”

“Dude,” Denki points to the window, and if you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve thought the blizzard had already started. “If we leave now, we’ll literally die.”

“Die, then.”

Eijirou sighs, clapping his roommate on the back. “C’mon, man. You know we ca—“

There’s a whirr then a click, and the lights and tv die at once. You can’t see a thing but you definitely hear Katsuki shout:

“Motherfucker!”

Eijirou turns his phone flashlight on first; Katsuki’s busy angrily flicking at the light to no avail. You sigh, turning to the ash-blond (and ignoring those ugly fucking butterflies in your stomach.)

“It’s a blackout Katsuki. The lights aren’t going to work.”

“Don’t you think I fuckin’ know that, dumbass?” And your chest tightens because even though he’s not eighteen anymore, he sounds the same—but you aren’t sure why you expected him to sound so different either.

You lift an eyebrow (not that he can see it), “It doesn’t look like you do.”

Denki snorts at that, hollering about how you just owned the ash-blond as Katsuki yells at him to shut the fuck up. It’s...familiar and comfortable, like you’re all in high school again, before you had to worry about your friends dying in their line of work because you couldn’t be there with them.

Before you got injured.

“Well I mean, we have a few blankets,” Eijirou offers, and as your eyes slowly adjust to the dark, you’re convinced you see his figure cross the living room. “And like, sweatshirts if it gets too cold.”

“It’s already getting too cold,” Mina says, and you can’t help but agree. The quickly cooling room has the goosebumps raising on your shoulders, and you’re starting to regret forgetting your jacket at home.

“Okay! I don’t have that many, but,” Eijirou hollers from somewhere, before returning with a handful of cloth. He drops it onto the coffee table. “Plus Hanta and Denks left their hoodies here last time.”

“Oh shit, we did?” Hanta says, and you assume it’s his figure who starts digging through the clothes. “Totally thought I lost this, lol.”

“Did you just saw lol out loud?”

“I did.”

“Ooh Ei, do you still have that old Red Riot hoodie?” Mina asks, and all of a sudden, she’s all over the pile. She finds it before the redhead can answer and snatches it away with a gasp.

You watch the pile dissolve in the darkness, one by one, and by the time you reach for something, your palm hits the cool wood of the coffee table. Fuck.

“Oh [Y/N]! Do you need some of my blanket?” Mina offers, but the blanket is small, and wrapping it around both of your shoulders just renders it utterly useless. You shake your head after she tries for a while.

“It’s fine Mina, I’m not that cold,” you laugh, but she shakes her head vehemently.

“No! Girl c’mon, you look like you’re freezing!”

And, well. Freezing is a stretch. Sure, you’re a little cold, but you’ll live.

“Do you need my sweatshirt?” Eijirou asks, already pulling at the hem. You roll your eyes.

“I’m serious guys, it’s not that bad,” you say, waving your arms for emphasis. They all grumble but they give up, and you feel like you can finally relax.

Something soft and army green drops into your lap. You pick it up in confusion, before looking up to see who dropped it.

Katsuki looks down at you, face glowing white from the phone flashlights. His eyes pierce your soul nevertheless.

“I don’t ne—“

“Take it.”

Katsuki takes a seat next to you on the couch in his own hoodie. You don’t realize until you put it on that he gave you a sweatshirt themed after his own hero costume.

You can’t sleep.

You can’t sleep, and you’re sure it’s due to the temperature. The wind howls and it sounds like you’re in the eye of a tornado, loose branches knocking against the rattling glass, and upon looking through the window, you see nothing but stark white. You sigh, checking the time on your phone for the fiftieth time this hour. Yep. Still four am.

“Stop fuckin’ movin’, dumbass.”

You all decided to bunk in the living room for warmth. You’re surprised Katsuki stayed, though; you figured he would just head to his room and let you all fend for yourselves while he slept in a comfortable bed. But here he is, sleeping next to you on the cold fucking floor.

“Sorry,” you say, but it’s hard when your shivering and your jaw aches from stunting your chattering teeth. Katsuki and Eijirou only had a limited amount of sleeping bags, meaning you’ve got to share a blanket with the hulking ash-blond.

“You cold?” He grunts. You don’t know why he’s asking.

“No.”

Katsuki sighs, and you hear him adjust, the blanket sliding from your neck to your shoulder. “You’re a shit liar.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows to glare his way, and you look to notice Katsuki’s laying the same way.

“What’s your point?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer for a moment, but it doesn’t seem like he’s looking for an answer, either—his neon red eyes glow through the dark and straight into your soul, and the next time you shiver, it isn’t because of the temperature.

“You’re stubborn.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing, “Thought you figured that out senior year.”

Katsuki’s face flashes with an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint before it’s gone again. “Yeah. You’d think almost dying would fuckin’ fix that.”

You sigh. Looks like you’re having this conversation now, then.

“I didn’t almost die—“

“Yes, you fuckin’ did,” Katsuki snarls, and Denki almost stirs at his raised tone. “You took that bullet and you didn’t get up for months—“

“And then I woke up and everything was fine! Seriously Katsuki, what’s your problem? I lived.”

“My problem is that you shouldn’t have been there in the goddamn first place!” Katsuki says through grit teeth. You watch his temple roll underneath his hairline. “That was my fuckin’ fight. I don’t need some chick jumping in front of a bullet for me just ‘cause she thinks I can’t take it!”

You scoff, looking around to see if any of your other sleeping friends are listening because get a load of this guy. Naturally, they don’t respond.

“That’s what this is about? Oh, well I’m sorry I bruised your dignity because I didn’t want to see you get fucking shot!”

Katsuki chest inflates with disbelief before it deflates again, and he’s rolling his eyes before he says, “That’s not—you fuckin’ know that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh really?” You laugh, and goddammit Katsuki, you just had to bring it up, didn’t you? “Because waking up after two months to your best friend telling you to give up doesn’t preserve your dignity at all, huh?”

“I didn’t tell you to fu—“

“You said those exact words, Katsuki. You said give up, and you left the hospital.”

The ash-blond has nothing to say to that, because he knows that you know you’re right, and trying to jedi mind trick you into believing he isn’t an asshole won’t work.

“Well you fuckin’ listened,” he grumbles, more to himself than you, but enough emotion flares in your core to make you want to scream.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, huffing, before turning your back to him, deeming this conversation over. “Good night, Katsuki.”

There’s a lull and it has you convinced you’ve won, finally relaxing (as much as you can) onto the cold floor. At least arguing heated your blood up a bit.

“The fuck do you mean?”

You roll your eyes even though they’re closed before you hop back onto your forearms to give the ash-blond a nasty look. “What?”

“You...said you didn’t have a choice,” Katsuki says, and it’s the first time you think you’ve heard him sound weary. Unsure. “The fuck does that mean?”

“It means I had to give up on being a hero either way.”

Which sucked. Because you had spent the past four years of your life working your ass off to save others, and you wind up out of commission before you even got started. You...suppose you didn’t tell Katsuki the whole story. Well, you hadn’t had a chance to—today’s the first time speaking with him since you woke up in the hospital.

Katsuki eyes you out of his peripheral, but only for a second. “And that means...?”

“It means that if I land on my spine the wrong way, there’s a high chance I’ll be paralyzed from the waist down.” You growl, frustrated that it was easier to coax the truth out of you than you thought.

The bullet buried close to your spinal column. You had to do PT for months, relearning how to walk as you slowly regain your motor functions. That’s when you started to bake.

“Oh.”

The howling of the wind turns from somewhat soothing to aggravating as Katsuki’s unimpressive “oh” hangs heavy in the air, and you find yourself sighing, the puzzle pieces finally clicking in your head. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Katsuki asks—he’s still not looking at you.

“Blaming yourself,” you gesture to his figure, which is lax with depression, lacking its sturdiness and usual fire. “You didn’t shoot the gun.”

Katsuki snorts at that, running a hand through his hair, “I might as well.”

“Stop.”

“You got shot because of me,” Katsuki says as if it were a fact. “They were trying to kill me. Not you.”

“And they didn’t kill me. I’m here and you’re here. If I hadn’t been there, you’d be six feet under right now,” you reason. Katsuki shrugs because he’s just as stubborn as you are, and you figure he’s been carrying around this baggage for too many years.

“Does your back hurt often?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean sure, I get flare-ups sometimes, but it’s not too bad. Doesn’t really get in the way of baking as long as the table is high enough.”

Katsuki thinks for a moment, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Is the table high enough? At your café.”

You shrug, failing to see where he’s going with this. “I have a platform thingy, so. It’s mostly for decorating cakes and things—“

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“What?”

“I’ll buy you a new table,” Katsuki says, nodding to himself as if he was confirming the idea. “A higher one.”

It takes a second for his offer to process, but once it does, you’re fighting a smile. Still the same kid. “Kats, I don’t nee—“

“An—And if you need a new chair. I’ll pay for that shit too.”

You shake your head—mainly in disbelief, “I don’t need a chair, Katsuki.”

“Then what?” He asks, and it almost sounds desperate with the speed he rushed the sentence, “Y’need a car? That hunk of junk you drive could use some work.”

You ignore the jab, because your car works perfectly fine thank you very much, and snort at the suggestion of such an outrageous purchase.

“What? You tryna be my sugar daddy or something?” You joke. Katsuki gives you a look, and it's dead serious.

“D’ya need one?”

“I—no!” You laugh, and have to remind yourself to reel it in before you actually wake Denki up. “I’m fine financially I just—what’s gotten into you?”

“Nothin’.” Katsuki quickly grumbles, facing forwards again. “I just...”

You raise an eyebrow, “You just..?”

“I dunno. I dunno,” Katsuki shakes his head. You let him gather his thoughts in silence before he tries again. He doesn’t.

“Then fuck me.”

In your defense, your mouth moved before you thought it through.

Katsuki has an unreadable look on his face, but his voice is anything but steady when he says, “What?”

Fuck. Fuck.

“U-Uh, I mean,” you recoil. Stupid big mouth. “I—you—don’t worry about it.”

“You said you wanted to fuck me,” Katsuki deadpans. You choke.

“I—no, that’s not—“

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“No, I meant as in I’m pent up. Obviously,” you defend with a huff, crossing your arms on the pillow as you glare daggers his way. Katsuki matches your stare.

“Not as pent up as a Pro Hero,” he scoffs, lifting an eyebrow. You take it as a challenge.

You click your tongue in faux pity, “Awe, the number two hero Dynamight doesn’t get laid?”

“No fuckin’ time,” he grunts, though you don’t find much remorse in his voice.

“Well, you have time now,” you say, completely unsure of where this confidence is coming from. Either way, you’ll take it and run.

“I do,” Katsuki confirms, leaning in closer. He’s close enough that you can smell what’s leftover of his cologne, and see the hint of a grin that makes his upper cheek shine silver in the moonlight. You find yourself leaning in just as much as he does.

“Wanna blow off some steam?” You dare to question. Katsuki’s grin only grows wider.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Katsuki’s kisses are surprisingly soft, you think, and so are his lips. But you don’t have much time to think about it as he pulls you in by the waist, quietly groaning into your mouth while he lays you down on your back.

“Always thought you were the prettiest fuckin’ thing,” he growls, trailing butterfly kisses down your neck. “‘M gonna make it up to you, yeah? Make you feel so fuckin’ good.”

A hand hikes his sweatshirt above your chest before Katsuki’s latching onto the skin under your collarbone and sucking, teeth digging into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Y-Yeah, that’s fine,” you whimper, intoxicated by the way Katsuki’s lips flush pink as he pulls away, eyes locked on the fresh hickey on your chest. They flicker up to you; he grins.

“Good?”

“Mhm.”

Katsuki hums at that, licking his lips before diving back in. You hiss when he bites too hard, prompting him to bite harder, but he always soothes it over with his tongue, topping each bruise with a kiss. You flinch when his lips wrap around your nipple and he chuckles at your meek whimper; a hand removes its grip on the sweatshirt in favor of sliding it up your thigh.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Katsuki says once he pulls away, enjoying the sight of you writhing in anticipation. “And it’s all for me, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, ‘m all yours just—“ you kick a leg in frustration at the thumb playing with the hem of your panties, “—do something already.”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow, “Do what?”

You frown, huffing, “You know what.”

Katsuki shrugs, adjusting so he’s caging you to the floor. Ghosting a thumb over your panties, he says, “‘Course I do. You gotta ask nicely first.”

You tighten your hands into fists. He would.

“I’m no—“

“Beg, Princess,” Katsuki growls, his stare unwavering. He presses an inquisitive finger to your clit through your panties either as a promise or a threat—which, you’re not quite sure.

You crumble.

“I—fine, just—finger me.”

Katsuki doesn’t move. Asshole.

“Please.”

The ash-blond grins, finally pushing your panties to the side.

“Good girl.”

When Katsuki slides his first finger in, it’s much too easy, and you blame it on the foreplay. You shudder, hands moving to brace themselves on his big shoulders, and the ash-blond muffles a moan as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Another,” you moan, bucking your hips into his palm. Katsuki’s heated gaze flickers from your body to your face.

“Already?” He chuckles, the rasp in his throat giving his arousal away. You nod—he clicks his tongue.

“Fuckin’ dirty.”

Two fingers feel like so much more than just one, and they have your eyebrows folding in a poor attempt to muffle a whimper. Katsuki’s fingers still move tentatively but they’re getting comfortable, curling and searching for that place that’ll make you tremble. And then he finds it.

“F-Fuck,” your body jolts, and Katsuki’s shushing you against the pillows.

“Keep your mouth shut, Princess,” he purrs, head dipping down to nip at your neck. It adjusts the angle ever so slightly, but enough to make you hiss, and he chuckles. “Unless you wanna get caught.”

“Oh yeah, because that sounds fun right now,” you snort towards the ceiling. Katsuki pulls away with an unimpressed look as his thumb comes down over your clit.

“Can’t wait to fuck the brat outta ya. Maybe then you’ll actually shut up for once, huh?” Katsuki inserts a third finger without you asking him to, and you gasp, clawing at his back.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he laughs against your mouth lowly, as if the light kisses will do anything but make more noise, “Good God sweetheart, you’re really pent up, aren’t ya?”

“Shit—I doubt you’re much better,” you try, scoffing at what you can see of his painfully hard cock in his sweatpants. Katsuki looks down before sending a huff your way, with a cute little blush dusted on his cheeks.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grunts, pulling out his fingers. You whine at the loss. “How d’ya want me to fuck you?”

You need to take a step back from how crude the question is. Right, sex.

“Right um,” you look around, trying to find the least obvious position—and one that doesn’t make a shit ton of noise. Laying on your side, you tuck an arm under the pillow, before turning around to Katsuki to suggest, “Cuddle-fucking?”

“Cuddle-fucking.”

“Yep,” you say with finality, popping the p. Making big grabby hands his way, you say, “C’mere, big guy.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes but moves behind you anyways, warm arms easily finding themselves around your waist under the blanket. After a few adjustments and ensuring you're both fully covered, Katsuki’s hard cock presses against your entrance as he hooks his head over your chin with a huff.

“This is so not on fuckin’ brand.”

“I don’t think fucking in a living room with sleeping friends is on-brand for a pro hero or a baker,” you say casually. Katsuki breaks out into a snort, pressing his face deeper into your neck.

“God, I fuckin’ missed you, ya know that?” He chortles. Your chest blooms with something it hasn’t in years, and for the first time, you find that you don’t mind.

“Don’t be such a dick and maybe I’ll stick around this time,” you quip with a smile he can’t see. Though you feel his against the base of your neck.

“Noted.”

Katsuki’s last words hang in the air, unusually heavy, and your eyes catch the snow beating against the window with a less than angry howl. Katsuki’s chest shudders against your back but he doesn’t move, hands frozen at your waist.

“Hey, I thought you were gon—“

“I’m getting to it,” Katsuki snaps, and you gasp as he starts to push inside. “So fuckin’ impatient, goddamn.”

He pulls you down until he fills you completely, and you suppress the urge to shout at the speed he did it with. Katsuki moves a hand to slap over your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up.”

You reach around to pinch him in the side with a huff, he calls you a bitch. It’s a little hard to hear you behind his hand as you say, “Then don’t catch me off guard like that, asshole.”

Katsuki snaps his hips and does exactly what you tell him not to do—prompting another surprised whine out of you and a dark chuckle from the ash-blond. His cheek presses into your jaw as he finds leverage in hiking your lower half up until your puffy cunt is level with his cock, and fucking you until you drool all over the pillow.

“What a pretty fuckin’ thing,” Katsuki grunts, and you can tell he struggles to keep quiet in the way his chest sporadically shudders. You have to grip the pillow for some semblance of purchase and Katsuki chuckles at watching you struggle, before he’s hiking your leg up to fuck you that much deeper.

“I always—always knew you’d sound so good,” he pants, the grip around your mouth bordering on clammy. You want to tell him that if he keeps making so much noise he’ll wake up everyone in this fucking room, but there isn’t much time between moans to get more than a word in. “Fuck baby, keep tightening around me like that, and I might fuckin’ cum.”

You find it amusing how close he is so quickly, until two fingers land on your clit and start rubbing in slow, small circles. Your walls flutter around him and Katsuki digs his teeth into your neck with a curse, his grip around your raised thigh contracting as he tries to hold on for as long as he can.

And that’s when Denki starts to move.

First, he rolls to the left. Which would’ve been fine, seeing as it’s in the opposite direction until he bops Eijirou straight on the nose and promptly rouses the redhead from his slumber. Katsuki’s hips still.

“O-Ow, dick,” Eijirou curses under his breath, quickly scrambling to his forearms. It’s hard to tell through the darkness, mostly because you’re squinting your eyes to feign sleep, but it seems like Eijirou rubs under his nose, only to blink back at a bloody hand.

“...Shit.”

Katsuki’s hips shift, ever so slightly, but enough to nestle his cock deeper and force you to bite back a whine. And another. And then another.

You try your hardest to be discreet when you reach to pinch Katsuki in the side, and he breathes a laugh down your neck.

“What?” He whispers, though it's more than a rasp than anything else. Good to know you’re not the only one struggling to not cum, here.

“You know 'what,'” you quickly hiss. But Katsuki’s hips don’t stop as Eijirou weighs his options to cure his bloody nose in the dark. The fingers on your clit return their usual pressure and you inhale sharply, nails digging into Katsuki’s forearm as your orgasm begins creeping up on you.

Eijirou sniffles and gets up, stumbling through the darkness to turn down the hall that leads to the bedrooms. Katsuki sees that as fucking freedom and his hips really start to pick up so much speed that you struggle to breathe through it all.

“‘M gonna cum,” Katsuki whimpers into your neck, burying his face deeper in a poor attempt to stunt any sound. “Fuck, fuck ‘m gonna cum, you close baby?”

“Y-Yeah jus’ a little more,” you whimper, eyes rolling as Katsuki finds some inhumane energy in him to fuck faster. He nods at that and bites into your shoulder with a growl, “C’mon, fuckin’ cream all over my cock—atta girl, fuck, fuck—“

Katsuki fills you up the moment you clench around his cock with a sigh, the weight of your orgasm knocking you forehead-first into your pillow as you bite the urge to squeal. Katsuki doesn't growl as much as you expect, moans breathy and light as his hips finally stutter to a stop—but you suppose some things have to change over the years.

Katsuki collapses next to you in pure exhaustion and you’re sure that’s his cum leaking down your thigh, but for some reason, you don’t really mind.

“Hey you,” he speaks first, eyes blazing red in the darkness. You snort.

“Hey, you.”

Katsuki chuckles with a stupidly giddy smile on his face, "Y'know, you still fuck really well."

You drop your head on his chest to snort, and his hands find their rightful place around your waist.

"Better than high school?"

"Yeah..." Katsuki grumbles, before his eyes narrow. "Wait—hey, yo—"

"I haven't fucked anyone since," you snuff the fire before it even starts, and Katsuki relaxes, though his eyes stay slim. He pulls you closer and you sigh—it's comfortable.

"Good," he grunts. And then after a pregnant silence: "I haven't either."

That's...strangely reassuring.

Your arms wriggle until they fold over his shoulders to play with the small hairs on the back of his neck, and he hums, eyes fluttering shut with a final peck on the lips. As Katsuki's breathing evens and the white of the snow dyes the highest points of his face white, you smile. He looks older.

You think he's asleep until he nudges your waist.

"Be my girlfriend."

You don't even hesitate.

"Okay."

By the time Eijirou comes stumbling down the hall, both you and Katsuki are passed out—with his body encompassing yours in the most intimate way, face tucked into your hickey-ridden neck as your arms and legs lock around his being. The redhead gives you both a soft smile as he passes, snorting to himself.

“Took them long enough.”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY THOTSUKI

#— 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈 #bnha smut #bakugou smut #mha smut

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eureka-its-zico · 4 years ago

Text

Half Bitten Part 4

Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A/N: So no one really asked for a continuation of this. I just work on stuff when I’m stuck on other things and I love supernatural stuff. My only hope is that someone out there enjoys this just a little. As always, thank you for reading. Much Love, Jenn

Jimin X Reader (for now?)

Words: 8620

Genre: Vampire supernatural goodness

Warnings: some slight gore

The surge of fear that rushed through you left a sickeningly sweet taste of copper on your tongue. For that brief moment, as your eyes focused in and out on his figure, you wondered if maybe you’d bitten your tongue. A mixture of shock from the wound on your leg and the frigid air making your teeth begin to clatter unapologetically from the cold. That wasn’t even mentioning the blood loss from your wounded leg was starting to show itself: your eyes running over him in doubles when you knew damn well there was only one of him. The spyglass vision made it increasingly harder to focus, and the more you did focus on him the more you felt the absurdity at noting how attractive he was.

From Jimin to Namjoon and now this guy, they all held on to that otherworldly energy. It demanded to be admired and touched: a dangerous game to hypnotize right before they stroked. A small part of you wondered if there was a convention? A secret meeting place to find the most attractive people on the planet and turn them into vampires.

It was the worst, most ridiculous, time for your thoughts to shift to the absurdity of looks but it also felt equally absurd that you were running for your life. From vampires. You knew the fear that quickened your blood should’ve been enough to send your feet packing in the other direction. Yet, there you were woozy from blood loss and your limbs on fire from adrenaline.

You were vaguely aware that your new dangerous stranger was edging his way towards you. Blood soaked eyes smiling to the soft hum of a song he’d originally hummed but was now breathing into the space between you. It was hauntingly beautiful and serene. The words took ages to reach you, but when they did your heart thundered wildly. A scared rabbit caught in the view of a viper.

“Your scent is so pure. It tastes so rich. You’ll try to hide. you’ll never get far. I love the chase. I’ll find you wherever you are.”

The words danced sickeningly sweet inside your head. The angelic sound of his voice almost enough to make you overlook the words. But your brain knew something wasn’t right, and it sent you turning on your heels and attempting to sprint away from him.

You’d felt like a fool. You’d been so starry-eyed as you watched him he’d already begun to pace towards you. A delicate shift of his feet that practically left him dancing and a few feet closer to you than before.

Your late response to turn tail and run; digging in and shifting you forward, hopefully, as far away from him as your injured legs could carry, felt too late. The sensation was so overwhelmingly it took everything in you not to scream. To yell into the void of the night for a help that would never come. The anxiety of not knowing when his attack would come ripped your stomach apart and your heart nesting snuggly in your throat.

With every pounding of your feet into the asphalt the nerves in your injured leg sent electrical jolts of pain throughout your body. A screaming reminder that you were wounded prey, and the agony you felt now wouldn’t compare to the future he had in store.

You held on to a dim hope you’d had a chance of getting away, but with the first brush of a body moving past you, faster than your brain could register, you knew that hope was non-existent. You barely had time to register the second gust of movement, now to your right, and you weren’t able to stop the soft yelp that crawled free from your throat.

His windchime-like laughter resonated around you as if he was impossibly close. Behind you. Beside you. All around you. The playful sound erupted and consumed you until it was the only sound you could hear.

He kept toying with you, herding you, whichever way he saw fit. The progress you thought you were making to safety dissolved quickly at the realization he had you moving in circles. Your mind was now blaring warnings wrapped up in frantic thoughts that left you dizzy with panic.

He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t Jimin who was there to care for you. He was obviously one of Namjoon’s people. This mystery man who tormented you.

RUN!

Your brain kept scrambling the words around. The flight of nerves urging you to keep moving not caring that you were attempting just that. The neon of the Chinese food restaurant that’s been on your right now seemed on your left. Had he completely made you do a one-eighty?

There it was again - that clamoring of panic in your chest. It definitely wasn’t helpful, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to help save you. Just another thing to add to your growing shit show of a day. It didn’t matter if you were going to be able to get away. Realistically, you knew the chances of that happening were narrowing down slim to none. It didn’t stop your legs from tearing to your left back down the street, legs pumping, and started saying a prayer that you’d magically turn into The Flash. If vampires and witches were suddenly real it didn’t seem like too much of a stretch to become a superhero.

Gosh, how you’d seemed to find a street with literally no one on it seemed horrifically convenient.

“Silly rabbit,” his voice whispered down your spine and instantly caused a scream to catch in your throat like bile.

Somehow, it seemed even the buildings were helping him play tricks on you. The acoustics of his voice bouncing around as an endless echo to disorient you from knowing which direction he would come from. That knowledge alone made a soft hiccup of a sob leave you. You weren’t even aware of the tears stinging against your eyes; your only focus on your escape and cursing your legs as they struggled to pick up the pace. You bite down on your lower lip to keep from letting one tear escape. You refused to give him the satisfaction.

“There’s no place you can run that I won’t find you.”

If you were feeling good about your odds, you would’ve told him to go fuck himself. The declaration is already solidly forming on your tongue and patiently waiting for you to send it off. Unfortunately, the odds were never in your favor.

You didn’t have to look back to know he was still giving chase.

You struggled to stay focused. Your gaze landing on a liquor store - neon lights flashing with the grace of a motel vacancy sign - gave you a destination to strive for. The earlier choice of the Chinese restaurant now a thing of the past. He’d turned you around so much you weren’t sure if it was ever real.

What you needed now was a home base that would possibly give a semblance of safety if only you could reach it. It felt damn possible. The feeling of the crazy bastard behind you somehow leaving you, but the anxiety of being chased still resided.

You were mid-run, feet still lifted off the ground, when an arm snaked around your front and collided your back against a hard chest. A flutter of a moment passed, not long enough for his foreign touch to register, before your neck was exposed by a violent tug of your hair and sharp canines sinking down into the soft skin of your throat.

That sob you’d held down ripped its way violently from your lips. Mixing together with a scream that shook through you and landed like an earthquake around you. His strong arms dominated you with ease, and continued to constrict across your body to keep your arms useless at your sides.

The sensation was one that reminded you of your time in second grade. Mrs. Mann’s beloved python that sat motionless a majority of the time in the back corner of the class. You never seen it move until it was feeding time - never live bait - but even then you could still remember the abruptness and strength of the way it matched onto its food. The greedy way it swallowed its’ meal whole after its body made sure one last time the bunny was dead.

This was what you remembered now as his arms continued to pull your body closer; impossibly closer. The hand that held your neck letting go to secure itself on your opposite shoulder. This man was your boa: squeezing his meal until he popped bones and killed every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

The pressure was so great that it left your mouth hinged open. Your jaw unable to collapse, mostly due to your body howling for air. The flashing twenty-four hour liquor sign was a comical five feet away. The promised salvations hum of low voltage electricity and spastic red glow turned into a blur. The tears you’d refused to shed now slid effortlessly down your cheeks.

The only thing you could be aware of was that you weren’t breathing. Your mouth was still wide open, but your lungs refused to take in air. It didn’t matter that your body ached for it. It focused more on the sensation of a hungry mouth that sucked hungrily at your neck. The sharpened dog teeth that were sunk deep into the skin no longer ached.

There was a moment you felt something hot slide down your neck and you wanted to yell. Your mind registering it as drool; not being able to comprehend it was your blood seeping between greedy mouthfuls as he drank. It was strange that after all this, your body was still aware of the placement of his hands. His arms still holding deathly tight, and yet you were placed securely up against his chest.

If someone were to walk by all they would think was that you were just a young couple. Your boyfriend casually holding you from behind and laying kisses on your throat. They wouldn’t notice that the way his arms held yours it kept you from reaching out a pleading hand for help. At this point, you were so weak you weren’t even sure you’d have the strength to lift a finger, let alone a hand.

The sting of his teeth that found their home in the hollow of your neck began to fade. Your mind was now only able to recognize the euphoric sensation that began to dance through every cell of your body. You no longer felt the need to fight him. Why would you when your body suddenly felt heavy and his arms so secure?

In all the chaos of a few minutes the pain fueled down into an annoyance that went to the backdrop with the sensation of numbing pleasure. Whether it was blood loss, or defeat, your body began to relax against the undead stranger. A quiet urge to allow him to drink you down until you were nothing. You were sinking deeper against his strong chest; the euphoric feeling that coursed through you had now consumed you.

You were vaguely aware that he was no longer holding you so tightly. An arm had found its way out of his hold and instead of fighting him off, it guided your hand up to his head. Your fingers now laced in his hair and holding on in pleasure. When your fingers dug and pulled against the hairs on his scalp, his arms moved to pull you closer but didn’t remove your hand. His mouth giving a -lord help you - playful bite that sent a thrill to the ends of your toes.

And just like that, your lungs found air, and fuck - you moaned.

A part of you hated the sound that escaped your mouth. That hatred growing stronger when you swore you could feel his lips curl into a smile. As fast as it all must have happened; it felt like an eternity. One you loathed and yet, were silently hoping would never end. You were so lost in the fuzziness of your thoughts, the sensation of him, that when you were flung violently from his arms the last bit of air you’d had left was knocked from them. The asphalt catching your body as it came to a painful multiple rolling stop.

An eruption of a roar you knew came from the one who’d captured you: enraged at having his meal taken away was your only guess at how angry he truly sounded. You were too tired, too drained, to be afraid. The small part of you that was still capable of common sense knew you should’ve been terrified. To be terrified meant to flee but the amount of energy that would take was not something you had at that moment.

You were barely able to muster enough of it to flip yourself onto your back. Your neck now alive with a bitterness at how rough he’d been. The feeling that was creeping back into your limbs made it inch by aching inch that it was not happy. A groan left your lips as you mustered another fit of strength to move yourself to your side. Your eyes landing on the one who’d rescued you.

Jimin stood in the middle of you and the man. The other man who, even from this distance, plainly wore your blood smeared haphazardly around his mouth. A small amount decorating the hollow of his neck that he now wiped away in agitation. While he seemed particularly calm, annoyed, but calm Jimin seemed to reflect his opposite.

Jimin’s body seemed consumed by a rage that reflected in the crease of his brow and the hard set of his shoulders. His jaw tight as he straightened out his body back to his full height. The other man before him appeared to be a few inches taller, but Jimin’s rage made him appear larger than what he was.

“Jungkook!” Jimin’s voice rang out. The animosity in his voice radiated against your skin like a flame that threatened to eat you alive. “You dare taste her? Mark her?”

Jungkook didn’t give Jimin the satisfaction of answering him right away. Instead, you watched a coy smile spread on his blood-stained lips. His thumb dragging across the bottom and ended with it pressed inside his mouth. His tongue seductively working to clean up the mess you’d made. Jungkook didn’t let his thumb come back out until it was completely licked clean; his crimson eyes watching your face as he did it. The intensity of his gaze left an aching shiver on your skin and the heat on your cheeks enough to tell it wasn’t all completely out of fear.

Jimin must have sensed it too. His gaze turning back to take you in at your current state, and finding your eyes glued to Jungkook’s position. The hurt Jimin showed wasn’t something that you could fully comprehend. You weren’t his to have. You belonged only to yourself. The person that he remembered, the woman he’d loved so many centuries ago, was not you. You were your own person.

So why did the pain that rippled across his face make your heart ache?

“You place an apple in front of Adam, Jimin and ask him not to take a bite.” He tsked him. The same finger he’d used to clean up your blood now teasing him in a tick tock motion. “You should remember: Adam always was a fool for the most delicious delights.”

“She is not yours to have! You play me for stupid, Jungkook. I know that blood alone is not hers. Did you plan on making her drink from you?”

Your body became rigid as Jimin’s words embedded themselves into your chest. The fear that’d begun to reside came racing back and forced you to look at Jungkook closer now. You weren’t sure what it was that Jimin had seen that you did not. You feverishly scanned him until, there, the sleeve of his shirt that sat on his wrist was stuck to his skin. The blood there was still bright and fresh and only beginning to brown at its edges.

It was the same side that held your head to him, neck exposed, earlier until he’d let it go. You’d thought Jungkook released you because he’d realized you were no longer going to put up a struggle and now the sickening feeling of knowing he’d meant to do something more ominous left you feeling nauseous.

Jimin knew what he was trying to do. You knew from Jimin explaining about blood being a conduit that if you’d taken even a little of blood, Jungkook would’ve been able to find you. Wherever you were. No matter what.

“I was only doing what MY King asked of me.”

“I could kill you for what you’ve done here.”

The playfulness that’d controlled Jungkook from the unfortunate moment you’d met him disappeared like smoke. His features hardened with a sinister look as he gave Jimin his entire focus.

“You could try, old King, but you will fail.”

Jimin’s squared shoulders seemed eager to do just that until another voice joined the two men.

“Now, now Jungkook. We don’t need an all-out fight on this beautiful night do we.”

You knew the owner of the voice long before Namjoon - the asshole himself - stepped out like magic beside Jungkook. A friendly hand resting on his shoulder until Namjoon moved to stand a few inches in front of him. But it wasn’t just Namjoon himself that appeared like magic from the curtains of the night. Two other figures joined at the edges of the men, making a symbol of an arrowhead, and one of these new introductions to this wildly fucked up play was holding the arm of your best friend.

“Alice”

At the sound of your voice it brought Namjoon’s full attention back to you. His brow creased in a momentary show of confusion at how cute you must have been looking: a bloodied heap in the middle of the road. He only needed to look to the man beside him on his left to understand your current state. Or perhaps he already knew. Jungkook’s earlier words of his orders swimming back to the surface of your recollection.

Namjoon held you in his vision for breadth longer and moved his eyes over to the form of your friend.

“You can still change her fate, Y/N. All you need to do is come with me.”

Namjoon’s eyes held tightly to you: all of them seeming to watch your exhausted frame. Your mind struggled to comprehend what he meant and what it was exactly you’d have to do to change it. You’d barely been able to move up onto your knees. Your palms still needed on the asphalt of the road to keep you steady. Your whole body shuddered in exhaustion, but looking at Alice now, at what he had done was enough to make the exhaustion disappear and icy fury made your body rigid.

“She won’t be going anywhere with you,” Jimin snarled.

His comment snapped their attention back to him. You wanted to tell him yourself that you could make your own decisions. Not even he got to make them for you and yet, you couldn’t muster enough strength to care. Whatever you had left in you needed to be used to rescue Alice. Her lights still on with nobody home.

“Jimin. I don’t think you’re in any place to be making threats, old friend.”

“It is more than just a threat.”

Namjoon took a step forward and splayed his arms out to indicate the men beside him. They were so caught up in their pissing contest. All you wanted was to know what you needed to do to get Alice back. All the way back and out of this trance he’d flung her in.

“It took you long enough to come to your supposed “loves’” aid.” Namjoon’s words were filled with a sharp teasing; sharpened and dripping with sarcasm. “It took Jungkook using her as a snack for you to finally come running.”

“She enjoyed it.”

The heat in those three words were enough to send your cheeks heating with warmth and your eyes searching for the safety of the pavement. You wanted to shout your denial to Jungkook that he was wrong. Not a single part of you enjoyed what had transpired between the two of you, but that lie died long before it’d ever brushed your lips.

Jimin must have realized it too, because now his earlier lividity returned. His eyes flickering with a murderous rage in Jungkook’s direction.

“Hmm, maybe I should give her to Jungkook to finish what they’d started. What do you think, Jimin? Or I could always just give him Alice.”

Your head snapped back on Namjoon’s moving figure. His right hand resting under his chin as if he was stuck in a philosophical debate, and not the fate of an innocent woman.

“You touch her and I’ll kill you.”

The coldness of your words stopped him short. Jimin, who’d been moving back towards you, didn’t take another step. You couldn’t believe it was you who’d spoken. Your own voice carrying a warning that was swept up in the air around you. Threatening something much darker than even you were able to understand.

For a moment, you could tell you’d caught him off guard but Namjoon was quick on his feet. The hand that held his chin a second ago now moved to usher forward the man to his right. The one who was holding tight to Alice.

“Oh, Y/N. Of course, I don’t want to do anything to your dear, sweet, and innocent little Alice. That’s why I’m giving you this choice.”

The man whose face eerily held an angelic softness handed her off into Namjoon’s waiting embrace. Only taking a single step back; his dark almond eyes transfixed on you as if you were something dangerous, and not the other way around. His eyes speaking plainly: he wouldn’t let you do a damn thing to his King.

“Stop giving her speeches of fairness. We both know you don’t have a fair bone in your body. All you know is how to do is take,” Jimin sneered. “I know even if she still says no you won’t stop hunting her until you have her.”

A flash of annoyance struck over Namjoon’s features like lightening and just as fast after it came, it was gone. His face smoothed back to its porcelain indifference. The only thing that showed his displeasure was the way his eyes were beginning to bleed crimson.

“I would rather her to come willingly.” His reply was stated matter of factly. Namjoon’s eyes darting back to where you still sat on the floor and took a cautious step towards you. His hand on Alice’s arm forcing her to move with him. “But make no mistake, Y/N. I will have you. I will take you. One way or another.”

A scream echoed around you, and it took you a moment to realize it was coming from yourself. All the frustration. The guilt. Anger and grief that’d been building in the last twenty-four hours came out in a wave of exhaled air before you could stop it; before it could swallow you whole.

“What will it take for any of you to get it through your thick stupid skulls! I am not a prize or some reincarnated lost love you two fought over because one was captain steal-your-girl. I’m literally no one! I’m just me.”

Namjoon released the grip he had on Alice’s arm and took another step toward you. His body language stating clearly he did not find Jimin’s presence between you in the least bit threatening. The pity that he showed you now, etched into the fine features of his face, only seemed to poke at the Amber’s of the animosity you felt towards him more.

Why couldn’t any of them understand that you were not what they wanted you to be? You were yourself and always will be. And, at this point, you were more than happy to be your plain Jane ordinary self.

He crouched down until he was leveled with your position on the pavement of the road. While he adjusted himself to your height you allowed yourself enough time to push up off your hands. Your butt now sitting on your calves and the pressure of the added weight sent the jagged pebbles deeper into your knees. As uncomfortable as it was you could deal. At least now you were looking him squarely in the eyes: no more cowering.

“You really don’t understand, do you?”

“Namjoon.”

Jimin said his name as a warning. In return, Namjoon continued to ignore him. His brow furrowed tight at his attempt to intrude on his would-be heartfelt moment.

“Your great-great-great grandmother is long dead. There is no bringing her back. Jimin and I have long accepted this. However.” Namjoon paused for a millisecond. Long enough to make your skin itch with the desire for him to hurry up and finish it. “The power that courses through your veins, Y/N it’s centuries old. Older than even she was. Your blood is what we are all after and the magic that flows in it.”

“I can’t even make a quarter disappear.”

Namjoon’s eyes sparked crimson to obsidian in a wild dance as he struggled to get his anger under control. While he didn’t seem to find your small joke funny you’d earned a snort of laughter from somewhere behind him. Even Jimin’s titled head wasn’t enough to hide the small smile that lifted his lips.

“In time you will learn.”

“I don’t want to learn! What part of that aren’t you getting through your thick fucking skull.”

“That’s enough!” He roared. His face was fully changed now. All teeth and bleeding eyes with a power that shook the fabric of the night to its core. Namjoon’s change caused everyone around him to join in, until you were painfully aware you were the most human on of the group. “Either you come with us now or I rip your friends’ head open like a Pez dispenser.”

Your eyes zeroed in on him. The threat he made ruthless but one you knew deep down in your gut he’d meant.

“I’d like to see you fuckin try.”

A mouth full of teeth smiled wickedly back at you. His feet obliging you by moving the few steps he’d taken away from Alice back to her side. Where she continued to stand patiently waiting like a zombie.

There are moments in your life that don’t feel that important. These small decisions that you don’t realize put you on a deeper path to harder ones that you’ll have to make. Those small repercussions building themselves into a mountain of a moment.

This is what it felt like now. All those decisions in your life you’d made suddenly seemed to expand like an endless sea of stars. So many of them that they couldn’t possibly be connected; and yet came together to create this constellation of your life.

You watched Namjoon house the words you’d spoken in his mind. The way his face contorted into something that was worthy of pure nightmare fuel. The resolve of strength you’d had to tell him to basically go fuck himself was gone in that instant, because you were made painfully aware that the individuals before you were god-like. What could a helpless mortal do in the face of a god?

Namjoon proved to you the answer to that was nothing. His speed moving him faster than you could process. You hadn’t even realized he’d moved at all until Jimin was simply in front of you; guarding you. He was now completely standing between Namjoon and yourself. Jimin’s hand catching Namjoon’s wrist; his fingertips milliseconds away from the tip of your nose.

The two of them were locked in a battle of wills. The strength they commanded showing itself in the struggle of a dance of tug-a-war without any rope. If Namjoon gained an inch Jimin was quick to take it back.

“Move!”

Without question you obeyed and were up on your feet immediately. Jimin didn’t give Namjoon another moment to force him back; his free hand shot out in a blur and connected with his chest. The sheer strength behind it sent him flying back almost a dozen feet before he gained back his footing. A snarl cutting through the air between them and Jungkook and the two other companions were at his side.

Suddenly, you were painfully aware how outnumbered Jimin truly was.

“Ugh – Jimin.”

“Not now!”

He waved you off as his eyes scanned in other bodies appearing from the shadows behind the four. Like a fool, you allowed yourself to hope that maybe some of these were on your side. By the way Jimin was staring at them, however, you knew that was most definitely not the case.

“Where a little outnumbered here. Don’t you think!?”

Was that your voice that cracked? No, no. You were perfectly calm. Super calm.

Out of your peripherals you were able to catch a flash of movement. That flash was all you seen before teeth were inches from snapping in your face. A scream worked its way up your throat and was torn from your lips as foreign hands gripped your shoulders. You moved to block your face in a weak attempt just before those same hands disappeared.

Jimin was behind him in seconds and ripped him off you. The two of them moved in a blinding speed of punches and blocking until Jimin’s hand exploded out the back of the other man’s back. Your hand flew to your mouth to stop a scream short; the gruesome mess left you feeling a bit lightheaded as you unwillingly noticed pieces of shirt and...other things dangling at the end of Jimin’s hand.

It was a devastating wound. One that would’ve killed any normal man, but this wasn’t an ordinary man or a man at all. Jimin’s blow was only meant to wound, not kill, and this perfectly insane stranger was still trying to snap his way towards Jimin. His hands grabbed Jimin’s shoulder and used it to pull him forward. The movement made a sucking noise and made you question if the contents of your last meal were about to reappear like magic.

Jimin knew the intentions of the other man and quickly drew his arm back. In the same breath, he followed it up with his palm slamming into your would-be attackers chest. The force of the blow sent him back like a limp ragdoll into Namjoon’s growing group.

“We need to get out of here!”

You couldn’t stop the panic dripping from your voice as you watched him narrowly escape another attack. This new body formed itself from the shadows and split free from its darkness with the flash of a blade. Jimin dodged each whirlwind of blows and strikes with an ease that you weren’t sure came from raw power or age. His attacker tried to switch up his attack by sending a flurry of double kicks towards Jimin’s abdomen. This must have been the opening Jimin had waited for.

Jimin allowed him to land a kick to his side and when the man went to pull away Jimin locked his leg in place with his forearm. Jimin’s fist rushed in a speed of movement to land powerful blows into his exposed stomach and face. When the man tried to stab his blade into Jimin’s back, he easily grabbed his wrist and knocked the knife free from his hand. He was so focused on the knife that he wasn’t aware of the man coming from behind him. Your eyes danced back and forth, in decision on whether to speak or move weighing heavy on you.

“Behind you!”

You decided on both. Your feet carried you forward as you shouted your warning to him. What you were going to do against a supernatural creature, you had no idea. You just knew you needed to do something. No matter how aware you were that you were incredibly useless in moments like this. Whatever happened when you finally reached him, you knew it was not going to end well for you. And that knowledge made your stomach turn until your body practically vibrated with anxiety.

The man with the blade was now on the floor under Jimin’s boot. Another came sprinting out of the darkness a mixture of snarling teeth and determination. Jimin used the man under him as a soccer ball and sent him flying into the other man. His body turning in a fluid one-eighty to to defend his back against another.

You weren’t a hundred percent sure what overcame you. Why you felt the need to scream with what you figured was a war cry. The only thing that came out of it was now the singular attention that had been on Jimin now became equally shared between you. A man who’d been heading towards Jimin and the others derailed and was coming straight for you. Suddenly, that new found bravery dissipated and your fear sent the world around in slow motion. Your feet felt stuck in molasses; each step heavier than the last and a silent pleading for you to turn back. But you couldn’t turn back now.

You braced yourself for whatever was about to happen. One minute, he was two feet from you, and the next he was screaming on the road. A man held on to the collar of his shirt and what was left of his upper body. The rest of him was laid out on the street in a mess of gore.

The man who’d entered stage right held his own blade that looked more like a short sword. His arm slinging the blade back to whip off the blood onto the street.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

You spoke to no one. The words weight no more than a whisper and yet, to you, it felt like you’d been shouting. Crazy sword guy gave you the barest of glances before he was off. That blur of speed brought him to help clear the remaining men off of Jimin until the two of them were standing at each other’s backs.

“Nice of you to finally make it, Hoseok.”

Hoseok, aka sword wielding-guy, had the grace to look embarrassed. Hoseok’s body bent at a stiff ninety-degrees towards Jimin who seemed too busy dusting off his coat to notice.

“I apologize that Jin and I were not here sooner.”

Jimin waved him off. His eyes scanned the surrounding darkness and a part of you wondered what it was he saw there. You wanted to ask him, but the possibility of bad news kept you silent.

“And where is Jin?”

“Waiting.”

What could he possibly be waiting for? You wanted to ask but in no way wanted anymore attention on yourself. A scream that demanded to be found sounded in the night around you. It circled around and asked to be followed. Your eyes locating the origin of the voice in a matter of seconds to Alice. No longer the vacant girl she’d been the last hour and more herself: the terrified edition. The terror in her eyes was enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

“V.” Namjoon motioned with a flick of his finger and the man obeyed.

V. He’d been the one who you thought looked Angelic. His eyes were bright, open, and reflected nothing but bad intentions. Pillow soft lips curled up into a sneer of a smile as he stepped forward. He dragged Alice with him pulling her with such force you were worried he would simply tear it from the socket out of boredom. The sounds Alice made to accompany his aggressive movements only solidified your assumption.

For all the beauty their afterlife had given them, it did nothing to hide the monsters underneath. Even the devil was an angel once.

“Let’s speed thing up, shall we? Either you turn yourself over to me now, Y/N, or I’ll kill her.”

To prove his point, Namjoon reached out to take her from V. His large hand closing around her throat and lifting her up effortlessly. Her dangling feet struggled to kick him, flailing hands scratching at his arm, and to silence her Namjoon noticeably squeezed her tighter.

“Stop it! Please!”

The words came out in a sob. Your body struggling to take a breath. A fear that if you did, if you moved at all, it would be all he needed to hurt her more.

“If you want to stop this than I suggest you do as you’re told and get over here. Now.”

The previous cat and mouse coyness in Namjoon’s voice completely vanished. Every word he spoke sent a sliver of fear down your spine. You weren’t going to argue with him as the fight had left you the minute you’d heard her pleading. You moved to take a step forward and found your legs were refusing to move. The more you struggled against the sensation the heavier the feeling of sinking in quicksand became.

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

The threat in Jimin’s voice was palpable. The anger that clutched his jaw made you want to instantly apologize for even considering leaving. Almost. Your own anger was bubbling to the surface finally and a hushed, “Fuck you,” rumbled free from your chest.

“Why can’t I move?!”

“Because I’m not letting you.”

There was a split second where it crossed your mind that he had to be joking. You felt so sure it was a sick prank only to see no part of him was joking.

“What does that even mean? You aren’t letting me. I don’t need your permission.”

Jimin’s mouth opened but it was Namjoon’s voice that cut through.

“It means that this is pointless. You didn’t tell me he’d given her any of his blood.”

Why was he saying this towards Alice? Your brow furrowed as confusion began to roll through you in waves. There was no way your brain could comprehend what you were seeing. Namjoon’s arm no longer held her off of her feet. He’d set her down but kept a firm hold of her neck. And Alice. Your best friend. She no longer looked one bit terrified. Instead annoyance had taken residency all over her face.

“Alice.”

You hated how little your voice sounded. How much it showcased the betrayal you felt. That annoyance that’d wrapped itself around her like a shroud only seemed to grow larger when she glanced in your direction.

“She never mentioned anything to me about him feeding any blood to her. Just that they’d had sex in a dream a few times.”

Heat washed over your face. A blend of anger and embarrassment with you not really knowing which one it was that colored your cheeks.

“Alice!”

Christ. Were you a broken record.

You might as well have been talking to the wind. Alice looked away from you and back at Namjoon. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Her eyes were strictly for him. A comical cartoon version with her eyes filled with hearts flashed in your head. And slowly, as you watched her continue to look at him like a lovesick puppy, a horrible realization began to spread. Your chest tight and ready for whatever heart break came next.

Months ago, Alice talked about meeting a guy at a bar. A night when you were supposed to join her, but lied about catching a stomach bug. She’d gone on and on about how he looked. She’d gone into even more detail about the way he’d fucked her. You’d thought he sounded like someone who just wanted a piece of ass. Hated him before you’d even met him. Now your mind was flooding with all the descriptions Alice had ever given.

It had been Namjoon she’d met that night in the bar. The night you’d ditched her.

Slowly, your eyes moved from her hopelessly devoted figure to the man who still held onto her neck. An unseen collar and his arm was the leash.

You never hated someone before. Not really. Sure, you’d said it nonchalantly in passing. Thought you’d understood exactly what it felt like in moments with people that you were sure the only emotion you’d felt was hatred. Looking at Namjoon now – you knew you were wrong.

This hatred was fire in your blood. It threatened to climb up your throat and release out from your mouth until all the air was spent from your lungs. Most of all, this hatred would only be sated by blood.

You hadn’t been aware that your body was moving until you felt a sharpness in your chest. Your hand moved up to clutch absentmindedly at your heart. Was it possible to feel your heart break and be this angry all at once?

“Y/N – stop!”

Jimin’s voice dripped with the command. A command you wanted to tell him to shove his commands up his ass, but your body listened nonetheless. You felt rooted to that very spot. You were too angry to make sense of this. It forced you to close your eyes and attempt to concentrate. No matter what you did you could not get yourself to move.

Jimin walked to where you stood. His body moved to stand in front of you and cut off what little you could see of Namjoon and Alice.

“Out of my way, Jimin!”

“No. You are too angry right now to see this is what he wants. It’s just another trick to get you where he wants you.”

“Well it’s working.”

“You need to try and calm yourself – “

“Fuck you,” you snarled. Your world was narrowing; wilting down to a tunnel vision that only housed enough room for two. “I’m done with being calm. I’m through with being scared.”

A snort of laughter brought your attention through the tunnel and landing on Alice. She was no longer held like a dog on a leash. She stood proudly behind Namjoon at his side. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyes stating plainly: you’re a joke.

“What are you going to do, Y/N? All you’ve ever been since I’ve known you is weak. I don’t even know why they’d even fight over someone as pathetic as you.”

Her words stung. Why would she say that? Was he making her say things like this to you?

“Alice. I know this isn’t you.”

Alice shook her head and moved forward. Her arms falling at her side as she regarded you with the same disgust she’d show a piece of shit on her shoe.

“And what do you actually know about me, Y/N? You’ve always known what I wanted you to know. The person I made you believe I was, is all just someone made up. Imaginary.”

“How can you say that to me? After all the things we’ve been through. The things we told each other. You can act as tough as you want in front of Namjoon, but you and I know the truth.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But how else do you think they found out where we lived? Why did it feel like someone was following you at all your favorite spots? I told him, Y/N. I told them everything I knew about you.”

That fire that’d raged in your blood smoothed into ice. The shock of her words rocked you, and you knew that was exactly what she’d wanted. Alice was not who you thought she was. She’d made that abundantly clear.

That girl didn’t exist. And all those times you’d come home terrified. Your heart crammed so deep in your throat you’d thought you were going to die from panic. All because you’d thought you were being followed. Alice joked and comforted you into believing it was just your mind playing tricks. When, in all actuality, it had been her doing the entire time.

Alice was a major key player in where you were standing. Surrounded by a pack of wolves.

You were vaguely aware of Jimin at your side. The faded sounds of his voice beside you eventually grew silent. His companion, Hoseok, somewhere off around you. The two of them faced Namjoon and his men. In between making sure they weren’t trying anything, he sent cautionary glances towards you. He must have been able to feel it; sense it.

The flame of your hatred, your betrayal, that had extinguished earlier was roaring back to life. The anger far surpassing what you felt capable of containing inside you. A dark part of you wanted to scorch the earth they stood on.

Show them.

Burn them.

The softness of the whisper tickled across your ear and raised the hairs on your arms. The sane part of you – what was left of it – knew something wasn’t right. You tried to play it off as just thoughts. The sinister feeling a part of you, a part that all humans had inside them when they were pushed too far. But it whispered again. This time gentler and promising: “Show them the price for a Witch's fury.”

“I don’t know how.”

Your words hung in the darkness of the night as you waited for a reply. The cautionary energy was pulsating now. All eyes wondering if you’d gone insane for talking to yourself. But they couldn’t hear them. The women who felt like friends; relatives.

“Whatever you hear – whatever they’re saying – you must fight them.”

Jimin was back inside your vision. His eyes searching yours to see if you were still with him. You were both present and not. Lost to voices that made you wonder if he could hear them too.

We can show you.

We can teach you.

Let

Innnnn…

Your eyes looked back over at Alice. The one person you’d held the closest in your life, second to your own mother. Flashbacks of every moment you’d shared together. From special drinks you’d created on girls’ nights while binge watching ‘The Great British Baking Show,’ and ‘Friends.’ The two of you, drunk, and believing you could easily make a three-tiered cake from scratch. The trips you’d taken. The help you’d given.

All of it had been a lie. A well-crafted play for her just to hand you over to the very monster she proudly stood beside. Looking at her now was enough for you to make your decision.

Jimin must have sensed it. His mouth framed in an unfinished shout that never got a chance to be heard. Silently, you let the sickly-sweet voice know you agreed and suddenly you weren’t the only one in your body.

It felt like dozens of women – yes, women – were housed inside you. Each of them held their own rage at a betrayal they’d suffered. Each deceit seeped into your bones like a cancer.

Jimin’s hand reached out to touch you; could feel the unspoken bound he’d made inside you make a weak attempt to soothe you. It was a warm sensation that moved from your core and up. A ghost of a hug that was only felt by its warmth.

He was trying to drive whatever darkness you’d allowed in, but your wrath - your hatred - was too strong. It easily pushed back whatever weak attempt he’d tried to bring you back, and sent your hands out against his chest. The force of it sent him flying back; his feet struggling to stay grounded as his feet dragged on the asphalt.

“We are not your playthings.”

When you spoke, it wasn’t just your voice they heard. Your feet that had felt rooted were now moving forward. Your hands that had trembled were steady as they went to the wounds on your throat. The still pulsing wound in your leg. Each hand moved into the aching wounds to release fresh blood in your palms.

A voice inside the chaos came forward. An old oak among raging storms and housed itself there to teach you. All magic flowed through a balance in the universe. You could not give without it taking. This was how balance worked. A debt was owed when you used it for something dark, and this price you would pay with blood.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Alice no longer looked smug or amused. She looked terrified as she moved to stand closer to Namjoon.

“That parasite will not save you from me, girl.”

Your voice was dry and worn with age. You rode out her fear and moved to kneel in the road a mere feet from her. Your bloodied hands working symbols into the ground as you began to chant in a tongue you did not know.

All you knew was that the fire full of rage that sat deep in your belly would soon consume her. When the last of the words left your lips, a blue flame snacked along the blood you’d spread until it grew and grew; spreading wings to create a small lake of fire between you.

You rose to your feet and looked out among the faces of those that’d wish to harm you.

Harm us.

You watched as their bodies became tight with anxiety; some of Namjoon’s lackies fear seeped into the air like a sickness. Good. They should be. With an unholy shriek the fire that crept around them spread wide as your arms rose around your head. The only driving thought you had was that you wanted it to cleanse them.

The fire rushed first towards Namjoon and Alice. V and the other broody one you’d yet to learn of his name, quickly grabbed her and were gone. Namjoon offered you a brief look of irritation before he dodged out of the way. The sound of screams brought your attention to your left and watched as your flame licked up, up, and up until it consumed. The vampire with the fist-sized hole in his chest was now struggling to put himself out.

A smile that was not yours curled your lips and a sickening feeling of joy at watching him die made you suddenly grow ill. This wasn’t you. This hatred. This destruction. You didn’t want to be a murderer. The sickly voice that’d whispered reassuringly earlier was now hostile. It wanted to stay.

Your feet began to back peddle away from everyone as best you could. You had no idea where it was you were going, but anywhere that would be safer for them. You turned to start running again and held your hands over your ears as a scream shook across your skull. Only you could hear them and how they pressed hard inside your skull. The pressure overwhelmed you and made you believe at any minute your eyes would be pushed out.

You’d only gotten a block when your body could no longer take the pain. Your feet caught on the edge of the sidewalk and you went crashing down. The screaming in your head had only grown louder and caused your vision to begin to blur. Maybe your head really was going to explode after all.

You turned your face to look up towards the moon and were greeted by the sight of Jungkook. His fist connecting with your cheek was the last thing you seen before everything went quiet and dark.

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littlelovelyspiderling · 4 years ago

Text

Unmasked

Spider-Man is forced to fight the Sinister Six while he’s sick, which leads to his enemies making unexpected discoveries about their arch nemesis.

Chapter 3

Ow.

That was the first coherent thought that registered in Peter’s brain.

Pain. He was in pain. A lot of it.

It started with the sunlight shining directly in his eyes through the ceiling-high windows. Then there was the sharp ache in his left leg. Then a sting in his shoulder. A cramp in his stomach. A throb in his skull.

And then, everywhere.

Peter was hurting all over. And yet, it was dull, distant, hazy hurt, like he was a ghost floating above his body after it had been run over by a dump truck.

Ugh…

His eyes scrunched into angry lines before fluttering open. His vision was fuzzy, unfocused, and no amount of blinking seemed to fix it. His brain felt like it had been replaced by three tons of bricks.

What…where…

He was…inside someplace. It was bright—way too bright. The ceiling overhead was tall and white. He was lying on a couch that felt like it had never been sat on before.

Am I…dead…?

His muscles were stiff as stone. He feared for a moment he was paralyzed, until he felt his fingers twitch, followed by his toes. It hurt—a lot—but hurt was better than numbness.

Okay. Not paralyzed. Hopefully not dead.

“Mmmgh,” he moaned. Slowly, he slid his hands back and pushed off the couch, lifting himself into a sitting position. “Oh, god…”

His skin was hot and sticky. Every bone, organ, and cell ached. He still felt sick, but now with about seventy extra ailments piled on top of that, which meant he was probably still alive.

Probably.

But how?

The last he remembered, he was getting his ass handed to him by the Sinister Six. For as long as he’d operated as the masked vigilante Spider-Man, he’d never gotten thrashed that badly. How did he get away? Did someone rescue him? Had the Avengers swooped in and saved his dumb, in-over-his-head ass right after he’d blacked out? But how could they have gotten there in time?

And where the hell was he?

Now that he was no longer lying down, the room had started listing a little. Peter reached up to rub his temple and felt something crinkly stuck to his head. He grabbed hold of it and started peeling it off his skin, wincing from the pain. Once he’d torn it free, Peter held the unknown object in front of his eyes. It was a large, bloody bandage.

Huh.

Peter’s eyes dropped to his lap. A thin blanket was draped over his body. When he lifted it away, he cringed.

His torso was a gruesome patchwork of Frankenstein-style stitches and bandages. He counted three sets of sutures on his upper body alone, plus four other cuts and scrapes held together with butterfly tape. His entire chest looked like one gigantic bruise. Plus, the burns—some from scraping across coarse concrete, others from actual fire. Every small movement sent waves of pain rippling across his body.

Yeesh, he thought, poking gingerly at the bandages on his shoulder. Well, someone friendly had to patch me up. But who?

Peter let the blanket slip from his fingers. Grimacing, he swung his legs off the couch and carefully placed his feet on the floor. Sweat slipped off his brow and dripped onto his knee.

“Okay,” he breathed. Peter inhaled sharply, then threw his weight forward, standing upright for an instant. Then he collapsed, gasping. Dizzying agony blossomed in his left leg and thumped like a second heartbeat.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. He glanced back and saw his shin had been fashioned with a makeshift splint: two metal rods and ass-load of packing tape.

Right. Broken leg. The sound of the bone cracking in half reignited in his memories, sending a shudder down his spine.

Peter used the sofa to pull himself off the ground. This time, he placed all his weight on his right foot, using his left only for balance. His body ached and trembled with the effort it took to stand, but he managed to stay on his feet.

Ouch. Ugh. Okay. Yeah. That’s a start. The fuzz in his vision was starting to dissipate, but the fog in his brain clung like fungus. It felt like he’d been inhaling a bunch of that laughing gas stuff his dentist had given him back in the 6th grade when he had to get a tooth pulled. His head was heavy and light at the same time.

The room was a lounge area with stiff furniture and minimal decor. A wilted fern sat in the corner alongside a weird, tall block with a piece of metal sticking out of the top that Peter assumed was some form of modern art. The walls were entirely bare except for a small landscape painting that looked like it belonged in a motel bathroom. There were two other chairs across from the couch, a coffee table, a gray rug, and that was basically it.

Beside the fern, a pair of double doors stood wide and closed. When Peter strained his sensitive ears, muffled voices could be heard conversing in the other room. Curiosity plucked at his chest.

“Um…hello?” he called, voice raspy. He approached the doors, hopping more than walking, gritting his teeth as his injuries burned and throbbed, heat radiating feverishly off his skin. By the time he transversed the room, he was out of breath, lightheaded. He leaned against the wall for a minute and cycled slow gulps of oxygen through his lungs.

Once he’d somewhat recovered, Peter limped in front of the large doors. The voices were louder now, but not loud enough to be recognizable. They sounded mostly male. Peter took a deep breath, reached out his arm, and cracked the door open just a hair to peek inside.

It was a kitchen—that was the first thing he saw. A man stood at the island with his back to the doors. Across from him was a round dining table with a bowl of fruit in the middle.

“How is he?” the man asked, biting into an apple. His voice was definitely familiar.

“Still hasn’t woken up, right?” another responded.

Maybe this is another one of Clint’s safe houses, Peter thought. Or an Avengers’ base I’ve never been to before. Or a secret sitting room in some tragically decorated S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Or—

Seconds before Peter opened his mouth to say hello again, the man eating the apple turned around. When Peter saw his face, his heart jumped out of his chest and splattered at his feet.

“I don’t know,” Herman Shultz said over a mouthful of fruit. “Has he?”

The oxygen around Peter vanished in an instant. It’s Shocker! The guy who broke my leg! W-what the hell? What is he doing here?

“Not from what I’ve heard,” the second voice continued. Another man entered his narrow line of vision, this one lit up like a neon sign, and Peter’s throat seized.

“You’re not being very helpful, Maxwell.”

“I told you not to call me that! I’m Electro!”

Shocker held up his hands. “Right, right, sorry. Electro, then. You’re not being helpful.”

What the shit, what the shit, what the actual, living shi—

“Don’t ask me about these things. Ask the doc.” He lifted his head and grinned. “Look—here he comes now.”

Clank, clank, clank. Heavy, metallic footsteps rang in Peter’s ears and shook the floor beneath him. Horror and disbelief flooded his veins as the eight-limbed scientist stepped in front of him, hardly three feet away, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Ask me about what?” Doctor Octopus said.

Peter leapt back from the door, clamping both hands over his mouth.

Oh…my god. It’s them.

“I just wanted to know how he was doing.”

They’re here. They found me. They came to finish the job.

Half of the super villains that had just wrecked his shit were standing in the neighboring room. Hell, maybe all of them were. They’d probably taken whoever had helped him hostage, or perhaps the poor soul was already dead. He wouldn’t stand a chance like this. He didn’t have his suit, his webs, nothing. He’d tried his best to fight them when he was just sick with the stomach bug, and look how well that had turned out for him. If they attacked him now, one solid hit was all it would take to knock him out. Or, if he was being fully honest, kill him.

Peter’s eyes darted frantically around the room. I have to get out of here! He hobbled toward the wall of windows and placed his hands against the glass. It was at least four inches thick; probably bulletproof. But it was his only option. With a shivery grunt, Peter hoisted himself off the floor and crawled toward the ceiling, every step piercing him with flashes of pain.

Okay. Launch off the ceiling, kick through the glass, make a run for it. In his loopy, concussed mind, the plan sounded foolproof. The voices of his enemies were growing louder; Doc Oc’s footsteps were approaching rapidly. It was now or never.

Hanging off the upside-down surface, balancing on his good foot, heart racing, head dizzy and faint, Peter threw himself at the window. He hit the glass with a loud thunk, bouncing off like a bug on a windshield, then crashed on top of the weird modern art piece, shattering the mahogany box into wood chips.

Peter lay sprawled in a heap in the wake of his failure, groaning and dazed. As he forced himself upright, gripping his head in his hand, the doors behind him burst open.

“What the hell?” Doc Oc exclaimed, alarm caked across his expression. When his gaze landed on the young superhero floundering in the splintered remains of his college art project, stunned and disheveled but now awake and wide-eyed, his muscles relaxed slightly. “Spider-Man?”

“Holy shit, he’s awake,” Electro said.

“And he destroyed your favorite sculpture,” Shocker added.

Peter’s eyes dashed between the three men, wild and afraid. He’d been unmasked by his absolute worst enemies—but that seemed the least of his troubles. I’m toast, he thought. Tiny pieces of wood clung to his hair, face, and back. Seeing him conscious for the first time sent a spark of relief through Doc Oc, though he hadn’t expected him to wake up for at least another day; the combination of pain meds he’d given him was pretty strong. When Octavius moved an inch closer to him, Peter scrambled to his feet and backed away, tripping over himself in the process and heavily favoring his right leg.

“Spider-Man—” he began, trying to keep his voice level. Spider-Man picked up a chunk of the destroyed box and chucked it at him.

“S-stay back!” he shouted. His voice was shrill and cracked at the end of the demand. Damn, Otto thought. The evidence of Spider-Man’s youthfulness was clear as day to him now—how had none of them noticed it before? Perhaps they had simply chosen not to notice.

Doc Oc dodged the projectile with ease. “Spider-Man, listen to me—”

Peter made a break for it, gunning for the opposite side of the room. He’d hardly made it two uncoordinated strides before three more figures emerged from a door behind the couch, blocking his escape path: Scorpion, Sandman, and Rhino. He skidded to a stop with a gasp.

“Whoa,” Rhino exclaimed, towering over the half-naked hero. “Would you look at that. Tiny spider is alive.”

Shit! Peter screamed internally. He whipped his gaze in every direction and realized he was surrounded.

“He needs to stop moving,” Otto said, knowing there was no way to accomplish that with words. He raised his tentacles above his head, the pincers snapping hungrily. “Grab him.”

Rhino made the first move, reaching out with his meaty hands to snag the kid by the arm. But Spider-Man ducked and rolled out of the way, moving surprisingly fast despite all of his injuries, though it was obvious the exertion was hurting him. Scorpion and Sandman tried next, lunging for his legs, but Peter hopped right over them and flipped backwards, wincing and staggering once his feet hit the floor and banging into the window.

“You’re going to reopen your wounds,” Octavius warned him. He thrust two tentacles at his torso, but Spider-Man flinched out of their grasp. Otto launched the other two arms at him, and Peter skirted between them, springing on to the wall. The exhaustion and terror in his face were evident. Otto felt bad for scaring him so much, but this was for his own good.

“Spider-Man—please,” he groused. His mechanical arms grabbed and snapped at the air, barely missing the slippery little hero every time. “Just—stay—still!”

Peter wasn’t listening to a word he said. All he knew was that he couldn’t let himself be caught. Every inch of him was screaming in agony. When the tentacles pounced on him all at once, Spider-Man shrunk small and dove underneath them, somersaulting past Doc Oc’s legs and popping up behind him. Peter bolted blindly for the double doors, only to ram straight into Rhino’s giant leg and fall flat on his ass. Three metal prongs clamped around his midsection before he could regather himself, pinning him to the floor.

“Agh!” Peter yelped, tugging uselessly at the claw’s strong teeth. “Let me go!”

Otto lifted Spider-Man off the ground. He continued to strain and squirm, kicking his legs and grappling with the mechanical pincers gripping his waist. The rest of the Sinister Six gathered around the frightened hero, forming a circle with him in the middle. He looked so small against the looming backdrop of super villains. His young face beamed with all the emotions his mask typically concealed—most prominently, fear.

“Spider-Man,” Octavius repeated, holding his hands out tentatively. “Calm down.”

“I’ll pass, thanks!” Peter quipped, betrayed by the tremble in his voice.

“Okay, it’s definitely him,” Electro groaned amusedly.

“I know you’re scared,” Doc Oc continued. “And you have every right to be. But if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to injure yourself further.”

“And if I don’t keep moving, you’re going to injure me further!” He thrashed and twisted valiantly, but it was evident he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His movements were slowing down, his attempts to escape growing more and more pathetic. Otto waited for him to burn himself out, crossing his arms against his chest. It didn’t take long.

“Are you quite done now?”

Peter hung his head, breathless and shivery, gripping the prongs around his torso less to try to escape and more to hold himself upright. Perhaps his impromptu acrobatics display hadn’t been his smartest idea. All that leaping and flipping and bouncing around had sapped the last whispers of energy from his bones.

“Ugh…room’s…s-spinning,” he murmured. Otto took that as a “yes.” He held Spider-Man closer and frowned at a red spot on his ribs.

“And now look what you’ve done, you idiot. You’ve torn your stitches. I tried to warn you. Half an hour’s worth of sewing, down the drain because of your recklessness.”

“What are you…what…what’s…?” Spider-Man slurred. He was suddenly seeing double of everything. He dropped his gaze to his midriff and watched two blurry lines of blood slip down his side.

“I sutured you up, and you ruined it,” Octavius explained. Peter slowly lifted his head and wrinkled his brow.

“You…” he said, blinking repeatedly. “What?”

“Told you we gave him brain damage,” Rhino whispered. Peter looked at him over his shoulder, then swept his gaze around the circle, making eye contact with every member of the Sinister Six. They saw him. After all this time, his face was finally exposed to his enemies. No disguise, no secret identity, no mask. He felt so naked without it. Not having a shirt or pants on didn’t help either. Strangely, their expressions lacked their typical thirst for spider blood. It dawned on him that over a minute had passed, and none of them had tried to kill him. And so far, they still weren’t trying.

“I’m…confusion,” he stammered. “What—what’s happening right now?”

It was somewhat amusing to see Spider-Man so delirious and out of his element. Doctor Octopus lowered him to the ground but didn’t let go of his torso. Peter was almost glad he didn’t; he doubted he could stand on his own right now.

“I tended to your wounds while you were unconscious,” Octavius said. “It’s not a perfect patch job, but I did the best I could.”

Peter shook his head slowly, his big, brown Bambi eyes wide and puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I also gave you some pain killers, which might be making your head a bit fuzzy.”

“But…why?” he scoffed. “You did this to me. You’re the ones who…beat me up. You love beating me up. You—you hate me. You want me dead. You’ve tried to make me dead a million times.” Peter jolted suddenly, a cramp shooting through his broken leg. If he was on painkillers, they were doing a pretty piss-poor job. Everything hurt and was too confusing to comprehend. He closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands, moaning. “Oh god…I’ve gotta be trapped in some crazy fever dream right now. Or maybe…I’m dead. Am I dead? None of this makes any sense…”

“You’re not dead, Peter,” Otto said, stifling a chuckle.

A shudder rippled through the teenager. He lowered his hands, revealing the colorless face behind them.

“How…how do you know my…?”

Shit, Doc Oc thought. It was a careless slip of the tongue. He had meant to keep his knowledge of Spider-Man’s alter ego a secret so as to not frighten him further, but it looked like the cat was out of the bag.

Peter’s gaze shifted anxiously between the six super villains again. Fresh fear clouded over his glassy eyes, and he went back to squirming against Octavius’ hold.

“Now what are you trying to do?” Otto asked, exasperated.

“G-get the hell out of here,” Peter answered. He yanked at the claw around his torso, grunting with effort. “I know what this is. This is—one of those—hrgg—P-Princess Bride situations, isn’t it?”

The team of villains exchanged bemused glances with each other. “What are you talking about?”

“You know—mmneh—when the bad guys—c-catch Wesley, then heal him—just so the life-sucky torture machine thing is—m-more torturous? That’s what this is, right?” His face was flushing red, and more of his sutures were starting to leach blood.

Scorpion threw up his hands. “What’s the brat trying to say?”

“I think he’s saying we only doctored his wounds so that when we kill him, it’ll be all the more slow and painful,” Electro clarified with a shrug. “Which honestly sounds pretty in character for most of us.”

“See? This guy gets it.” Peter pushed at the prongs with all his might. Even as a half-dead, half-conscious mess, the kid couldn’t stop himself from being a smartass.

“I’m just impressed he made a reference to a movie that came out before he was a concept,” Rhino said. “You know, instead of, like, Finding Nemo?”

Otto could see the strain Spider-Man was putting himself through in his pitiful attempts to escape, so he decided to see what would happen if he succeeded. When Spider-Man shoved at his metal pincers again, he let them snap open. Surprise flashed across Peter’s face as he dropped to the ground and wobbled on his feet, followed by weary triumph.

“Ha! See? T-told you I would…I could…”

He faltered and swayed, staggering backwards. Sandman enlarged his hand and caught him before he could hit the floor. Peter sat limply in his palm, breathing heavy, frail and febrile and injured and exhausted. He looked down at the sand-hand that had stopped him from falling, then back up at the surrounding circle of villains, fear and confusion stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“W-why aren’t you...trying to kill me?”

The room dipped into nervous silence. Spider-Man’s gaze continued to jump between them, searching for answers.

“Why did you treat the wounds you gave me?” he continued weakly. With every word that passed his lips, the shake in his voice increased. “W-what do you want from me? Are you trying to…turn me to the dark side or something?”

Shocker stroked his chin. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

“No,” Sandman answered pointedly, shooting Shocker a sideways glare.

“Then what?” Peter snapped. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Why aren’t I dead yet?” Spider-Man dragged himself back to his feet, grimacing harshly. “T-tell me what you’re planning to do with me, or I’ll—I’ll…”

His scowl dropped suddenly, replaced by a look of panic. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched.

“Or you’ll what?” Scorpion asked in a mocking tone.

When Peter didn’t answer him, Octavius took a step closer. “Spider-Man? What’s wrong?”

Gradually, the terror in his face gave way to dread. Peter sucked in a gasp and cupped his hand over his mouth.

“I think…I’m gonna puke.”

Otto blinked. “Oh,” he said. That was not the response he was expecting, but it didn’t look like the kid was joking. He lurched forward, stifling a gag, making everyone exclaim and leap back. His pale face hinted a sickly shade of green.

“Oh,” Octavius repeated, animated by a new sense of urgency. He glanced around frantically until he spotted the fern in the corner of the room. He seized it with one of his tentacles, dumped the plant and the soil onto the floor, then slid the empty pot in front of Spider-Man. “Uh, here.”

Peter moaned in defeat before doubling over the pot and retching violently. The Sinister Six turned away in disgust, fighting to keep their own lunches down. There was hardly anything inside him to upchuck in the first place, but his body continued to dry heave for another half-minute. Once the bout passed, Peter was left wheezing and trembling with his head held low. His throat burned and tears were slipping from his eyes faster than he could wipe them away.

“Forgot about the stomach flu,” Electro said, sticking out his tongue. “Blech.”

Peter wanted to ask how the hell they knew he had a stomach bug, among many other things, but he was too fatigued to form words.

Octavius turned back to him squeamishly. The poor kid looked so small, hurt, and sick. It amazed him how quickly his hate for Spider-Man had transformed into a tentative fondness. He felt the need to comfort him somehow, the way adults were supposed to comfort young ones when they weren’t feeling well. But he had no idea how.

Instead, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and a cup of water from the kitchen and placed them both by his side. “Here,” he said awkwardly.

Peter eyed the items and whimpered softly. With miserable, lethargic movements, Peter washed out his mouth and wiped his face, every breath aching in his chest. Shame and fever radiated off him in waves. When he was finished, he just sat there, panting and shivery. Too weak to move.

“I think you ought to lay back down, Spidey,” Sandman said, plucking the hero off the floor between two massive fingers. He returned him to the couch with delicate care, guiding his head to the pillow and draping the blanket over his body.

“No…” Peter mumbled languidly, trying to sit up. When he closed his eyes, he couldn’t get them to open again. “Just…tell me…why…”

Something cold and wet pressed against his forehead, gently pushing him back down. Octavius had grabbed a hand towel from the kitchen and soaked it in ice water. The cool touch against his skin was soothing and unexpectedly soporific. Slowly, his muscles went lax. His tumultuous thoughts faded into sleepy nothingness.

“We will,” Otto lied. “But for now, rest.”

It was almost endearing how quickly Spider-Man drifted back to sleep. Octavius left the towel on his forehead and watched as his breathing eased to a steady rhythm.

“Damn,” Shocker sighed. “Poor kid.”

“We really beat him senseless,” Rhino said.

Electro stood over the slumbering hero with his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is Spider-Man, like…kind of adorable?”

Scorpion snorted. “Adorable?”

“You know! In that, like, puppy-dog, dumb little kid kind of way. I mean, look at him! Does no one else think so?”

Sandman shrugged, fighting back a smile. “I mean, maybe. Sorta.” His expression gradually hardened, and he looked at Doc Oc. “So…is what you said before true? Is he really, like, an orphan?”

Otto lowered his gaze. “Not exactly. His parents died when he was a toddler, and he was adopted by his aunt and uncle, who became like parents to him. But then his uncle was killed last year, so now it’s just him and his aunt. He hasn’t had a particularly easy life.”

“And we certainly haven’t helped on that front,” Rhino added.

“It’s insane to me that at his age, this is what he chose to do with his powers. If I’d gotten his abilities when I was fifteen and gone through all that loss, I’d have been robbing every store on 5th Avenue.”

Shocker smirked. “I hate to say it, but...he’s kind of a good kid. Even if he is an obnoxious little dumbass.”

Amidst the conversation, Octavius’ face remained stoic, unreadable. He waited a while before clearing his throat. “I…wanted to let you all know. I, um, spoke to Tombstone this morning.”

All eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“He saw footage of us capturing Spider-Man on the news,” he explained. “He’s offering us two million each in exchange for the kid.”

Rhino’s jaw dropped. “Two million dollars? For each of us?”

“Holy shit,” Sandman breathed.

“What the hell?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“And he just wants the kid?” Shocker exclaimed. "That’s it?”

Otto nodded slowly. “Alive, but yes. That’s all he wants.” He swallowed and looked at the floor. “He’s given us until the end of the week to accept his offer.”

Excitement and dismay swept across everyone’s expressions. Each person waited for someone to speak up, for someone else to say no, we can’t. But it was just too tempting a proposition to dismiss out of hand. They could finally be free to do what they wanted. Free to live as they pleased, villainous or otherwise. Free to punish this city the way it had punished them, if they so choose. Turning over the kid was all it would take. One quick transaction. Hand over their nemesis, their sworn enemy, and it was done. They’d be rich.

“What the hell does he plan to do with him?” Sandman whispered uneasily.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” Doc Oc clarified. “I just wanted to make you aware of the opportunity. We can discuss it more later.”

An air of tentative relief settled over the room. Electro puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms against his chest.

“In that case, what are we going to tell him when he wakes up again? That we want to sell him to some psychopath so we can all be millionaires? That we think he’s cute and want to keep him as a pet?”

Doctor Octopus shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. He turned back to his team. “I’ll keep monitoring him and re-treat the wounds he opened. I think it’s best we always have a pair of eyes on him to prevent another incident involving the destruction of my art pieces.”

The rest of the Sinister Six agreed, scattering throughout the complex, the proposition weighing heavily on all of their minds. Otto put on some classical music and began mopping the fresh blood off Peter’s torso.

#spiderman #spider-man #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman homecoming #Spider-Man: Homecoming #spider-man: far from home #sick fic #marvel #mcu #peter parker #spiderman ffh

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years ago

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Partners in Crime

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment over on Ao3!

Just a silly little scenario I had rattling around in my head! Huge thanks to @spiky-lesbian and @minky-for-short for always being amazing betas!

tw: mentions of drinking, hangovers

Juno Steel opened his eye and immediately wanted to strangle the person who had designed this hotel room. Any interior decorator who knew they were putting together a hotel room in Nueva Vegas, the prime place on Neptune where people went to get blackout drunk and collect the finest hangover symptoms in the galaxy, yet still insisted on neon wallpaper deserved death.

He inhaled, feeling an ache in his ribs that came from too much raucous laughter and tasting stale alcohol, taking a mental catalogue of his body as his nerves came back online. His eyelashes felt heavy with mascara that had curdled overnight, his throat felt rough with overuse, his stomach only had a slight roil to it, a sea on a choppy day rather than in the middle of a storm. He was wearing the pyjama bottoms he’d actually packed but he couldn’t speak for the shirt- his top half was still wearing last night’s spangled bralet.

And he had Nureyev’s arm thrown bonelessly over his chest, his sharp chin digging a little painfully into his shoulder, his soft snores in one ear and his dark flyaways ticking his nose. His breath smelled pretty strongly of gin but Juno could put up with that, he wasn’t one to throw stones.

Overall, Juno Steel had suffered far worse mornings. In fact, this one would probably still make it into the top twenty.

Smiling, he gently nudged Nureyev to one side, making sure he fell back against the lavish pillows and settled again before sliding out from under the silky sheets. The hotel room’s crisp air conditioning raised goosebumps across his skin as he padded across the room, stockinged feet sinking considerably into the thick, bright pink carpets. They really had made an ungodly mess of one of the most expensive hotel rooms on Neptune, he was pretty impressed with just how many empty plastic glasses, dregs of champagne clinging to their sides, were scattered around the hot tub, just how much glitter had shed from their clothes onto the floor, the probably very incriminating blueprints and files and notes that were scattered like confetti. Not incriminating for the job they’d just pulled off, of course, just several they were considering in the future.

There was no sign of the rest of their family, no Rita singing almost incomprehensible karaoke into a can of chips, no Jet sitting in a chair by the window with his arms folded and head nodding as he slept like an old dad though a whisper of any threat would snap him up and ready. No Buddy and Vespa slow dancing to music only they seemed able to hear while the neon flashes from the signs outside the window bathed them in candy coloured light.

They must have staggered back to their own rooms, just before the celebrations of a job well done would have wound down into a sleepover. Juno frowned as he scratched tiredly at where his hair was matted down, trying to remember. Buddy’s usual habit of making them all drink as much water before bed as she could had saved him from vomiting and a splitting head but memories were still fuzzy. Very fuzzy actually, now he tried to grab hold of them. No wonder his tongue tasted of about half the bottles behind the bar and his bladder felt fit to burst.

By the time he’d gone into the bathroom, wincing at the colour of lime green it had all been done up in, and dealt with that problem he could hear Nureyev stirring.

Coming back into the room, now dressed a little more appropriately in a soft bathrobe, he saw him stretching like a cat, his own wince playing across his sleepy face.

“Good morning,” he rasped, “Feeling rough too, huh?”

“Fairly,” Nureyev croaked, not making it very far before slumping back against the pillows, “What time did Buddy say we had to be back on board?”

“Not till three. It’s only eleven right now.”

“Ugh...I might not make it.”

Juno snorted, rolling his eye, “God, you’re such a lightweight, you whine so much when you’re hungover. Look, I’ll pack the bags, you focus on getting your shoes on. I think one of them’s in the hot tub.”

Nureyev groaned, bringing his hands up to bury his face in them as Juno pulled the curtains wide and flooded the room with pale sunlight. So little actual sunlight could reach this distant gas giant, what fell across Nureyev’s face was actually simulated from a massive rig of translucent spotlights that covered the city much like Mars’ domes. Rita had told him all about it around their third glasses of champagne, before her speech started collapsing into inhuman giggles and nonesene and his memories got cloudy.

He certainly couldn’t remember quite how they’d gotten the room into such a state. It hadn’t even really been that big of a job, a fairly run of the mill casino heist to fund some bigger projects that Buddy had percolating in her brain. But, from the lingering carnage of their celebration, you’d think they’d stolen a goddamn planet rather than a few measly hundred thousands of creds.

And there was a lot of confetti. All over the damn place, where had that all come from?

“Babe?” Juno frowned as he started pulling their papers together, “Do you remember much about last night?”

Nureyev gave a sleep mumble and Juno heard the sound of the silken sheets running over each other as he turned, “I remember us pulling off a job so seamless it deserves to be in some kind of textbook on thieving. I remember everyone coming into our room. I remember Buddy ordering champagne...and that’s it.”

Juno suppressed a snort of amusement. He was sure if it was his husband’s small frame or his lack of experience with the stuff but about two swallows of anything alcoholic had him absolutely useless. Adorable but useless.

“Just seems like we really tore it up for some reason,” Juno shrugged as he moved further along, now gathering up scraps of their disguises- the velour blazer he’d been wearing over that bralet, the other one of Nureyev’s stiletto heels, a diamond ring he couldn’t remember which one of them had worn.

He paused, something about that ring making him stop. It was lying in the midst of some other jewels he’d been wearing yesterday in his role as a ridiculously wealthy outer rim socialite. So it must have been his, he didn’t exactly need his years of experience as a detective to realise that. So why didn’t he remember it? Why did it look so brand new, so out of place with everything else lying in that modest dragon’s horde of luxury?

“My love?”

Juno turned, taking the ring with him, “Yeah?”

Nureyev was still lying in bed, though he was holding his left hand a little ways from his face, frowning curiously up at it as he turned it this way and that. As he watched the fake morning sun catch in the gem on a ring that sat there, a ring identical to the one Juno held.

“Did...did we get married?” Nureyev said slowly, an expression on his face not dissimilar to the one he wore when he was doing one of the many puzzle boxes Juno got him as gifts, after he’d realised a year ago that he loved them.

“Yes, about a year and a half ago. You were there, remember?”

Nureyev shot him a look across the room, “I mean last night, my love.”

Juno sucked in a long, slow breath before answering, throwing the ring up in the air and catching it, “Yeah, that would really explain a lot, huh?”

They caught each other’s eye then and after that there was nothing they could do but laugh, hard and helpless until Juno was having to brace himself on his knees to stay upright and Nureyev was curled on one side and trembling.

Once he could see and breathe clearly again, Juno found it, lying amongst a sheaf of floor plans for the casino they’d robbed yesterday. A wedding certificate, one corner of it crinkled and soaked where some spilled champagne had caught it, a little rumbled from being shoved into the pocket of a velour blazer on the car ride back to the hotel but fairly unmistakeable. The signatures were certainly theirs, even if the names weren’t.

“Yep,” Juno’s face still ached from grinning as he climbed back into bed next to his husband-twice-over, “Apparently once Rigel Fortescue and Jack Antares were done being complete strangers while the Orion’s Palace Casino had half it’s funds drained, they went off and got married.”

“Congratulations to us, I suppose,” Nureyev wiped his streaming eyes, giggles still pressing up against his words, “Oh god help us, is there any way we can keep this from the rest of the crew?”

“Well, looks like they all signed as our witnesses so I don’t think that’s an option, babe,” Juno snorted, showing him the band of signatures clustered along the bottom of the certificate, each one a ridiculous pseudonym but the handwriting was all familiar, even with how drunk their friends had clearly been.

Nureyev gave a groan of dismay that he didn’t really seem to feel, cuddling up against Juno, “Does this make us a little trashy?”

“Yeah well, you knew who I was when you married me,” Juno nudged him teasingly, “Both times.”

“Hush!” Nureyev kissed his shoulder, moving slightly so he could hitch one leg over Juno’s hip. He was still wearing his suit trousers from last night, Juno noticed, if last night really had been their wedding night then they’d neglected a pretty significant part of it.

So he turned to meet Nureyev’s body with his own, wrapping an arm around his slim waist to close what little gap there still was between them, “Maybe this could be our thing? We wear a new name pretty much every week anyhow, why don’t we get married as many times as we feel like? I know personally I’d be willing to go...well, at least another three times. Maybe four, for the money.”

He felt a light nip through the shoulder of the robe as Nureyev admonished him with his teeth. Though his hands were saying something different as they slid down Juno’s back, squeezing lightly.

“I suppose it could be quite a fun tradition…” he murmured softly, “But I would like to remember the next one. Perhaps a beach wedding on Saturn…”

Juno grinned and kissed the top of his head, “Whatever you want, babe. I’ll make sure the next one is perfect.”

“Our first one already was. But there were parts of my moodboards I didn’t get to use…”

Juno nudged him lightly until he was on his back, starting to kiss his way down his neck, tasting his perfume on his lips, “And?”

“And I love you,” Nureyev amended, smiling as innocently as someone very obviously moving his wife’s legs apart with his own could, “And marrying you a thousand times wouldn’t be enough to show you how much.”

“I love you too,” Juno murmured against his collarbone, “Happy honeymoon, baby.”

And, as much of a surprise as it had been, as much as their heads still ached and they could still taste cocktails on each other’s tongues, as much as they had a ship to catch in a few hours, it was. It really, really was.

#jupeter #tpp #juno steel #peter nureyev #post canon #just some daft fluffiness #them being loved up idiots #please reblog and comment!

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mayrubyy · 5 years ago

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Fearless (m)

➻ Pairing- Baekhyun x Reader

➻ Genre - Idol!Au, Privé!Bbh ➻ Word Count - 1.6k

➻ Rating - (M)

Warning! this contains strong language and sexual themes - fingering, dirty talking and bbhorny stuff that are intended for mature audiences. Please don’t read if you’re not comfortable with the said themes and if you’re under 18!

A/N - this was brewed while conversing with my favorite neon babe @baek-byunies at 3 am back in fall. it was an interactive drabble and it’s got its tiny good dose of daddy kink and bbh’s privé velvety shirt, his sparkling audi and slender fingers. ;)

Tagging - @suhoerections @byunfirstlady (ily laure) @stolenjendeukie ♡

Golden lights shimmered in the background as you stood by the pool. It’s deep blue and electric, mysteriously turquoise as if it were beaming with life. The ambiance is an extravagant myriad of lucent smiles in their milk and honey auras, bright flashes capturing their delighted causeries as they clinked their toasts. You’re elegantly dressed up for the event and he’s standing perhaps a few feet away from you. His gaze dithering about as the reporters surrounded him.

His dark orbs were ravenously fixed on you and he was licking at his luscious pink lips, biting down on them ever so softly. You meander away, through multiple bodies that were otherwise busy and swaying to jazz. The cocktail is doing its bid at driving him ecstatic as he follows in pursuit of you. Your hands soon clamp along the glass railing. It’s cold and breezy. The wind drifts through your hair and for a moment, you’re relieved you’re away from the suffocating snares and glares of the wealthy snobs. A breather, for you and the man behind you, for once.

“All work and no play makes jack a dull boy.” He rasps in your ear and his own slender fingers rest beside yours on the railing. His voice is husky, strained from the never-ending interviews. “How long are you going to make me chase you, princess?"

You look into the horizon ahead, the skyline is gorgeous as ever. The city of dreams glimmering in its otherworldly glow and a soft chuckle erupts from you. You flash your teeth at the man beside you in a wide grin. "What is it about me that you find so amusing.. that you decided to leave a horde of reporters behind?”

Baekhyun sneaks closer and presses himself firmly into you. His lips delicately press into the back of your neck and you shudder at the suddenness of the proximity. He further buries his nose into your neck and rasps, his voice needy and husky as ever. “What can I say? I find your presence quite intoxicating."

"Ever heard of primal instinct, sugar?” He continues peppering soft kisses to your exposed shoulder as his hot breath streams sultrily over your skin. The mere sensation from it sends every nerve in your body into overdrive. He then slowly trails upwards and nibbles softly down on your earlobe. It elicits a loud whimper from you and he quickly places his hand over your mouth and shushes you. “Shhh…don’t wanna get caught among the snobs now– do we?” He plants a few more kisses along your jaw before chirping in your ear again. “How about we take it from here to somewhere safer– or somewhere dangerous? You decide.”

It wasn’t long before you answered his question. His gaze was desperate and you were intrigued to experience the thrill he promised to offer you. And as you exasperatedly found yourself seated in his passenger side, you weren’t sure what was making it harder, his hand sensually gripping at your thigh or all the dirty things he wouldn’t stop whispering he would do to you. His audi zoomed through the expressway and his words had arousal pooling between your thighs. And you were nearly struggling to stifle your moans as he began trailing soft circles with his thumb onto your skin.

“I want to ruin you, baby. You’d let me, won’t you?” His breathing was ragged as he cooed, eyes stygian and dark, darker than the pits of the abyss. You knew Byun Baekhyun was a fearless man but this was all rather overwhelming. You couldn’t help but think about how your night at the Privé Alliance Fashion Launch would turn out like this. You were one of the vips. A New York Times bestselling writer who’d made it big only recently. And, never would you have expected for things to escalate so quickly like this.

But, here you were.

You’d hoped Baekhyun would take you straight to his suite. Wrong. He made a sharp turn and entered the expressway that lead out of the city. “Mr. Byun… that’s-,” you tried to question where he was taking you but he cuts you off immediately. “I’ll keep you safe. Don’t worry princess.” It was all that left his juicy lips, a playful sneer curving wickedly on them.

When his audi finally came to a halt, Baekhyun caressed your inner thigh, his lips were slightly parted before he dropped a quick question. “Are you dripping? because fuck baby.. I can almost smell your arousal from here.” You gasped as his slender fingers slithered along your thighs and trailed between them to stop at your clothed core. He could definitely tell you were a sopping mess down there and the next thing you know, a stern command leaves his lips.

“Get in the backseat."

Your heels were aching from the stilettos you were wearing and now was the time to get them off or so you thought but Baekhyun stops you immediately. "Don’t. I’d like it if you keep those on.” You couldn’t help but smile at the little pout that lingered on his lips for a second or two as though he was terrified you’d take them off. He looked like a kid whose favorite toy was being snatched away and you stifled your smile.

“O-Okay?” you nod at him and in a few moments you’re in the back seat and he’s joining you with hungry eyes like he’s been starving all night. His velvety shirt clings to his skin as he hovers above you and a dreamy smile takes over his features before a quiet whisper leaves them. “May I?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter and in a frenzy, he cups your face hastily and crashes his lips to yours. He tastes sweet. So goddamn sweet. His tongue sweeps along your bottom lip, almost dangerously as he seeks to delve deeper like he’s needy to explore every nook and crevice of you. You let him devour you and the backseat is drowned in his irresistible groans and your unsteady whimpers. Baekhyun leans closer to you, pushing your dress out of the way, fumbling with the fabric to get more access to your gorgeous collar bones. He suckles gently on your supple skin, leaving traces of pink in his wake. He travels upwards, snuggling into the crook of your neck before inhaling sharply. “Fuck, baby. You smell absolutely divine. I bet you taste divine too.”

You were far too lost in his words to realize his fingers were sneaking past your thighs again, quickly finding their purchase at the hem of your panties. Baekhyun smirks cockily and pulls them down just enough to get a delicious glimpse of your glistening core and he’s savoring the view with all he can take.

“How perfectly wet,” he purrs, “and all for me babycakes?” rubbing soft circles on your inner thighs again his fingers slowly travel where you’re aching for them the most to be. Baekhyun teases your sensitive nub with his thumb and you hiss at the tantalizing touch.

“Mr. Byun, please.” You cry out. He merely chuckles at your pleas. “Mhmm getting eager, are we?” You nod your head frantically and a devilish smirk morphs onto his face. “On one condition though, sugar.”

“Call me the five lettered word,” Baekhyun withdraws his digits and swiftly takes them into his mouth and a quiet groan leaves his lips as he tastes your essence on his tongue.

“You happen to know the word, do you?”

You shudder under his gaze as you struggle to let it slip down your tongue. “D-Da.”

“Louder, sugar.” His voice is awfully threatening. “Your pretty little mouth would look so good saying it. Come on.”

“D-Daddy.” You stutter and when his two long digits slither into your core without warning, your body jolts involuntarily. He pauses for a good second before curving them as skillfully as he can and aligning the pads of his fingers perfectly against your g-spot. He then increases his pace torturously. “Mmhm, yes. You like that princess?” Baekhyun captures your lips with his again whilst his fingers continue to pump in and out of your sopping cunt.

“Y-yes d-daddy,” you mewl into his juicy lips. And he swallows your moans down. “Fuck baby, moan louder for me. Daddy likes it.” His fingers are unrelentingly thrusting back and forth. Baekhyun trails more kisses down your jaw and then sucks a sharp hickey on your neck. The air is thick and so is his voice as he continues pleasuring you in ways you could have only dreamed of. Your body felt electric, and your walls were becoming tighter with the tension that was building in your stomach.

“Are you going to come like the good girl you are?” Baekhyun grunts “Gonna squirt all over my fingers, princess?” He doesn’t stop. Not for the world and you knew you couldn’t hold it anymore. Your body squirms when he circles your clit with his thumb. You tremble violently and your orgasm rips through your abdomen like a wildfire.

You writhe against his fingers and a loud moan leaves your lips. “Fuck. Just like that baby. That’s my good girl.” Baekhyun praises you as you squirt all over his fingers, wetness pools around your thighs and your cheeks are flushed. Heavy pants fill the backseat and he peppers your collarbone with more kisses. As you settle in the glow of your orgasm, he pulls a napkin out from his pocket and wipes you clean, smirking away while he’s at it.

“Not only are you sexy but you’re also so fucking adorable.” He grazes your cheek with his thumb and pulls you in for another soft kiss. “You’ll let me pamper you after I’m done fucking your brains out in my suite will you princess?” his eyes were heavy with lust and you knew you wouldn’t let an opportunity like this slip and so you answer-

“Yes, daddy.”

˚⁺☾ hello it’s maya again! i hoped you enjoyed that please leave your comments if you’re borny for demons and fae lords like mr. byun~ i love reading them they give me so much life ;-; again thank you so much for reading! have a wondeful day! remember be humble be brave dkafjak ♡ ･。

#kwritersworldnet #baekhyun smut #baekhyun scenarios #exo smut #baekhyun x reader #baekhyun drabble #baekhyun fic #byun baekhyun #exo baekhyun #exo angst #baekhyun angst #baekhyun fanfic #exo fanfic #exo x reader #exo scenarios #kpop smut #baekhyun imagine #bbh smut

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notapaladin · 4 years ago

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flew like a moth to you

proof that i am capable of writing stuff that’s not for obsblood or my ffxiv ocs: exhibit B. there is fitzroy/kip smut in this because i have ONE brand and i do it well

also on AO3!

Kip thinks, if there was true justice in the world, the man he loves would always be surrounded by light. Not that he isn’t usually; free of all the weight of an empire, his easy smile would light up rooms even if he hadn’t discovered spangles and prisms and Ystharian neon (that last one had made Conju turn green, and they’re in the middle of a cold war regarding the suitability of light-up footwear). But a man like him (Fitzroy, Artorin, his Tor) ought by rights to stand forever in sunlight.

There had been sunlight earlier, when they’d tumbled onto the bed together, and the afternoon had drenched them both in gold. Now their clothing’s long discarded into the formless irrelevant void that is the rest of the room, and nothing but long shadows cover them. That’s alright. He doesn’t need to see. He’d know his lord’s body if that first sight of his eyes had blinded him.

“Gods—gods, Kip, there—!”

Admittedly, it’s still nice to have direction. Grinning, he shifts his weight and hikes Tor’s leg up a little higher on his shoulder. Like this he has a better angle, and the next long slick inward slide of his fingers makes his lover’s whole body arch. “Like this?” he breathes. Another push, carefully working him open. It’s been a thousand years since anyone’s touched this man, and he wants to make it good. “Like this, my lord?”

Tor inhales hazily, golden eyes like fire. He’s like a vice around Kip’s fingers, and when he speaks his voice is rough with want. His cock, still untouched, is so hard that Kip’s free hand positively aches to wrap around it. “Fuck, yes.”

“Good.” Good, but not enough. He’d die before causing his lord the least amount of pain after all he’s been through. (Well, maybe if Tor asked...hm, no, probably not. Unless Tor really wanted him to.) He adds a third finger experimentally and Tor’s mouth drops open; for a moment he thinks it’s too much, but then Tor shudders, clenches down—ow, alright, good thing he doesn’t need that hand to hold a pen—and goes near-boneless, breath escaping him in tiny sounds of pleasure as though he’s too overwhelmed for more. He strokes down Tor’s thigh, soothing him. “Mmm. You’re doing very well for me.”

Tor whines wordlessly. It’s possibly one of the hottest things Kip’s ever heard, and whatever it does to his facial expressions makes his lover shudder and roll his hips, trying to urge the proceedings on. “Hurry up,” he huffs, and it might even sound commanding if his voice wasn’t close to cracking.

Kip needs to take a second to breathe. Hurrying up really is looking like a more and more attractive prospect, but surely Tor can wait a little longer. He needs to gather his nerve, damn it. His fingers curl, and as Tor’s breath stutters out of him in a cry he murmurs, “So impatient.”

“A thousand years, Kip!” It’s almost desperate, and finally Kip has to take pity on him.

And on himself. How long has it been? Gods, he can’t even remember. He has to swallow through a throat gone suddenly dry. “Mm. Alright, then.”

And he guides himself in, slow and careful. The light slanting through the windows is just enough for him to watch the way Tor’s face changes, the way his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open in surprised pleasure. Tor is hot and tight and absolutely perfect around him, and he has to take a moment to grit his teeth and think of unpleasant things. (Princess Oriana. Rufus. That long eternity where he’d been dealing with the postal service and had started seeing area codes in his sleep. The journey across the Wide Sea...no, that’s too unpleasant.) It gives him back enough control to risk a first slow thrust.

Tor makes another noise and reaches for him, and he lowers himself down so no-longer-gold-lacquered nails can dig into his shoulders. They’re finally almost, almost close enough; Tor’s breath comes in hot little pants as he adjusts, and the next thrust punches a sound out of him. “Nnh.”

He’s danced the fire at the feet of the Sun, but it still takes all his self-control to hold himself still when he hears that noise. It’s certainly not one of pain, but there are tears in his lover’s eyes and he knows how easy it can be for Tor to be overwhelmed. He bites his lip, thighs quivering, and breathes, “...Alright?”

Tor sucks in a deep breath and arches, opening himself up a little wider. His eyes are still suspiciously damp, but when they lock onto his they almost burn. “Yes,” he gasps, and then again, “Yes.”

He starts to move. And then he doesn’t need to ask if Tor likes this or that, because Tor is vocal. Each thrust punches a gasp or a little cry out of him, and he knows when he’s found the perfect angle after a few moments because Tor almost sobs and scratches down his back; that will sting later, but now he barely feels it. His world is this soft bed, these growing shadows, the tight slick heat of his lover’s body all around him. His own voice comes out in something like a growl. “Gods, you feel—you are perfect—” You have to know, he thinks with what little higher brain power he still has. You have to know that you are. Not as a legendary poet, not as a living god. Just you.

Tor makes another one of those desperate noises and does something with some inner muscles that has Kip gasping; he can’t revel in the feeling for long, though, because then his lover’s voice snaps, “Harder.”

Oh, he can do harder. He shifts his weight, bracing himself with a hand on the bed, and snaps his hips forward once, twice. “Like that?”

“Gods, yes—” Tor cuts himself off with a cry, because now that Kip knows just what his lover likes he’s hardly going to stop. It’s easy to keep a rhythm going now that he has one, easy to brace himself and drive deep with Tor urging him on. Even the sting of his nails in his shoulders is welcome. Experimentally he lowers his mouth to Tor’s throat—it would leave a mark, if his skin were paler—and revels in the groan that gets. His hips stutter a little in their movements, and he looses his own growl low in his throat.

He’d really thought he had more stamina than this, but the heat coiling through his veins and simmering under his skin is rapidly approaching a point he’s not sure he can pull back from. Tor’s just...gods, he thinks dizzily, if I ever find the man responsible for the Imperial taboos I could murder them for keeping this from me. When Tor shudders, tightening around him, he feels his control fray even further. “Not going to last,” he pants.

Tor’s voice is starting to come out ragged. “A thousand years, Kip, I don’t care—oh!” His orgasm strikes midsentence, spasming so hard around Kip’s shaft that his own vision blurs at the edges. A little more, just a little more—

He breaks hard, fast, and all at once, eyes squeezing shut. He’s glad now that he’s got a fistful of the blankets; they can be replaced, and he’s sure he’s just put holes in them. His other hand on Tor’s hip tightens hard enough that it must hurt, and later he’ll probably feel bad about that. Probably. Right now he can’t focus on anything except the blinding ecstasy racing through him, pulsing in time with his heart. Thoughts fade. His surroundings fade. All that matters is Tor.

It’s a while before he remembers how to form words. “...That was...”

“Mmf,” says Tor into his shoulder.

Pulling out is the absolute last thing he ever wants to do, but he knows it’ll get uncomfortable if he doesn’t. The noise Tor makes when he does is a shuddery gasping sigh that makes even his entirely spent cock give a half-hearted twitch. He pets down Tor’s side in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“...Gnnngh,” Tor mumbles.

And then he flashes Kip a thumbs-up.

Kip starts to grin, and then Fitzroy grins back—it’s definitely Fitzroy with that mischief in his eyes—and then they’re both laughing until Kip has to bury his face in Tor’s shoulder. Eventually, they’ll both have to clean up and get dressed again. Eventually, someone will start yelling up the stairs that it’s time for dinner and if they don’t hurry all the food will be gone—and they’ve definitely worked up an appetite. But now it’s just them, and Kip doesn’t need the sunlight to feel warm.

#the hands of the emperor #kip mdang #artorin damara #not work safe #paladin writes stuff

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keelywolfe · 5 years ago

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FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 4 (Mafia AU)

Summary: The continuation of Rus’s terrible, awful, no good, really bad day

Tags: Spicyhoney, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Warnings: Some violence. A wee bit of unwanted touching and some innuendo.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

The long ride through the city streets gave Rus a chance to gather up his scattered wits and once he got them back into the right order, he still only knew one thing for sure. He was seriously pissed off.

It was pretty obvious that this was all Edge’s fault, didn’t have to be a rocket surgeon to figure that out. Before Edge, Rus had stood at a lifetime score of zero when it came to kidnapping and after Edge started coming in, Rus was two for two with the extra bonus of their shop getting wrecked, and repaired, along the way.

Who the hell was this guy?

Flat out asking probably wasn’t gonna get him any answers and Rus settled for staring moodily out the car windows, absently noting the street signs even if they were all but meaningless to him. Rus didn’t know the city very well, that’s why he had google maps on his phone…he groaned inwardly as he realized his phone was missing. Fuck, it’d been hard enough to scrounge up the extra cash for that one.

His bag was gone, too, and a discreet check found his wallet was also absent. Not that he thought these guys were the kind to be cleaning out his meager bank account, but it counted for aggravation if nothing else. He’d need to get a new ID, new cards, the limited cash he’d had on him was gone. It was like every time he thought he hit bottom, the universe found another way to yank the rug out from under him.

Rus slumped down, letting his skull drop against the cool window glass as he stared at the blurring scenery.

Wait…they were passing a little corner store that Rus recognized. These streets were ones he knew. They were heading into the Dust Bowl, towards home, and Rus would have felt a lot better about it if Edge hadn’t hinted pretty clearly that Blue and home weren’t the same place right now.

He went on to prove it by driving past the residential areas and Rus gave the route that would have set him on his own porch a longing look. What he wouldn’t give to be curled up on his own bed right now, heading into Sleepsville and if any dreams came his way, Rus was gonna stuff them back up the pipe they came from.

Edge drove on and the silence in the car was close to unbearable. Rus wondered what Edge would do if he turned on the radio. Probably not kill him, he’d only just saved his life, but the guy was a criminal per his own lack of denial. Maiming might still be on the table and Rus really needed both of his hands for work.

The place they finally pulled up to was worse than he could have imagined. Rus stared up in horror at the glowing neon lights, so bright they were visible in the daylight, surrounding the huge LCD screen advertising their ‘services’. Places like this were exactly why Blue wanted their store in the Human shopping district.

“are you serious? we’re going to a strip club?” Rus blurted.

He’d never gone into any of the clubs down here in the thirties block; they were nicknamed the dirty thirties for a reason. Even if he’d been curious, which he really, really wasn’t, Blue would have murdered him if he’d put so much as a toe bone across the threshold of one of these places.

He’d been trying not to look at Edge, better to focus out the window than on the façade of a handsome face overtop whatever criminal awfulness lay beneath it. Now Rus turned to see Edge was rolling down the window, speaking in a hushed voice to another Dog Monster in a nice suit. Yeah, just like the guys from his first venture into kidnapping and Rus wasn’t any kind of Sherlock Holmes, but even he could add 1 +1 = bullshit.

Edge only glanced at him with a flick of crimson eye lights, “This is my place of business, yes.”

The Dog stepped back, and the car eased down the narrow alleyway between the buildings. Rus barely choked back a cry of surprise as Edge abruptly veered the wheel into a hairpin turn right towards the building. The brick wall loomed and then vanished into a sort of tunnel, cutting off the afternoon sunshine. An underground parking area, Rus realized, and there was no old clunker of a van with a rose on the side painstakingly painted in his brother’s hand in sight. All the cars here resembled the one he was already in, sleek and shiny, every single one of them worth more than their shop with all its blooms and their house combined.

Edge pulled into an empty spot and shut off the engine. It only made the silence that much worse, bleak and complete. He started to turn towards Rus, hesitating when Rus flinched back helplessly, strangling on a yelp before it could be the first thing to fill the quiet.

“Easy,” Edge said, and there was a new inflection for that deep voice, one that Rus hadn’t heard before. Manners he’d gotten at the shop and this morning, anger. Today it was coaxing, almost a croon, trying to soothe him like Rus was a lost pet and something about that comparison stirred his already agitated temper. Edge reached over and Rus might’ve damn well bitten him, but he didn’t touch. His expression only darkened as his gloved fingertips hovered over the side of Rus’s face where it ached the most. He was probably bruised up, whoever nabbed him at the shop this morning had popped him a good one.

“Easy,” Edge said again, in that same cozening voice, “you’re safe here. Let’s go inside.”

"no." Rus crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back into the leather seat, scowling down in the direction of the glove box. The front of his apron was dotted with marrow, dried to a tacky maroon against the heavy dark green fabric. Rus scratched at one of the spots, watched as it flaked away into dust, but the stain remained. Probably even Blue’s terrifyingly efficient laundry skills wouldn’t be able to get it out.

There was a beat of silence, then, "What?"

"no!” Rus said again, infusing that single word with all the irritation and fear of the day, letting it pour out as he added. “i'm not getting out of this car until you explain to me what's going on."

He glanced at Edge out of the corner of his eye, half-expecting another round of that anger from this morning. Instead, he looked nonplussed, his brow bone drawn down into a frown. Suddenly, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a crooked smile. "So. You want to sit here in my car with me, alone, is that what you're saying?"

Startled, Rus’s head jerked up and Edge’s amused gaze was suddenly closer, the much-larger skeleton leaning over the gearshift right into his space and bracing his arm against the passenger side door. His bulk seemed to fill in any room that Rus wasn’t already taking up and Rus’s back was already pressed tight against the plush cushion of the seat. There was nowhere else to go as he sputtered out, "w-what?"

This close, the heady aroma Edge’s cologne was overwhelming, enormous, and worse, there was a hint of spice paired with it, a whiff of roused magic that paired with the sudden heat of his body so close to Rus’s. The only light was whatever overhead fluorescents could make it through the tinted windows and Edge’s scarlet eye lights tracing along Rus’s bruised face again. That voice Rus found so enticing before sent a strange tingle down his spine as Edge murmured, "My enemies already think you're mine. Perhaps you should be."

What. The. Fuck.

"i don't belong to anyone!" It sounded so weak, less a denial and more a sad kind of plea, which was stupid, because Rus wasn’t one of the flowers in their shop, he wasn’t something that could be owned, thank you very much!

"No?" Edge picked up his hand, prying it gently away from where it frantically gripped the side of his seat. Where his sleeve rode up, Rus could see the shadow of bruises left earlier by the ropes and he could only stared dumbly as Edge nuzzled at those mottled blotches, a light kiss on the inside of his wrist made Rus shudder, not in revulsion, no, he couldn’t name that feeling. Edge’s grip was so gentle, more cradling than holding and Rus could have pulled away if he wanted to, broken that hold so easily. So why wasn’t he?

"no…” Rus tried to protest, strengthless and lost, “you don't even know my name."

"I don't, you're correct in that," Edge agreed. He pressed another light kiss to Rus’s wrist, nudging his sleeve further up to investigate where the bone was unmarked and pure. "But I know you. You work all day in your little shop until noon when your brother comes in to relieve you for your lunch, which you go to eat at the corner park."

That woke him out of the daze that rich voice wove around him, innocuous as a spider’s web and twice as insidious. At least with a spider, you knew what they wanted from you. “you…you've been spying on me!"

"No,” Edge denied. His breath was hot against Rus’s bare wrist, his teeth scraping lightly against the slender, delicate bones as he spoke, “We have another place of business down the road from your shop and I can see the park from my office. I see you sitting alone on the bench, eating your sandwich and feeding crumbs to the birds and squirrels. I don’t know your name, but I saw your smile when I came into your shop. I know more of you than you might think."

He moved then, with a blurring speed, his face inches from Rus’s as he said, softly, "I am a very bad person, flower shop boy. If you saw my soul, you'd know that. And you…"

“please,” Rus whispered. He didn’t know what he was asking for.

His voice grew softer yet, almost a subsonic rumble. Hardly more than a breath as Rus stared up at Edge with sockets so wide, they ached. "You were a step into the sunshine out of the darkness. A fantasy that I never wanted made reality and yet, now you’re here and it is becoming very difficult to not embrace the dream. Now. Do you want to go inside, or would you rather stay here with me to discuss this further?”

The last was said with a sardonic lilt and it took a moment for Rus to realize he’d stopped talking, the former silence was overshadowed by the throb of his soul, so loud in his head Rus wondered wildly if Edge could hear it, too.

But the spell was well and truly broken and if this were only a ploy to get him out of the car, it worked. Rus opened the passenger door so quickly he nearly slammed it into a concrete support beam, almost falling onto the pavement in his effort to scramble away.

Edge exited with better grace, his smooth gait carrying him to where Rus still wobbled on his feet. “Inside, it is,” Edge drawled, his mouth tilted into a smirk, “Do you need help?”

“i can walk on my own!” Rus wasn’t so sure he could, but he wasn’t about to let this asshole carry him again. He let Edge get a few steps between them before he followed, staying out of arm’s reach. Pointless effort, the first place Edge led him was a service elevator, where Rus was forced to stand right next to him surrounded by stark wooden paneling and glaring overhead lights.

But when the door opened again, it was into far more lush surroundings. Ornate carpets ran down a hallway subtly lit with ornate sconces. On the left was a neutrally painted wall lined with artwork that was miles above the league of the cheap prints in their house from the thrift shop. On the right there was a row of angular glass, almost like skylights, looking down.

The glass was tinted and if television could be believed, Rus figured it was probably one-way. He lingered back as Edge walked on, peering down. They looked down into the club below them, the stage lights dimmed through the tint.

From this angle, Rus thought he could see the entire ground floor. The bar was furthest away, with its collection of tiny-looking bottles ready to be used by ant-sized bartenders. He could see the patrons sitting at their tables, the occasional glint of a glass as it was raised, and the stage itself with a scattering of poles.

There were only two dancers, probably it was too early to put on any kind of real show, and they were making the most of their minuscule audience. A searing blush heated Rus’s cheekbones as he watched a scantily clad Bun slide languidly down a slim pole to her high heels, strutting over to kneel in front of one of the Humans in the audience, cupping her bared breasts as if in offering.

“If you wanted to see the show, we could have gone in through the front door.”

Rus jerked, looking up wildly to find Edge waiting at the end of the hallway, his face unreadable.

“how can you run a place like this?” Rus burst out. He jabbed an accusing finger at the display below them. “how can you abuse your own people for money?”

“All of our staff is fairly compensated for their work,” Edge countered, “which a more than they could say if they worked for the Humans. Now come along.”

That sounded more like an order than anything else had and Rus grudgingly obeyed. It was a shameful relief; he didn’t really want to see some guy shoving bills into a mostly-nude woman’s g-string, anyway. He hunched down, his skull low between his shoulders and followed.

The second door led to another hallway, this one completely enclosed. More expensive carpets and artwork, more intricate wall sconces that made Rus feel like he was in weird, modern version of Dracula. Except this was only like, office space above a rinky-dink strip club so why did it feel like they were walking forever?

“why did you even bring me here?” Rus grumbled, trudging along as he watched his untied shoelaces bump along the carpet. “you told me you were taking me to my brother. i want to go home.”

“I did say that and I am,” Edge agreed. Stupid how even now that voice sent a trill up his spine, why was he such an idiot, anyway? “But I’m afraid you can’t go home, not yet. Nor can you go to your shop.”

Home wasn’t entirely unexpected, all things considered, and the shop shouldn’t have been, if he’d bothered to think about it. Rus halted, dismayed, “but our store—we were supposed to get the new coolers this morning!”

“It’s been taken care of.”

“more help? great. i think we’ve had more than enough help from you!”

"You really don't have a choice. This is my fault, so I’m going to keep you safe." Said matter-of-factly, with no room left for debate or argument.

That didn’t mean Rus wasn’t going to try. "i don't want you to keep me safe! i don’t want anything to do with you or any of this...” He gestured wildly at the walls, the carpets, club that couldn’t even be seen. “this horrible place!"

Edge halted so abruptly that Rus nearly ran into his back, half-tripping over his own laces. He looked up into Edge’s stoic face defiantly, silently daring him to contradict him.

“No one talks to me like that.” But Edge wasn’t angry. It was more like he was marveling over it, almost pleased, and Rus didn’t know what that meant, he didn’t know what any of this meant. All he knew was his head ached and frustrated tears were starting to gather at the corners of his sockets, held back only be sheer determination.

He fought to keep from squirming under that penetrating gaze and it, well, it softened, somehow, it was the only way to explain it. “Come on,” Edge said, again, and instead of leading, he silently shepherded Rus to walk next to him, a hand hovering without touching at the small of Rus’s back as a guide.

They finally stopped outside of one of the doors that was as nondescript as any of them rest of them. Edge knocked briefly, in a weird rat-tat-tat pattern, then opened the door.

After everything, Rus still wasn’t sure what to expect and this luxurious office definitely wasn’t on his mental list. A large, ornate wooden desk dominated the room though there wasn’t a scrap of paper in sight, surrounded by leather chairs and sofas. There was a side bar with various sized bottles and a tray of clean glasses, and the walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with leather-bound volumes that had Rus mentally salivating; he could only imagine what information was in them, much better than the meager offerings of the local library.

Better yet, Blue was sitting in an oversized leather chair, still in his work uniform and almost disappearing into the thick cushions. He struggled to his feet with a cry, running over with both arms outstretched to Rus. Who dropped to his knees, clinging to his big brother as he hadn’t since the day they came to the surface and with almost the same mix of emotions, fear and joy.

“Brother, I was so worried!” Tears brimmed in Blue’s sockets and overflowed down his rounded cheekbones. His starry eye lights dimmed as he reached up to lightly touch the bruises on the side of Rus’s face, too gently to cause even a hint of pain.

“i’m okay, blue, seriously,” Rus told him. But he didn’t let go, leaning into those comforting arms.

“ain’t that sweet, a family reunion.”

That made Rus jerk, turning to see a burly skeleton almost as broad was he was tall coming from around the desk. He wasn’t much taller than Blue and in his sharky grin was a glinting gold tooth. One that might shine even in the dim light in the backseat of a car.

“Brother, this is Red,” Blue gestured towards the squat skeleton, who was lighting a cigar, “Edge’s brother. He told me what happened.”

“did he?” Rus said, as neutrally as he could manage when he was staring face-first at the skeleton who’d offered him a chance to ‘make it a double’ that morning, whatever the hell that meant.

“yep,” Red said agreeably. His crimson eye lights glittered with dark amusement as he grinned around his cigar. “glad you’re okay, flower shop, musta been a hell of an ordeal, eh, bro?”

Edge was standing by the door, arms crossed over his broad chest. His face twisted as if he was tasting something sour and he said nothing.

Blue only nodded, mopping away his tears with a clean hankie, “When I got to the shop and it wasn’t open, I was so afraid, brother! I had no idea that there was any,” he lowered his voice as if he might be overheard by someone nefarious, never suspecting that the bad guys were already in the room, “gang activity in our area and I’ve no idea why they would target us, but Red assured me they can help us handle it.”

“and fer a very reasonable fee,” Red added with mocking cheer.

“A fee!” Rus spluttered, “but all this is—” Their fault, Rus couldn’t say, not when Blue began scolding.

“Now, brother, I understand how you feel, but honestly, it’s not fair to expect them to help us for free. They’re businessmen and they can’t simply offer charity,” Blue lowered his voice, whispering, “and if we have their help, then I won’t have to worry about you.” He turned to Edge then and said with trembling gratitude, “Thank you, for bringing him back to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Edge said gravely, and Rus seethed inwardly even as there came another knock at the door, that same rat-ta-tat as before. Edge cracked it open to reveal another Dog, this time in what looked like a butler’s uniform, like he’d stepped right out of the movie ‘Clue’ after taking tips from Tim Curry. “Please, show our guests to their room. They’ll be staying with us for a few days.”

The Dog nodded, waiting as Blue offered more profuse thank you’s for them ‘saving’ him and if Blue thought anything of Red’s wide grin and Edge’s calm silence, it didn’t show. He followed the Dog and Rus started to trail behind him.

“Wait.” A hand on his arm made Rus pause and he looked up at Edge, biting back what he wanted to say even as he looked uncomprehendingly at the thin black rectangle that suddenly appeared between Edge’s fingers. “Here.”

It was his missing phone. Rus snatched it away, powering it on and he couldn’t help but notice the wifi was already connected. Like someone had bypassed his password and took a peek, sonuvabitch.

Blue was looking at him expectantly and Rus muttered, “thank you,’ before hastily escaping out the door.

The room they were led to was almost as big as their entire house. There was a wide bed topped with down-filled pillows and a heavy duvet, surrounded by curtains that were pointless in a room with no windows. On the other side of the room was a sitting area with a wide sofa and on the coffee table there were a couple of trays with domed covers that could only be dinner. A shame Rus didn’t think he’d feel like eating for about a decade or so. A disinterested poke at the remote on the side table opened a panel to show a large television screen that Rus didn’t bother to turn on.

What a weird place, the inside seemed bigger than the out, like an evil Tardis or something.

Rus flopped down on the bed without even stripping off his apron, toeing off his sneakers to let them plop down to the floor. That Blue didn’t scold him for making mess was a pretty good tell of his mood. Instead, Blue boosted himself up onto the mattress, crawling across the wide expanse to sit next to Rus and his hand was gentle as he smoothed it over Rus’s skull. Rus let him, didn’t draw away as he considered what he wanted to say.

“blue,” Rus hesitated, and said carefully, “i don’t know if getting involved with these guys is such a good idea.”

His brother surprised him, admitting, “I’m not sure, either. But they said they can help us,” Blue offered him a tremulous smile. “Business has been a little on the slow side and we lost that money to that horrible thief we hired. Red told me they can help support us until we get the insurance money. Things will be better, then, I’m sure of it.”

Rus closed his sockets tightly, swallowing down any other objections, because he knew that tone. Things had been tough lately, he knew that, but his brother’s false cheer told a clear story that Blue hadn’t been updating him like he should’ve. If they didn’t go along with this, they’d lose everything.

They didn’t have a choice.

“sure, bro,” Rus tried to force some enthusiasm into it, wasn’t sure if he succeeded. He gave it about a fifty-fifty shot.

“You must be exhausted,” Blue said, still petting his skull, “You don’t need to talk about what happened right now, let me heal that for you and then you can get some rest.” Fiercely, he added, “It will be all right, brother, you’ll see!”

That soothing, familiar touch drifted down his bruised cheekbone, fingertips going warm as Blue pushed healing into the injured bone. Getting healed always made Rus sleepy and he drifted off before his brother could finish, basking in his Blue’s gentle affection and care.

When he woke, the room was dark and Blue was asleep beside him, the bed so large they didn’t touch even with their arms outstretched. He fumbled for his phone, squinting at the too-bright screen that told him it was after midnight. As late as it was and as exhausted, he still couldn’t fall back asleep, his weary thoughts tumbling over and over themselves, an endless thumping dryer inside his mind.

They’d be staying for a few days, Edge said. Days of the shop being closed, days of the flowers not being properly tended, stock lost along with missing out on deliveries, walk-in purchases, any sales at all. Blue said Red offered to help but, what if that was all for show? They could lose the shop and if they did, the house would be next. Everything they’d worked so hard for.

This was all Edge’s fault, yeah, sure, and Rus still didn’t know exactly why, but it was the truth. A truth that didn’t even matter because lying here fuming about it wasn’t helping. What he needed to do was make sure Edge forced his brother to keep his promises to help them and Rus wasn’t sure how. It wasn’t like he had anything to barter, even the shop was technically in Blue’s name.

Except. There was one thing Rus knew that Edge wanted. Oh, he’d tried to deny it this morning and then went the complete opposite way this afternoon, but Rus was pretty sure he understood what was up with that. A failed attempt to protect him from…whoever, at this point Rus should probably start a list…and beneath that was the truth.

Edge wanted him, that much Rus knew and maybe if he…if Rus gave it to him. Maybe if he offered to give Edge whatever he wanted, they could be sure their shop was safe.

Lying in the wide, unfamiliar bed, Rus swallowed hard. In his daydreams, he’d been eager for something like this, tumbling into bed with his tall, mysterious stranger and even now that Rus knew the truth, a faint warmth throbbed once between his legs at the thought.

His soul was less certain, shrinking back in his rib cage. Rus ignored it, slipping out from between the sheets. All he had to do was offer and endure, who knew, he might even like it. Didn’t matter if he did. If it kept their shop open, Rus would do whatever it took.

It was worth a shot.

tbc

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#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #mafia au #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus

34 notes · View notes

ernmark · 5 years ago

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Last minute Juno Birthday fanfic, anyone?

It’s early November when Juno decides to suck it up and be an adult.

It’s actually a week or so into December before he actually works up the nerve to do it, but at least he made the decision, so that has to count for something.

All that night he’s planning out elaborate arguments and counter-arguments, crafting strategies like he’s going to war instead of having a conversation with his ex-secretary. Even after all that (or maybe because of it), his blood is pumping hard by the time he sits her down for The Talk.

“Listen, Rita,” he says, because he’s turning forty and he can do this, goddammit. “You know how my birthday is coming up?”

Right away her eyes light up like fucking neon. “Ooh, I was just gonna ask you-- what do ya want to do? We could go--”

He stops her right there, before she can build up any momentum. “Actually, I was hoping we could just do something quiet. Like last year, you know? Just a movie with the two of us.”

“That sounds great! And we can have Miss Vespa make the popcorn, and--”

See, this is why he wanted to have this talk early on. “Could we just have it with the two of us?” And he can see other points coming from a mile away, so he pushes past the anxiety and spits out the truth: “I’m still working on being more... okay. And that always gets harder this time of year. Especially now that...” Sometimes he can put his memories of Ben into words. Some days are harder than others. So close to their birthday and so far from Ben’s grave, he just can’t. “I just don’t think I can handle anything big right now.”

He’s waiting for the volley of protests, but instead Rita gives him a gentle, “Okay, boss.” And then, slightly more energetic: “Do you wanna pick out the movie or should I?”

And weeks worth of tension melts from his shoulders. “How about you pick one out for us? One you haven’t seen.”

------

Even with Juno taking better care of himself, there’s no getting around some of the tension. This time of year is rough. It always is, and it always will be-- full of memories of Ben’s brilliant smile and his contagious laugh, edged by the memory of their mother’s darkest moods. It winds tighter inside him by the day, and he can feel it in his roiling stomach and his knotting muscles and his grinding teeth. There’s a new fear in him-- he’s finally found a good place, a home, a weird criminal family. What if he blows up at someone? What if he gets himself thrown off the ship? What if he wrecks everything just because he couldn’t keep it together? It’s a new layer of terror, suddenly realizing that he has something to lose.

The twenty-fourth day of December arrives, and he’s wound so tight he feels like he might snap. Buddy’s all about this whole ‘family’ thing, and he knows how much she’s researched him-- if she’s planning a party or something-- god, he might lose it.

He might lose it anyway.

He gets dressed feeling like he’s getting ready for a funeral, but he only heads as far as the kitchen to help Jet with breakfast. And it’s quiet. Calm. The big guy always is. The meal isn’t candle-covered pancakes or anything special, just the usual scrambled eggs and bacon, biscuits and gravy, like they have most days. But as he’s whipping the eggs into a froth, Jet glances over at him and says, “Happy birthday, Juno.”

No confrontation, no big deal. He doesn’t even miss a beat. He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And Juno, because he doesn’t know how else to respond, says “Thanks.”

And a little more of that tension unwinds.

To his credit, he doesn’t take weeks to make the next move in the conversation. And sure, it’s already his birthday, and yeah, the big guy is a whole lot less talkative than Rita is, but still, Juno decides to take the win while he’s got it.

“Say,” he begins. “You wouldn’t know if Buddy and all them were planning any kind of surprise party or anything, would you?”

Jet looks up, but only to pour the eggs into the pan. “If I were to tell you, it would not be a surprise. But no. Rita informed us that a party would be unnecessarily stressful for you.”

It almost seems too good to be true. “Did she say why?”

“Birthdays are a source of anxiety for many people. I am willing to listen, but your reasons are your own. Pass me the milk.”

Juno does, but he moves clumsily, blinking tears out of his eye before he can make this weird. Which is stupid-- he knows the big guy wouldn’t judge him for it. Everyone cries, right? Of all people, Jet would understand how messy and convoluted and heavy emotions can get.

And maybe he does cry a little bit, for reasons he doesn’t want to talk about and couldn’t name even if he did. Jet doesn’t comment or watch him with pity. He doesn’t even seem uncomfortable. Juno would think that Jet didn’t notice at all, if not for the tissue that materializes in his hand just as Juno’s breathing starts to hitch.

And just like that, it’s over. Juno dabs away the last of the tears, he throws out the tissue and washes his hands, and then he gets to work reconstituting the orange juice.

-------

Vespa says nothing.

But when she passes him in the corridors, she makes eye contact and gives a slight jerk of her head.

Juno nods back, feeling strangely like they’ve just had a full conversation.

-------

By the time Buddy approaches him, Juno’s started to feel a whole lot less like a cornered animal and a whole lot more human. Maybe a human who doesn’t speak the same language as the woman who smiles warmly at him and offers him a hug, but still a human. And when she gives his hands an affectionate squeeze and offers him a happy birthday, he thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand.

------

Nureyev glances at his comms and starts to his feet. “I’ll let you freshen up. I believe you and Rita are watching a movie tonight?”

Nothing’s gone wrong yet. No blowups, no breakdowns, no disasters. So maybe he’s feeling a little braver than he was before. “You can join us, if you want.”

“Oh?” Nureyev doesn’t hesitate so much as he slows, shifting his weight like a dancer. If Rita’s told Jet and Buddy, she’s told him. He knows what today means to him. But he doesn’t press a conversation. “What are you watching?”

“No clue. But I trust Rita to pick out something good.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but he knows Nureyev understands: I trust you, too.

“I’m always up for an adventure,” Nureyev says. “But if you don’t need to freshen up, I do. Shall I bring you a drink on my way back?”

“I’d like that,” Juno says softly, and he watches Nureyev vanish into the ship’s corridor.

He lets out the last ache of tension in a long, heavy breath, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. And there he finds a little envelope.

It’s tiny, no bigger than a credit card, but even so, getting it there without him knowing would require a pickpocket’s deft hands. Though, really, that isn’t saying much-- pretty much the only person on this ship who can’t pick pockets is Rita.

There’s no cake, no candles, no presents. But there is the card, marked with five signatures and a simple message:

We’re glad you’re here.

#the penumbra podcast #happy birthday Juno Steel #fanfiction #100 #200

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u-jin · 4 years ago

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PART I: Headcanons

1 // It feels as if light, the very thing he bends and morphs, pulls away from him as he descends into the city like a plague, a wraith spreading and sinking into every foul piece of land and chunk of flesh he can tear at. Or perhaps, instead, he wills it away, the flashes in his direction revealing walls painted red, misery falling endlessly in his trail. He hides from his shame, protects himself while devouring others. This is not what he set out to do, but it’s what he has to in order to survive, the mental box he’s pushed himself into, the model son he was raised to be designed in bullets and knife wounds. Self care makes the mind kill it’s darlings, his favorite parts of humanity and empathy pushed underwater until they stopped gasping for air leaving only the parts of him that can survive, only the parts that can persevere -- and so his teeth are sharper, so his fingernails become weapons, his face never wet with tears but instead soaked in blood.

Why else would they call him a monster?

2 // At night his muscles twitch and ache in sync with the pain in his chest, stood in his bathroom mirror with smudged glamour and horrid eyes – humanity, and disdain for his humanity. Who is this person in the reflection? Weak, and caked with dirt, hideous, with weighted skin under dull eyes that look pitifully vengeful? At night he stalks the streets and devours prey to avoid the man he shares his living space with, the one who glares at him through the framed glass in his bathroom, the sleepless beast that feels everything he ignores, drunk and full of nightmares, regurgitating all the buried demons so that he can work and spit and jeer and kill. The man who cowers under sheets and stares at blinking clocks is human, disgustingly so, and he rots and rots until he hunts again. He does not cry, but seethes, and then he pulls himself together, all intoxicated and wild, the character, the jester, the mercenary. He plants his hands on the cold porcelain edges of his sink, locks eyes with the reflection he sees, and laughs as if mad. 3 // Why create something beautiful just for the sake of making it monstrous? Innocence and childhood not even things of memory, only blood over blood over blood -- family is not something he covets, not anymore, not since he stopped wearing pull ups and claimed his first life. Not since he’s tasted blood. Now the memory of his parents is tinged sour, the idea of family nothing but another invisible chain around his neck, the weight suffocating, the subject too sore

Most things are easy to bury, but the banging coming from the trunk sounds so much louder when you know who’s inside.

PART ii: Sample Paragraph: TW // gore, blood, mutilation (vague)

MILLIONS SQUARE was awash with neons and precious metals; silvers, blood, gold, filth, and decay lining the streets of the wealthy and the robbed -- the poor man’s gamble poured out onto sleek cobblestone with the clicking of expensive shoes or scabbed, barefoot soles. Then comes Ujin in poor taste; sharpened and faded nails adorned like small knives, loaded guns and all black clothes, but so damn pretty. He’s giddy with it, pupil’s thin like slits and iris’ melted red and savory. He comes hungering for a thrill, starving and ready to pick flesh from between his teeth. Who else can gamble in his place? Who can tear into holy wounds and sinner’s pockets more steadily then the executioner, more bloodthirsty than man? He’s made of one part desire and two parts insanity, a mere shadow of a person, indistinguishable; a patron saint of switchblade fights. Where he walks tendrils follow, where he hovers cities fall, men die, like Death himself with silver-dressed fingers and throat.

The cards are laid out on the table one by one and he watches with sly, sharpened eyes, wisps licking under the table, stretched like elongated shadows around the other patron’s feet. Do they see it yet? His poker face is that of a smile, always stationary and wide like the cat that caught the canary, teeth bright and shining luminescent, glowing in the dark. He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose, because even missteps on his way to victory end with his hands and pockets full; it’s because he’s a cheater -- filthy and unstoppable, a liar for sport. His fingers roll chips back and forth, back and forth, eyes finding the other players, the sweat of their brows, the shifting of their pupils. The mounted lights feel brighter, burning hot as if center stage, their cards suddenly feel like a worse hand, or perhaps, a better one -- no... a trick of the light.

Two folds and a flush, a look of indignation and he breaks out into laugh, deep and crackling in his core. He will continue to win until he grows bored, until fists fly and the casino breaks out in security, until batons are swung and blood spatters the floors and ceilings of such flashy poverty. He will continue to win until there’s no one left to play, until his pockets overflow with plastic coins that he doesn’t exchange for currency, clicking and jangling, sliding between fingers and clattering to the concrete. Ujin stuffs himself full on the feeling of victory, gorges on the other’s suffering and the widened eyes of desperate men starving for just a taste of what he holds in spades. For now he soaks in the gasps and the furrowed brows of lesser men, the feeling of a meal for their families or a safe ride home from this church of agony caught tight in his gluttonous grasp.

His hands slam onto the velvet of the poker table, body leaning heavily with a joker’s grin and a jester’s laugh, teeth sharpened and stained the color of bloomed roses he says, “Again.”

Then he’s walking the streets at night, his gun adorned on his pointer finger, spinning carelessly as he explores the furthest gutters with a name burning a hole in his pocket. Impetuous as he walks among the poisonous field of the city’s most vibrant flora, it’s most tempting and dangerous wildlife in the form of Renegades and rogues, all vying for the most useless of all things: survival.

Divinity is not something that welcomes them, the afterlife not promising the demons and devilmen any reprieve -- as if this hell on Earth could be any better, as if it could be worse. A Machivellian thief, a pessimist of a killer -- perhaps he’s doing them a mercy. A horrible thought. If he plagued himself with the idea that he was sending scattered filth to a quick and painless “better place” he isn’t sure he’d be able to bear picking up a gun again -- a knife, however…

His steps halt, head turned, curious. He hears shuffling in the depths of the alleyway, “Hiding?” He’s made of heat, of pumping blood and a slow simmering pot, a maelstrom devouring, destroying only for the sake of destruction. His spine is bent, hunched, as if he’s hiding as well, “I’m good at games.” It comes sharp and low, almost a dark playfulness buried in it. Black hair hangs long enough in front of his forehead that it shadows his eyes, the usual thinness of his pupils blown large as if euphoric. Power, what he coveted in spades, spilled forth from those full pockets as a man shakes and trembles behind mountains of trash. Familiar are the Greek Gods to what mercy looks like from a devil, what kindness means when received from a wooden horse, a face that appears both warm and friendly, handsome and charming, but cracks in two with the hunger of his posture, the shape of a spine that is not merely human, cracking open to something disgusting, something terrifying, falling out and bleeding onto itself -- it’s an illusion, of course, something of his design, a mutation created to be seen by only one person at a time.

AND WHAT AN ILLUSION IT IS.

He makes himself something he is not, he makes himself an evolving mass, a thing of nightmares because no freedom from pain is quick, not from him. If he’s a monster then this city is hell, this city is what grows and breeds things like himself. He wants to see the man suffer, but as he grows more horrid still his vision goes dark, his trigger hand grows hungry, and just as he reaches his peak (fifty feet tall, open wounds cracking into voids of gore and featureless faces, he’s greeted with a scream of terror) he sees black and the sound of a bullet rings loudly.

For a moment, the world is bright, flashing near blinding behind his eyes and when it clears there’s nothing, the darkness too dense, his eyes not yet adjusted to the depth of this blackness. Luckily he doesn’t need light to see it, the image seared into the backs of his eyelids, the makeshift image of the empty sockets, the stickiness of a liquified brain seeping out of a cracked skull, pouring damp and harsh against the pavement. He makes his own gore, manifests the warm feeling of adrenaline. His hands don’t shake anymore, but his fingers clutch tighter to the gun, the cocked trigger and the feel of steel in his hands. He doesn’t linger long, the silence following the bullet broken only by a whistled tune, the first movement he makes the pursing of lips, eyes blindly staring down at what is surely a mangled body, before he turns, the gun slowly beginning to revolve around his pointer finger once again.

From the end of an alleyway, an onlooker sees the disappearing silhouette of what can only be a man; the only thing clearly visible is the embroidered symbol glowing bright red on the back of his jacket; a cat with it’s teeth sunk into the throat of a snake.

#i. INTRODUCTION #gore //#blood //#mutilation //

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weirdlyokaywithit · 5 years ago

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Kiss the Girl Pt 3

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

This is the last part of my piece for @valkyriesryde ‘s writing challenge, this has been so much fun to write and I honestly can’t wait for another one! Rylee, you are such a gift in this world and I’m so thankful to be your friend! Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this challenge and totally be an awesome person and understanding of me dropping off the face of the planet. I love you and seriously you’re the best!

Warnings: swearing, Disney princess (y’all I think this is hilarious as a warning), smutty thoughts and smut at the end

_________________________________

You weren’t exactly sure how you got to bed that night but you presume it had been Bucky that had carried you, the two of you had ended up watching another few episodes of Criminal Minds before staying up for a while just talking. No nightmares tonight, you just couldn’t sleep well and this was not new to you since a good night's sleep seemed a milliion miles away at all times. You glanced over at the clock and 4:23AM glared back at you in neon green, Bucky was probably up already anyways and it had become almost routine for you to be together before everyone else woke up.

You really didn’t feel like sparring or working out this morning but you wanted to be around someone else, you crawled out of bed and pulled on some lounge clothes before crankily wandering to find Bucky. You quietly asked JARVIS where he was after you didn’t find him in the kitchen or in the gym, JARVIS responded that Mr. Barnes was on the roof. A small smile found its way to your lips, Bucky went to the roof when he was thinking and you knew he didn’t know why he found his way up there. You always guessed it was a way for him to find higher ground, he was a sniper at heart and that was where his head would start to clear itself. You took the elevator to the top floor and then walked up the cement stairs and pushed open the heavy door that let out onto the roof.

Bucky was bent over with his forearms resting on the ledge looking over the city, he didn’t turn to look to see who was joining him. You walked to stand next to him, your hand finding his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Bucky went silent sometimes and he didn’t need you to distract him, he just needed someone to weather the storm with him and you were good at that. Steve had said once that you brought a peace that he never could to Bucky, you had reminded him that it was because you had suffered in nearly identical horrors while you were in captivity. You stood like that for a long time, the sky started to turn pink when he turned to you and your heart ached for what you saw in his eyes: pure agony, regret, loss, anger. You slowly reached for his face, he closed his eyes when your palm cupped his cheek and he leaned into the touch. This man was broken but so were you.

“Thank you.”

It was so quiet that you almost missed it, and if you hadn’t been touching his face you doubt you would have heard it at all. Your thumb stroked his cheek softly before you let your hand drop.

“Always.”

His eyes opened and his baby blues searched your face and whatever he saw there seemed to make him believe you.

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asked softly.

“No, I just coudln’t sleep,” you murmured back.

Bucky nodded and you both turned back to watch the sun rise, you wanted to hold his hand but you were too chicken. You could walk in a room full of guys with guns and make a smart ass comment and not even be slightly scared but the thought of holding Bucky’s hand absolutely terrified you. Not that you weren’t content with how things were now, you were and if he wanted things to stay this way then you would be okay with that. Deep inside of you there was this voice that kept shouting that this man would be the one, the one who always understood, who would always be there for you, the one who would never judge you, who would always be there to turn your frown into a grin. The one. You constantly told that voice to shut the fuck up because you weren’t about to ruin the best friendship you had with this man, and you wouldn’t be able to bear if he didn’t feel the same way.

“You want breakfast, doll?” Bucky asked, glancing over with a small smile pulling at his lips.

“If you’re cooking then absolutely,” you grinned cheekily at him.

He rolled his eyes and placed a hand on his chest dramatically, “I see how it is, you’re using me!”

“You’re damn right I am, those chocolate chip pancakes don’t make themselves!” You replied with a laugh.

Bucky couldn’t help but return the laugh and you both made your way downt to the kitchen, it was still early enough that no one else was awake. You sat at the bar and watched Bucky start pouring things into a bowl and just whisk away at the batter, he seemed to enjoy making breakfast and you figured it was because of his mom and sister. He never talked about them and you respected that because you didn’t want to talk about your family either, although yours was still alive.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N!” Bucky waved his hand in front of your face.

You snapped out of your head and smiled sheepishly at the man in front of you whose face was now concerned.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“No sorries, remember? I just asked if you want to add your own chocolate chips,” Bucky said, motioning to the bowl.

“OH, yes that's my favorite part!” You exclaimed and jumped off the barstool. Bucky chuckled and poured the batter into the skillet and you dropped a handful of chocolate chips on the batter expertly.

The two of you managed to make about twelve pancakes that were exploding with chocolate chips, he took a stack of six and you took a generous three although you knew you probably wouldn’t finish them. You and Bucky were stuffing your faces when Steve walked into the kitchen, Steve chuckled at the sight of the two of you. Bucky flipped him off and pointed to the rest of the pancakes sitting next to the stove and Steve grabbed a stack from the plate and dug in at the bar next to you and Bucky.

“What the hell is this?” Sam asked when he wandered in shortly after.

“Shut your face or stuff your face, birdbrain,” you said between giant bites of chocolate gooeyness. Bucky snorted at your quip and offered his fist which of course you pounded with yours and Sam narrowed his eyes at the two of you.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” Sam said, pointing at you two.

“I believe the lady already so eloquently said ‘Shut your face or stuff your face,’” Bucky grunted at him.

Sam made an exasperated sound before grabbing the remainder of the pancakes and sat down to eat.

“We’re watching the last movie tonight, I say we do an early showing and then grab dinner and discuss the movies and then Bucky can give his decision,” Steve suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” you said, getting up and clearing your dishes off.

You started to load dishes and clean the kitchen, the boys started chatting about something Tony was working on. You turned to grab the dishes from them and Bucky caught your eye and he gave you a pointed look that you knew he knew you understood. You don’t have to do that. And you sent him one back with a small smile and a slight shake of your head, because of

course you didn’t have to but some of what your mother had instilled in you remained.

Later that afternoon the four of you gathered in the media room, you had grabbed some snacks because you were starving and you knew Bucky would munch on them with you. You perched in your normal spot and Bucky plopped down next to you and shoved his hand into the bag of chips you had in your hand.

“You read my mind, doll,” he grumbled around the chips in his mouth.

You grinned at him and popped a few in your mouth, Steve and Sam were bickering over something on the other couch. You called for JARVIS to start the Little Mermaid and almost immediately the Disney music cued up and the scene was set. Bucky was dialed in almost immediately, you smiled softly at him being so focused on the movie. You watched him smile at Sebastian’s drama and he chuckled at the hidden adult humor, and you forced yourself to watch Ariel sing about her knick knacks. Bucky stretched suddenly and his arm found its way around your shoulders, your heart pounded and you shifted so that you were pressed into his side.

Butterflies in your stomach were going absolutely bezerk, your palms were sweating and the warmth radiating from the man next to you was lighting your blood on fire. You cautiously peered up at Bucky and he seemed focused on the movie, feeling your gaze he peered down at you and smiled softly.

“I can’t focus on the greatest Disney princess movie of all time if you’re staring at me, doll,” he whispered.

You flushed and whispered back, “Sorry.”

Bucky turned back to the movie and you forced yourself to do the same, you watched the movie distractedly, Ariel was currently singing her voice away to Ursula. Your brain was going a hundred miles an hour thinking about his arm around your shoulders and what it meant. You watched Ariel make her way through the kingdom with Prince Eric, your favorite scene was coming up. As Kiss the Girl started pouring through the speakers, you sensed Bucky tense slightly and you glanced up to see him peering down at you. You offered a smile and he returned it, his eyes flicked down to your lips and lingered there for a second, Your heart was now thundering out of your chest and you knew he could hear it, his baby blues found yours and he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. You shut your eyes and relished as his lips parted and his tongue swept throught your mouth, you felt an almost indescribable pleasure sweep through your whole body.

Your hand wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him further into you, your lips moved with his and your tongues tangled lazily. Bucky caught your lip between his teeth and your breath caught and you instantly got wet, you couldn’t help but let out a whimper.

“Seriously, y’all? We are right here!” Sam cried, gagging and making wretching sounds.

You pulled away and Bucky looked like he wanted to do murder because it ended, and you gave him a reassuring smile. For the rest of the movie, you snuggled into Bucky’s side as close as you physically could, his arm was wrapped tightly around you. Your body felt like it was humming with energy and you were sick of not having your lips on him, you turned your head and tasted his neck. Bucky’s hand tightened on your hip and you gave a teasing nip, he made a gutteral sound in his throat and you couldn’t help but trace the area with your tongue.

“Doll, you gotta stop, I can barely keep myself in check,” Bucky whispered into your hair.

You pouted and pulled away, forcing yourself to patiently watch the rest of the movie. The credits finally rolled and Bucky swept you off the couch and into his arms, you were out of the media room and in the elevator before you knew it. His lips crashed into yours and you moaned into his mouth as your tongue teased his, Bucky groaned as your hands tangled in his hair and pulled. The doors dinged upon your arrival and Bucky carried you into his room, he tossed you on his bed and pulled his shirt off before crawling over you.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this for so fucking long,” he groaned before his lips grazed yours.

His hands roamed your body and pulled at your clothes, you pulled your shirt over your head before you yanked his lips to yours. A fire started deep in your belly and you savored the feeling of his body on yours, Bucky caught your bottom lip between his teeth and the nip of pain made your core clench. The whimper you let out seemed to make him go even wilder, he literally ripped your pants clean off your body.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

“I’m trying, baby,” he teased as he kissed his way down your body.

The first touch of his tongue between your thighs was your undoing, you were a mess and writhing on his tongue. His large hands slid under you and held you to his mouth, he sucked on the bundle of nerves at the top of your core. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled through you and you couldn’t hold your moans and whimpers in as Bucky kept pleasuring you with his sinful mouth. Your fingers tunneled through his hair and you gently pulled so that he finally relented, your body collapsed against the sheets.

“I need you,” you moaned, tugging sharply on the strands of chestnut hair in your grasp.

His blue irises were nearly black because his pupils were so big, his lips were glistening with your slick and the sight of him like this made your heart clench. Bucky hurriedly shoved his pants until he could kick them off and you pulled him in to kiss you by the nape of his neck. His lips hungrily melded with yours and you could taste yourself on his tongue, he groaned into your mouth when your hand wrapped around his member. You pulled Bucky gently into you and guided his member into your sex, you hissed at the sheer size of him but the fullness was heavenly. Bucky lowered his hips until he was fully inside of you and you could feel your channel adjusting to his shaft.

“Fuck, baby, you feel fucking amazing,” he groaned.

“Bucky, I… I need you to move,” you moaned.

He slid out and then slowly back in, you felt electric as he started to pick up rhythm. Your tongues tangled, you were on fire with feeling as he kept a tortuous pace slamming into you. You wrapped your legs around him and then proceeded to flip the both of you so you were on top of him, his blue eyes darkened as he watched you roll your hips in a way that his shaft was hitting that spot inside you. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you whipped your body as fast as you could, Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might shatter. His large hands covered your breasts and he rolled your nipples and that sent you tumbling over the edge. You couldn’t hold in your moans and cries, Bucky flipped you onto your back and his hurried thrusts prolonged your orgasm. He let out a hoarse shout and cried out your name as his release came and he collapsed on top of you panting hard.

“That was… incredible,” you whispered while trying to regulate your breathing.

“You’re incredible,” Bucky said into your ear.

“So… what now?”

Bucky lifted himself off of you and pressed a kiss to your lips gently, his eyes searched yours and he gave you a reassuring smile.

“Now you’re mine, if you wanna be, doll.”

A huge grin spread across your face and you pulled his lips back to yours and kissed him properly.

“Now I’m yours.”

_________________________________

Leave me a comment and tell me what you thought.

#buckybarnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #buckyimagine #bucky barns x reader #marvel #MCU #mcuimagine #sam wilson #steve rogers #disney

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luxexhomines · 6 years ago

Text

Dualities (1/?)

This is a pre-game Oumota fic. I don't know if I'll have the game happen, but these will be centered around the pre-game characters of Ouma & Momota, although my interpretation will vary from popular interpretations. I plan to continue it, but I'm also horrendously bad at continuing fics, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He felt the air in his lungs forcibly removed by the pressure exerted on his slim chest as someone's fist connected solidly with his midriff. He bent over and wheezed desperately, and as the shadows of his tormentors loomed ever closer, he prepared himself to be hit again, closing his eyes and turning his face away–but nothing came at him, and the darkness seemed to lessen.

When he opened his eyes, he saw only a single figure's feet standing in front of him, and as soon as the person seemed to notice his eyes were open, he received a hard smack on the face by their hand.

He raised a hand to his tenderly stinging cheek. Whoever it was hadn't gone easy on him. He thought he'd been relieved of a beating, only to be hit again. But there was only one this time, and he lifted his head to see the one and only Momota Kaito, delinquent infamous of the school. Upon recognizing him, Ouma tries to back up—only to realize that he's already pressed against the walls of the school, and then glances from side to side, looking for escape before giving in and looking at his savior and attacker. He didn't dare to look at Momota's face, much less make eye contact with him, though, so his eyes strayed downward. That is, until his chin was pushed upward so his gaze could do nothing but meet the eyes of Momota.

"What're you lookin' at the floor for?" Momota spit at the ground close by. "My face ain't by my feet."

Ouma tries not to wet his pants. He's been through a lot, after all, and what more could a single delinquent do to him over a group of thugs that had been harassing him for the entire school year? Well, a lot, he reminded himself, remembering that the delinquent in question was the extraordinaire Momota Kaito. His pants remain dry, but he does dissolve slightly into a shaking, whimpering mess.

"S-Sorry..."

He struggles to look at Momota's face directly, even if his head has been raised, purely out of habit and conditioned fear.

Momota drops his hand from Ouma's chin, instead looking off to the side, tsking.

"Hmph. This is why I hate squiggly little guys like you. Don't apologize so easily. Aren't you a man?"

Ouma opens his mouth to say sorry, but manages to realize how it would contradict the very message he's trying to obey, and abruptly his jaws snap close again, tightly.

Momota notes this action with a strange indifference, a hint of pleasure in his voice.

"Hm, looks like you're not so bad after all."

He grabs Ouma's face with a single, large hand forcefully, examining it carefully as someone might examine the teeth of a horse, humming in thought.

Not daring to defy such force, Ouma tries not to let a whimper escape his squished together lips and simply trembles in Momota's domineering grip.

"...Excellent. You'll do," Momota smiles, and not in a way Ouma likes. It's a foreboding omen of a turbulent storm to come, one you can smell in the air for days before and lives in you before it emerges on the horizon, not to mention it would have been more accurate to call Momota's smile a baring of fangs.

Ouma finds his voice somewhere amidst the fear, and speaks up.

"D-Do nicely for what, sir?"

He stutters, and Momota suddenly lets go of his aching jaws, as if throwing away a piece of trash from his strong fingers.

"Don't call me sir," he grunts. "We're the same age, so why are you so polite?"

Ouma only looks away without responding. Perhaps the safer choice–in most situations, but not necessarily this one. Momota was not a typical delinquent, after all.

"Hey, you're doing it again. If your eyes dart away like that again, I'm going to fix you up so you can't so much as look away funny from me ever again," he threatens in a low voice. Ouma's eyes shoot straight back to Momota's face, which, to his surprise, doesn't look half as threatening as the way his voice sounded. Rather, his expression almost seems kind: but momentarily, as his features harden again, staring down at Ouma from his higher vantage point.

"Come with me."

He turns and starts walking away loftily, and Ouma hurries to catch up almost automatically. He's not completely sure why he isn't taking the second Momota's back is turned to make his escape, but he gets the premonition that he'd be beaten more badly for trying to run away than for following Momota to wherever he's being lead to.

"M-Momota-kun?"

The man in question stops in his tracks, but doesn't turn to face Ouma.

"What is it?"

His voice is gruff, but not necessarily unfriendly. It looks like calling him by his name was a better choice than earlier when Ouma said "sir."

"I was just wondering...where are you taking me? I'm not familiar with this area," he says quietly.

Momota waves indifferently and then continues walking.

"Ah, doesn't matter. You'll know when you get there. If you're afraid of getting lost on the way back, I'll walk you back like the little pansy you are."

Ouma doesn't think he'll take Momota up on his offer, not because he won't get lost (he's horrible with directions and navigating and perhaps life overall) but because the prospect of Momota knowing where he lives is a little frightening.

He just walks on silently behind Momota, like a trailing shadow. For some reason, he had the feeling that this would become a regular occurrence–which he desperately hoped it would not, that just the opposite would occur and this would be the one and only time he followed after Momota like this, but his intuition had yet to betray him.

As Ouma follows Momota into the bustling city, he realizes it's become dark, and neon street signs and yellow lights illuminate the path they walk, which is shared by countless other pedestrians coming and going. He's getting anxious, but tries to bite back his fears—after all, there's not much he can do about the situation. All he can do is quietly bear it and walk behind Momota till they reach their destination.

Momota stops in front of a place Ouma's never seen before, with a suspiciously tame name lit up in block lettering across the front—Rose Garden.

Momota pushes open a glass door, making sure it doesn't hit the slight boy behind him as it falls back, and continues to stride inside as if he owned the place, greeting people here and there who were dressed up in evening wear. Ouma didn't expect the delinquent extraordinaire to be occupying one of these types of spaces in the least.

Momota stops in front of a door that reads as the locker room and pulls Ouma inside, who stands just inside the room stiffly as Momota digs through a box of clothes before fishing out a satisfactory set and thrusting it into Ouma's thin arms.

"Here, try this on."

Ouma opens his mouth, as if to ask why, but thinks better of it. It's not like he'll receive an answer, anyway, so he might as well just do what was asked of him and get it over with. Momota doesn't turn his back when Ouma changes, instead appraising the thin boy a little closely for comfort.

"A bit thin," Momota murmurs. "But otherwise a good figure."

Ouma turns and looks in the mirror when he's done, and as he's about to turn to ask Momota what it's all about, he feels Momota's warm breath ghosting over his neck, which is ever so slightly exposed between his purple locks and the cuff of his white dress shirt. He feels Momota's fingers grasp his tie in front of his chest and adjust it slightly in what seems to be a rather practiced motion.

"There, that's better," Momota says lowly, and backs off.

Ouma is speechless, but looks back at himself in the mirror. He's wearing what seems to be formal wear for a waiter or such, although it appears a bit gaudy for a simple waiter. The purple tie is tucked into a black vest with a golden chain hanging from its pocket. He's got on thin white gloves and tight-fitting black dress pants, and his white dress shirt's sleeves are rolled up just above the elbow in a boyish manner.

"M-Momota-kun, what is this?"

Ouma manages to ask.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Momota comments. "I have a pretty good eye for this kinda stuff," he says, not taking his eyes off of Ouma, reflected in the mirror.

"Er, but what is it for?"

Kaito scratches the back of his neck carelessly.

"Ain't it obvious? You're gonna be a host here from now on and help me out."

"Huh?!" Ouma exclaims, and whips around to look at Momota, appalled. "You want me to be a host?"

Momota bark-laughs dryly.

"Why else would I have brought you here? You don't have to do it forever, but one of my workers got in an accident and is in the hospital." Then, seeing Ouma's worried face, he hastens to assure him. "It's not related to this job in any way, it was some personal matter I can't tell you about. Anyway, it'd really help me out if you could just work here for a couple of months," he says with a serious look in his eyes.

Ouma wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Him, a host? There couldn't possibly be a more appalling and ridiculous idea out there.

But moments later, he finds himself sandwiched between two beautiful girls who eye him the way vultures eye roadkill, and he doesn't think there's much of a difference between the two, anyway.

"I've never seen you here before," one of them simpers and walks her hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder, and he has to resist the urge to shrug it away.

"I've never been here before," he says, and tries not to look too scared. Ouma's sure they can smell fear, just as dogs can, and with more devastating consequences than leaving him with a bitten leg.

The other girl squeezes ever closer to him, clearly wanting his attention.

"Are you nervous?" she giggles.

Ouma doesn't want to admit it, but the words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

"A bit," he confesses. "I-I'm sure I'll get used to it soon, though," he says and forces a bland smile to his lips.

"Oh, you are simply darling," the girl laughs, sliding a hand onto his thigh in what was supposed to be a flirtatious way but only gave Ouma the heebie-jeebies.

"Would either of you like a drink?" he says, desperate to escape their clutches that grow ever tighter.

"No, let's talk a little longer," the girl to his right whines. "Let's get to know each other!"

And that was how Ouma ended up stuck between two girls on a lavish couch for an entire night, masquerading under the title of a host. He cursed Momota in his mind, even though he knew it was really his own weakness that was to blame.

Ouma rushed inside the locker room and slammed the door behind him, looking for his clothes so he could change, only to come face-to-face with the very person who had dragged him here.

"Oh, you're done?" Momota grunts in surprise. "You're not bad for a newcomer. Keep up the good work," he says, and pushes a small white envelope into Ouma's chest, who catches it before it can drop to the ground.

"Er, what's this?" Ouma asks faintly, examining the slip of paper that seems to hold promise of something inside.

"Your first paycheck," Momota says offhandedly as he slings his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave. "What, do you not want it?"

Ouma opens the envelope to see bills of money staring back up at him, and shakes his head.

"I do, I just..." he doesn't finish his sentence. There's something that catches at his throat and won't let him continue, for whatever reason—intuition? foreboding? pure chance? But somehow, Momota catches on, anyway, a light gleaming in those dangerous orchid eyes of his.

"Oh, I see what it is. You hadn't expected me to pay you." When Ouma doesn't refute this statement, Momota shakes his head—whether in disapproval or in irritation, he can't tell. "Just like the rest," Momota mutters in a barely audible tone before exiting the locker room, slamming the door after him.

Ouma stares after Momota for a good few seconds before deciding it'd be a more productive use of his time to change back into his normal clothes. He's not sure exactly what he's done wrong or what he should've done, but he can't afford to spend more time thinking about it. He needs to get back to his normal life at school and away from the falsely glamorous host night life, even if it means suffering another round with the schoolyard bullies.

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stereksecretsanta · 6 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @haletostilinski!

A/N: a little note, here, that a friend gave me ideas that helped this along, lol;; a soft warning for a vague Hale fire mention;; I hope it’s a good gift, and I hope you have a very merry christmas!!!

Read on AO3

*****

Loneliness, Food, & Mistletoe

It starts with a dorm.

Or, more accurately, it starts with a waterfall.

Specifically, it starts with Stiles waking up to a flooded dorm, water rushing from the ceiling after having had the craziest dream about being in a snow-strewn field with his mom and a group of people he didn’t know, having a feast and drinking flower wine, as they all chatted with him, all beatific expressions and an ambiance of aching joy. His mother had hugged him, before he’d woken, whispered something he can’t remember into his ear, and then his eyes had fluttered open to a personal, theatrical, indoor waterfall.

It takes him about three minutes, blinking and smacking his lips and generally being only barely awake, before he actually realizes what’s going on to the tune of shrieking curses and scrambling to save everything he doesn’t want to lose to spectacular water damage.

His roommate, the ass, has been at his girlfriend’s place since the day before yesterday, and has enough money that his only response to the informative, sarcastic, slightly melodramatic text Stiles shoots off to him is the equivalent of a shrug and an, I’m good here, so you’re on your own with that shit-tastic fiasco. Have fun.

The dormkeeper, TA person is… daunting? Stiles has never talked to him, anyway—no matter how hot like burning the guy is, storms live in his tsunami eyes, ‘I’m going to kill you’ is written in the line of his impressive eyebrows, and intimidating might actually, in this case, be an understatement. But, nevertheless, he doesn’t really have the option of avoidance now, since it’s four in the morning, water’s still actively flowing, and Derek’s the guy.

(If there was any other guy, but, nope, Derek’s the only one.)

So, gingerly, clothes and computer and cheap-ass griddle piled haphazardly in his arms, he—tries and fails to knock at least four times, almost dropping everything in the process, cursing some more, until the door’s opening all on it’s own, a sleep-mussed, startlingly soft Derek Hale standing there, glaring at him, and narrowing his eyes hatefully at Stiles’ armful of things.

“Oh. I, uh. Have a feeling this is already off to a bad start? Um, so, okay. My room? 320? I’m Stiles, by the way, I’d shake your hand, but… uh-hm.”

One of Derek’s eyebrows steadily rises as Stiles babbles, and now he’s leaning on the door-frame, arms crossed over his chest, looking distinctly unimpressed.

Stiles gets the feeling, if he doesn’t get to the point soon, Derek’s going to slam the door in his face. In hindsight, introducing himself wasn’t necessary.

“My dorm’s flooding, is the thing.”

Derek’s eyes widen, something like a growl filling his chest as he whips around to grab something from his room. “Stay here,” he orders, his voice a little like smoked sugar-grain, higher than Stiles would’ve expected. The man prowls away intently without another word and Stiles sighs heavily, sets his stuff beside Derek’s door and settles down next to it to wait.

Derek comes back more than a little soaked around two and a half hours of bejeweled, tetris, and candy crush later. He looks harried and two shades shy of homicidal.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” he bites, and Stiles looks up from his phone to gape at him.

“I—no? Is there no way to fix it? Is it still flooding?”

“Yes,” monosyllabic monotone, but there’s something incredibly dry in his eyes and it takes Stiles a second to realize the man wouldn’t have just left it like that, then another to realize that, even if the flooding itself has been stopped, it probably hasn’t been fixed, and he really doesn’t have anywhere he could possibly go.

He tells Derek as much and the man glares at him for an endless moment, it feels little better than being an ant pinned under a microscope and infinitely more awkward. A huff, and then firm, thick-corded muscles are wrapped around his pile of stuff and lugging it into Derek’s room.

“Wai—woah, hey, hey, dude, what are you—?” Stiles calls, exasperation and incredulity warring with annoyance as he scrambles to follow after. Derek drops Stiles’ stuff on the right side of his perfectly pristine room- the side with the bean-bag and the nineties bulk-tv and the pale-blue carpet and the closet door, without the bed and the distrubingly neat study desk and the bookshelf- before regarding him with a scowl.

“Don’t make a mess,” the man says, “it’s temporary.” Then he grabs a change of clothes from the closet and leaves Stiles stranded with the implication that Stiles will probably be staying here until whatever piping problem turning his dorm into a nature documentary gets fixed.

Here with the annoyingly uncommunicative TA dormparent who is simultaneously terrifying and vaguely infuriating.

He blinks at his stuff, breathes. He’s pretty sure he’s been through worse… maybe.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

He gets desensitized fairly quickly, gone from mildly scared of the guy to downright vexed by him.

He’s obsessively clean, which is something Stiles struggles with, but is more capable of understanding—after all, up until now, this has solely been Derek’s space. Still, the half snarky, half antagonistic, half animal sounds of irritation don’t actually tell him anything- except that Derek’s upset, and there could be any number of reasons why, because, man, this dude is tightly wound as fuck- until his side of the room is being invaded and forcefully cleaned before Stiles can protest, let alone do anything about it. He has some definite anger management issues, and isn’t spectacularly good at dealing with Stiles’ particular brand of hyperfocus versus hyperactivity, and cheap, unhealthy college student habits. Stiles has some problems with how quiet he is, how he’s never tactile unless he’s aggro, and how he’s always huffy, grumpy, sour.

Needless to say, they grate on each other, and it might be a month yet before Stiles’ room gets fixed, which is just, you know, great.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Snip.

Derek tries valiantly to focus on his book.

Tnk, szznip.

A vein in his forehead is throbbing, he can feel it.

Stiles mutters unintelligible gibberish around the highlighter he’s holding between his teeth.

Clip, snip, tnk, snap.

“What. The hell. Are. You. Doing.”

Stiles spins around quickly, the chair making two dizzying rotations before he stops it, facing Derek, and yanks the marker out of his mouth. There’s a neon yellow mark right next to his lips, cuddling up to his freckles, pen and glitter coating his bone-nimble fingers. Derek doesn’t want to be endeared, really, he should be annoyed.

“Writing an essay on how to use inflections correctly, how to make them flow, y'know? So that questions sound like questions, sentences sound like entiresentences. It might be surprising how many people struggle wi—”

“Stiles,” he snaps, annoyance abruptly far brighter than fondness.

“Oh my god, can’t you just… chill, a little? I’m doing classwork—although the depths of the internet may’ve distracted me, on that one, I’ll admit—and I’m making decorations for Lydia’s christmas party, because she’s terrifying, and I’m pretty sure if I don’t she’ll gut me. Or steal my roommate—.” Stiles cuts himself off, a tiny recoiling flinch in his eyes that Derek doesn’t understand at all, but it’s there and gone so fast, it might not have been there at all. “Which would actually border on a good thing, considering, well, Jackson.

"Wait… have you ever met Jackson?”

A headache. Derek’s pretty sure he’s getting a headache.

His question answered, he contemplates just ditching for the quiet of the library, only. Well.

(This is the first time in a very long time he has shared his space with anyone, and his feelings about it are complicated, to say the least, but part of him whimpers at the idea that, if he were to leave right now, when he came back, Stiles might be gone. Another part says that he’ll come back to a mess that would be too much work to clean and babysitting is just altogether a better idea.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he worries about Stiles’ oddly mournful pause.)

In the end, he sighs heavily, and returns to his book.

“Don’t make a mess.”

Stiles starts muttering about being the cleanest person in the world, and Jackson and he would probably get along, and just wait, he dyed Jax’s hair blue in the fourth grade, he can fucking do it again if he wants to, fucking Sourwolf.

Sourwolf? Derek wonders; then, I better keep an eye on my shampoo.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Derek watches Stiles do the same thing he’s been doing every day for a month and a half.

The egg sizzles on the griddle, gets tossed on top of a bowl of instant ramen, which is downed along with two red bulls, before Stiles’ full attention is returned to his work, which is, as always, at least ten things at once, armed with a highlighter, no less than four books, his computer, two notebooks, a dozen differently colored pens, and maybe a thousand color-coded sticky-notes, half of what he’s writing is either seemingly encrypted or in a different language altogether. In a few hours, Derek knows, he’ll blithely down another redbull.

He barely fucking sleeps, and he’s paler than the moon, and, jesus christ, if he keeps going on like this he’s going to die, his body won’t be able to take it.

The next day, Derek shoves a plate of banana peanutbutter bagels with granola and yogurt on the side in his face along with a cup of caffeinated tea, and Stiles looks up at him with wide, wide eyes before smiling, those eyes crinkling, the honey in them warm and gooey as his cheeks dimple and plush, crushed-pastel lips curl something happy. It’s the brightest thing Derek thinks he’s ever seen, and everything around it gets cotton-soft, tempered with gentled sweet, and his breath catches, heart tripping over the bubble of wonder billowing out in his chest.

Stiles says, “Thank you,” on the edge of an awed breath, and Derek swallows, nods curtly, stalks away.

He tries to remind himself that Stiles can be annoying and loud, talks too much, asks too many questions, doesn’t take care of himself at all, is, quite possibly, one of the messiest people he’s ever known, and that it shouldn’t matter how nice it is to share space with someone again- because sharing space isn’t something he should be allowed, anyway- it shouldn’t matter that, when he does decide to talk, Stiles actually listens, or that he gets Derek’s dry humor, snipes back easily and mostly good-naturedly, or that he smiles like… like that.

It shouldn’t matter. This is temporary and Stiles is an asshole most of the time.

(It does matter, and Stiles isn’t the kind of asshole Derek could ever hate, anyway.)

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Stiles’ room gets fixed. And that’s fine, that’s seriously fine, it’s not like he wanted to sleep on a borrowed air-bed in the corner of someone else’s room much longer, anyway, but…

He’d just started to get used to Derek, just started to be able to maneuver around him and with him with any kind of ease, could now translate the scowls and the serial-killer eyebrows from the emotionally clumsy, socially awkward language he’d finally realized they were into mostly… unexpectedly sweet intentions. More than that, he’d begun to realize just how much of a dorky mom friend Derek secretly is, with him spending any time he wasn’t studying or cleaning- or cleaning up after Stiles- reading some really old, complex book, cooking (for them both, because every time Stiles eats a mildly unhealthy meal or foregoes food for caffeine, Derek’s eyebrows twitch like he literally cannothandle watching Stiles’ unintentionally self-destructive habits without overloading on discomfited concern), and drawing these steampunk looking ink sketches of buildings and construction.

It had taken less coaxing than Stiles had thought it might to get Derek to admit that he wanted to be an architect, and that a lot of those books he was reading were either historical diaries, euro-romantic literature, or spanish or french poetry, with occasional visits from obscure fantasy and science fiction. He has a weathered set of books by Tolkien, and the whole of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, dozens of ragged, rugged, heavily used art journals, along with a complete collection of star trek and star trek: the next generation and old school doctor who cds on his bookshelf. He’s sassy in an almost inspiringly dry way, quick witted, funny, and, just, genuinely good.

Yeah, his social skills leave a lot to be desired, and he can still be annoying as all hell sometimes, but. An almost permanent glare doesn’t stop him from dropping everything and helping anyone who needs anything the moment they ask, doesn’t stop him from kindness and chivalry, for all that it’s masked by his gruff, almost wolfish demeanour.

And yesterday, for the first time, he saw Derek laugh. It was an odd kind of thing, because he’d woken up grumpier than Stiles had ever seen him, and it had felt like the first day all over again, like five thousand steps back, a doom-gloom quiet descended and everything Stiles did seemed to grate, everything anyonedid seemed to, and after all the discoveries he’d made about Derek’s character, it had felt like such a loss.

So he’d taken the lashing out in stride and done whatever he could to cheer Derek up.

The tension broke when, after corralling Derek into a daredevil marathon- because he had a feeling that Derek might… relate, a little- he began rambling about parkour and cinematography and “sinful red leather, oh my god.” He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, exactly, that made it happen, he’d just turned his brain-to-mouth filter off and let the words come, but the next thing he’d known, Derek was curved toward him and in, knuckles to his mouth like if he just pressed down on it enough it wouldn’t come. His eyes had gone so vivid, vast forests, willow trees tangoing, dipped back into the lakes their roots curled so close to, sunshine scattered across a dusk-smoke sky as a smile spread helplessly, as a sound a little like joy bubbled up and overflowed, and the thing that shocked him most was that he’d been rooming with this person for three months, and this was the first time he’d ever seen anything like it.

Mist still lingered in that small, frangible piece of joy.

Something devastating taints most things Derek does, Stiles thinks, and begins to hate all the more that he suddenly needs to leave this temporary haven, because he wants to know why.

He wants to see Derek smile more, wants him to laugh so much this whole room is saturated with it. Wants to be the reason for the sound, the expression, wants more.

Derek turns from his drawing when Stiles clears his throat, square black framed glasses perched on his nose, charcoal smudge on his cheek, and Stiles bites back a burst of something utterly fond.

“I’m gonna head out.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch a little, his mouth tilting firmly down when he eyes Stiles’ stuff packed, a little less haphazardly than last time. Unhappy, Stiles can read easily, but the rest is inscrutable.

The man nods and Stiles huffs. The less comfortable Derek is, the less communicative he is, and Stiles gets it, but he’s unwilling to leave on this note, so he digs his phone out of his pocket, flicks it to contacts, adds a new one, names it Sourwolf, and hands the thing over. Derek peers down at it, glares at him.

“We’re friends now,” Stiles informs him, “insufferable nicknames are a necessary evil.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise, a little sarcastic quirk to his mouth.

“Yes, friends. Dude, give me your number of your own free will, or I’ll get it on my own using my awesome investigatory powers and I’ll spam you pictures of dirty dishes and piles of laundry and unorganized bookshelves. You know me, you know that I can, and I will.”

Derek scoffs a half disbelieving sound and rolls his shoulders meaningfully.

“You wouldn’t block me,” Stiles smirks, “we’re besties, big guy.”

Derek glares at the slight mess Stiles has left on his desk, gives Stiles a blank look with black at its’ edges, raises an eyebrow.

“Face it. I’m a slob and you love me anyway.”

Stiles moves to tidy up a bit, anyway, and when he returns to Derek, the man’s holding out his phone, Sourwolf’s contact page completely filled in.

“Text if you. Need… food,” Derek orders, voice saturated in a grudging growl, and Stiles knows he’s grinning like a fucking loon- he doesn’t even care- as he leans in, smacks a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek.

“Definitely,” he agrees, delightedly, before spinning toward his stuff, heaving it up, and swanning off.

(He doesn’t turn back or stay long enough to see the deep, candied-cherry flush that fills Derek’s cheeks, coats the tips of his ears. Doesn’t hear him exhale, sharp and heavy.

Doesn’t hear him breathe out a soft, strained, “Fuck.”)

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Stiles sighs when he sees the sock on the door, for a whole, huge, sack of incredulous reasons.

The first being that it’s three a-fucking-m, and Jackson knew he’d be getting back around now. The second has to be how absolutely cliche it is, nevermind the actual state of the sock—maybe Derek’s rubbing off on him, because all he can think of is that fucking germ song Derek texted him a few days ago, and how he’s going to have to disinfect that doorknob if he ever wants to feel safe using it again because eughh.

So he’s stuck, slumped outside in the hall, with absolutely nothing to do.

He barely even hesitates to snake his phone out of is jacket pocket and start texting Derek. Yeah, it’s ass'o'clock in the morning, but Derek turns his phone off when he goes to sleep, because he’s lame, so Stiles is pretty assured in just complaining to a non-existent audience, figuring Der might get a kick out of it later.

He tries not to look too deeply into the fact that Derek’s the first one he wants to complain to, the person he’s been talking to the most lately, refuses to analyze how overjoyed he’s been to discover that, as long as you give him the time to, Derek’s communication issues don’t hinder him as much over text.

Derek’s sometimes so dry it takes Stiles a whole fifteen minutes to realize he wasn’t actually being serious, on tuesdays he only responds in iambic pentameter, and he uses shakespearean insults on occasion because he’s nothing less than a sarcastic little shit; he’s still monosyllabic, every once in awhile, and his punctuation is as terrible as it is in real life, but it’s like the distance, the phone between them, makes Derek feel more confident, makes it easier for him to be… himself.

The week before last, they got into a conversation about past relationships, that led to a discussion about fire and the confession that Derek had only ever had three relationships, one that ended because he’d made a childish mistake his high school lover couldn’t forgive, another that ended in flames, a trial, and a prison sentence for a woman Stiles would… probably kill without a second thought, if he’s being honest, and a third that was too self-destructive for both of them to have ever been healthy or sustainable.

Soon after, Stiles had opened up to him about his mom’s disease and his dad’s drinking and his bills—he hadn’t really had the time to date much, his romantic entanglements tend to be of the more one-night-stand, friends-with-benefits variety, and even when he’s wanted more, no one else has seemed to.

Every day since Stiles moved out, even after he’s annoyed the hell out of Derek to the point of radio silence, the man comes to him with a tupperware full of healthy, incredible food, and a cup of tea, his scowl fermenting on his face, the storm of it worsening when Stiles inevitably giggles (how can he not?) as he takes the gift. There are days, too, when they’ve ribbed each other, chatted extensively about conlangs and architecture and psychoanalyzed star trek characters in between memes and jokes and Stiles’ ever fickle focus, and Derek will come bearing his small feasts with this soft, tender, breathtaking expression, a smile curling in his eyes that never touches his lips, and hot cocoa or coffee with whipped cream and cinnamon and marshmallows and extra chocolate instead of tea.

(“I’m going to get fat if you keep bringing me this-” a bite, then, choking back a moan- “glorious, sacred—oh my holy god.”

A hand, large and warm, calloused and covered in ink-stains, in charcoal and lead, had smoothed tenderly through his hair, gentle enough to make him almost thoughtlessly lean into it, to make him want to shiver.

“It’s better,” he’d said, then left before Stiles could ask what he meant.)

He doesn’t know what to do about how much part of him, lonely and withering, the same part that would view Lydia taking Jackson away as some form of punishment, because then he’d be alone, craves every little interaction, and then some.

Mostly, he ignores it, as he starts to type out how much of an asshole Jackson can be, and couldn’t he have gotten his nookie a little earlier? which all devolves into an anecdote about that time he painstakingly filled Jax’s locker with water for being an asshole and all his stuff got soaked but he kept the freaking fish.

He’s surprised when he gets a text back calling Jackson a goodly rotten apple, and then asking if Stiles realizes what time it is.

〖did i wake you? don’t you turn your phone off when you pass out so it can charge or some shit?〗

〖There could be an emergency.〗Derek texts back, succinctly, 〖And I don’t want you to starve.〗

〖… you keep your phone on at night, now, because i could have an emergency craving?〗

Stiles bites his lip, hard, warmth bursting in his chest, champagne-fizz rushing through his veins. His heartbeat’s skipping along to an odd tune of half embarrassed hope, and he’d known he was probably crushing on this man, but, god, he’s so fucking gone for him it’s ridiculous. For one, completely insane moment, a giddy part of him wants to send a bunch of kissy, heart-eyes, I might be falling head over heels for you emojis.

But, no. No way. Too awkward, silly, and he’s still not… sure. About how he feels.

Derek texts,〖Yes,〗 and it takes longer than it should to remember how to breathe.

〖you’re being sarcastic right now, aren’t you? you’re such a fucking tease, i was totally craving one of your crazy sandwich concoctions〗

〖Stiles.〗

A minute or so passes.

〖You woke me up.〗

〖yes. i gathered. the hazards of being my friend, oh, such a horrible atrocity, how much sleep have you lost, woeful der-ber? how much? shall i just call in the queen to chop off my head right this very minute?〗

〖Stop being an asshole or I’m going back to sleep.〗

〖you wouldn’t leave me in the lurch like that, would you?〗 He stops being an ass, anyway, though, just in case, only feels a fraction of guilt as he steers the conversation toward Lydia’s fast-approaching christmas party, one which they’re both attending, because Lydia’s a force of nature, and she somehow met, cajoled, and garnered a befuddled promise out of Derek at some point after the whole dorm-waterfall incident. Derek’s still mildly lucky, at least he didn’t get roped into decorating duty.

For all Stiles knows, if Lydia had known Derek’s architectural ability, she would’ve demanded he construct her an entire building for the affair.

Time ticks by, and Stiles is enjoying himself enough that he doesn’t notice until his phone starts complaining at him how low his charge is. The only problem? his charger is in the room.

He has no fucking clue how long Jackson’s going to be keeping their room… occupied, and he’s far too invested in this silly little conversation he’s having, anyway. (How could he not be? He can practically see Derek smiling through the phone.) So, vaguely hopeful, he tries knocking on a few other doors, begging after anyone who might be willing to lend him their charger. The only one who isn’t so pissed off about him waking them up or interrupting their study time as to simply slam the door in his face, doesn’t have a compatible charger, and…

You know what? fuck it. He needs to talk to Derek, this idiot who cares enough about Stiles to wake up at three in the morning and endure Stiles’ spazztic assholery, who, if Stiles actually asked him for food seriously right now, would probably make him something and come without a second’s hesitation, whatever black look he may’ve worn the entire time, who said 'emergency’ like part of him expected having a friend meant the maw of disaster was ten seconds away from chomping at the bit, the dork who… yeah, he must be totally fucking in love with.

He sincerely doubts he would have opened his door, army crawled through a room hosting a veritable pornographic lovemaking scene on the bed, snatched his charger out of the outlet, and rolled the fuck out of there for anyone else. Not even candy crush and boredom are that important.

But Derek is.

A silly conversation about crows being one of the most mischievous animals on the planet and seagulls being generally shitty is.

Fuck.

What the hell is he going to do now?

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Christmas eve brings the ice queen Lydia and her spectacular winter gala that… pretty much the whole college has been invited to and is attending.

But Stiles doesn’t let himself get distracted by the two guys covered in glitter, dancing and making out on a table to the cheers of a bunch of drunken peers, or the various decorations put up, scattered around, that he had a hand in, or the numerous people trying to get is attention or get in his way. He’s on a fuckingmission.

He’s on a hyper-focused and overthinking for two weeks about how to approach the Big Emotional Elephant In The Room, before giving it up as a lost cause and going for the first stupid thing he could think of, mission.

Which is why, when his eyes catch Derek’s across the room, he rushes for him, which is just as well, since the man seems greatly relieved to have an excuse to run away from the group of people cornering him, trying to elicit conversation.Derek still makes a noise of surprise, though, when Stiles’ saving him comes in the form of grabbing Derek’s arm and impatiently dragging him away, calling a brusque, “I need him more!” over his shoulder at the gawking partiers.

“I—Stiles?” Derek murmurs, mildly wary, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Stiles’ ear.

Valiantly, he doesn’t let himself shiver, instead, he jerks to a halt, hand still wrapped tightly, terrified and hopeful at once, around Derek’s wrist. His breath is short, heart beating too fast, and he’s scared.

What if this doesn’t work? What if it’s… not meant to be? What if he loses Derek to these useless, silly feelings?

“Stiles?” Derek urges, softer, more worried, and he pulls his wrist away, replaces it with his hand, wide and warm and so, so gentle.

Stiles swallows, forces himself to take a breath, to turn enough to look Derek in the eye as he squeezes his hand, indescribably grateful for the contact. Vast seas reflecting vaster galaxies stare back at him, solicitous, fond, questioning, and there’s this little confused smile twitching at his lips.

A smile Stiles thinks was knitted and weaved together just for him by a man who doesn’t like to smile at all, has too many reasons not to, besides.

God, it’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Stiles breathes, and those impossible eyes widen, too-lovely lips part. “And, goddamnit, I really want you to come to this doorway with me where there’s mistletoe so I have an excuse to kiss you?” The words trip over his tongue, come out all in a rush, flutter and skip like his heart, a terrified, hopeful sort of babble, his eyes scrunched up because he has no idea what Derek’s reaction will be, and he doesn’t dare look.

The fingers laced with his curl in further, a staying kind of thing, as Derek responds, a little husky, wanting, soaked in every type of sugar imaginable, “Or you could just kiss me here?”

Stiles’ eyes snap open, and Derek’s grinning, all impish rogue, glittering amusement. “No,” Stiles blurts, logic pretty much knocked clear out of him, “no, I have this all planned out; the mistletoe’s important.”

Derek leans in, eyes hooded, heated, brazen, his free hand sliding up Stiles’ cheek, tender but no less shocking for it, their lips nearly ghosting when Derek whispers, all alluring, seductive-smoke, “How important?”

Stiles feels a bubble of hysteria climb up his throat as he tugs a sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket to hold above their heads. “Important enough that I have contingencies,” he tells him, and Derek blinks a little, laughs almost suddenly, warmer than any fireplace, sweeter than any confection, and the best gift Stiles could’ve ever fucking asked for.

This may, in fact, be one of the best christmases he’s ever had.

It only gets better when they bridge the gap, a caress that turns filthy on the edge of a gasp as Derek pulls Stiles flush to him, both of them greedy for the taste of each other, biting and humming and mewling softly. Stiles’ arms end up around Derek’s neck and Derek’s clingingly around his back, their kiss ending breathlessly, both of them melting further into their embrace, drinking each other in, nuzzling, and just. Holding on.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Derek presses the words into Stiles’ pulse-point, barely heard over the chaos of festivities and overly loud, remixed christmas music, “I love you, too.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh, and holds all the tighter.

“I think I lost that mistletoe.”

“Mmm. Merry christmas, baby.”

Stiles can’t suppress the shiver this time.

“Merry christmas, Der.”

#haletostilinski #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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