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ladybirdswritings · 9 months ago

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SWEET THING, DBF — joel miller x reader.

DESCRIPTION: your life is a storm—an overbearing father, a shitty boyfriend, and the ache of growing up. everything becomes more tangled when you find yourself drawn to your father’s best friend, joel. NOTES - no apocalypse! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

A03 | masterlist

sweet thing…

Your father did the best he could. You knew that very well. Charlie was a man respected and adored by his humble community. A hard working father turned single parent when your mom fell ill and god— you were his little flower. His sweet thing. His angel.

Flowers are fragile, though. Gentle, moldable petals and stiff, snappable stems.

It is why he kept you so close to him, so prized like painted porcelain just ready to crack.

It is why you were here. Here at Jackson’s golden hued dance with more powdered, jam-filled pastries and red, roasted meats then you could count on one hand. Here. Instead of the alternative option which was the party your boyfriend decided to attend without you.

You got the invite, sure, yet even as a legal adult— what daddy says? Goes. So long as you remain under his roof, at least. It was infuriating, though. The freedom of all your dear friends, the spontaneity. If only that could be you…

Your eyes drifted to the moustached sponge of all fun and joy in the world, wrapped in a flannel with bourbon in hand. Your dad was seated next to Joel, as he often was. His presence was a newfound thing for these recent years and though Joel would never say it, you had an inkling that he wanted to stand by his friend’s side after your mother… well.

You didn’t know Joel well. No, not at all. His visits were always the occasional dinner or drop in for fishing or some awfully manly thing. You knew well that your mother adored him, though— so that was enough to make him alright in your book.

Neighbor Betsy told you once that Joel had lost his wife and daughter too, and that maybe he was trying to keep your father from going through what he went through alone.

You only laughed at that.

Joel Miller was gruff and cold. Could he have such a warm heart beneath his sherpa coat?

You dazed out, the fingers snapping in front of your eyes made you blink back into the golden hues and roasted sausages on pointy little sticks.

“You alright, honeybee?” Your father asked, laying a heavy arm upon your shoulders. Joel was slower in his approach, eyeing you up and down with confusion and something else in his eyes.

“Peachy.” You only muttered, taking a sip of your freshly squeezed lemonade. Jackson’s finest.

“Oh come on now angel… now you know I can’t have you runnin’ off with that boyfriend of yours. I always told you he was trouble. Member’ when he ditched you down by Church Road during mosquito season? Well you were ripe as a red tomater and who had to pick you up?”

You were riper, redder now. Your cheeks an embarrassed hue not even on the color wheel, not even identifiable. You bowed your head, huffing out your frustrations before simply muttering: “you did, dad.”

He nodded proud, squeezing your shoulder. “That’s right, I did… what?”

Your eyes drifted up to see your father’s oldest friend with an odd kind of expression on his face. Brows pinched and raised, wrinkles plaguing his forehead deeper now.

Joel only cleared his throat, shifting on his boots and taking a sip of his bourbon in preparation. Then? He spoke.

“You ain’t lettin’ her be.” He gruffly offered, eyes set and sure. Your father only stilled for a moment, wondering if it was even Joel’s place to have an opinion… maybe it was.

“Why’s that?” He asked Joel, and the rough looking man only took another swig.

“Mm. We were both young once. We both made mistakes, y’gotta let her make her own— can’t hide her from em’. Just ain’t how it works.”

Poppies blossomed like springtime had finally begun in your eyes. Finally— someone understood. You didn’t expect him to be so… wise?

Your father only huffed, taking a long glance your way as he mused.

“Even if I wanted to loosen the leash tonight, Joel, I can’t. Maria needs me here to keep an eye on crazy old Arthur.”

Joel’s brows relaxed at that, a purpled hand running along the zipper of his flannel coat. His eyes were a chocolate kind of brown, dark and quietly encasing his thoughts within them.

He hummed, gaze drifting back to you.

You wanted to shrink. Perhaps it was because you were on the spot, perhaps it was because the way he stared would make anyone feel small.

It seemed like centuries before he cleared his throat again.

“I’ll take her.”

What?

You didn’t understand it, not one bit. Why was he kind enough to offer you an out here? Kind enough to test your father’s words.

Discomfort radiated through your father’s coat, tension molding its way into his already stiff bones. A long sigh, a glance back and forth as he truly considered. His expression was far too plagued with worry, and you knew well that it was now or never.

You had to slam down the last nail in the oak wood coffin.

“Please, daddy? I’ll check in every half hour, I promise.”

Tension eased, slightly but— still. Your eyes were doe-like and sweet, and he gazed into them for a moment far too long before allowing his arm to drop.

“Every fifteen minutes and you’ve got a deal. Miller, you make sure my daughter gets in and out of that bastard’s house safely.”

Joel only nodded once, jaw tense and expression stoic. Your grin was wider than a field of flowers, and you immediately wrapped your father in a hug. Your thank yous seemed endless, and it made him laugh.

When you parted, Joel had keys grasped in his rough hands. You realized for a moment that you had no idea why he was doing this. What did he owe you? Maybe it was pity. You were half an orphan, after all.

With a cautious glance, your eyes met his own. He nodded once as if to urge you closer, and you stumbled his way. Before you knew it? You were out the door, trailing behind him like his shadow.

Of all the people who cared enough to convince your father to let you go to this party tonight? Joel Miller was the last person you expected it to be…

¿to be continued?

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hivemuthur · 6 days ago

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i haven’t seen this before but a viktor x doctor!reader where his pains are extra bad one day but he’s come to a standstill to his discoveries so he’s extra irritated already. and so reader tries to help him and he just snaps. can be full on angst or angst w/ happy ending if you please. idk much about the topic of chronic pains so hopefully this request wasn’t ignorant, tweak it if you want! love ur writings!!

Hi Anon! Here's your fic!

It Never Entered My Mind

viktorxgn!doctor!reader general audiences, angst with a vague resolution

author’s note: Okay, so this wasn't easy to write because I'm on the both sides of this coin, as a person with chronic pains and someone with medical degree. So, when I'm in pain I want people to pat me on the back and make me a cup of tea, and when someone announces they are in pain I'm this annoying dude that asks WELL DID YOU DRINK WATER TODAY? :O Title from Miles Davis, cheers!

word count: 1,3K

—

The first thing you hear is the door slamming shut and then a long groan as Viktor kicks off his shoes and drops his keys in a bowl. His movements are careful, deliberate—like with each one, he calculates how to hide the fact that something is wrong. But you see it anyway. The stiffness in his shoulders, the slight hitch in his step. The way he lingers just a little too long by the door, gripping the frame before finally stepping out of the hallway.

“Hey,” you greet him, eyeing his posture from under your glasses. “You’re late.”

“Hm,” is all he offers in response before strolling toward the kitchen. No teasing remark. No tired but affectionate jab about you keeping track of his schedule. Just that vague, dismissive sound as he moves past you, his cane tapping against the floor in uneven intervals.

Undoubtedly, it’s going to be another one of those afternoons where he sighs and talks mostly to himself while telling you not to worry about it. So you brace yourself and follow him.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry,” he mumbles while searching through the tea cabinet. You frown. His coat is wrinkled, his hair more dishevelled than usual. And up close, you notice the tension in his face—the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into his palm even as he reaches for a cup.

Pain. It’s always there in some form, but tonight it clings to him heavier than usual.

You step forward, your hand already reaching out for his shoulder. “Viktor—”

“I am fine.”

The words come too quickly. A pre-emptive strike. Which only confirms that he isn’t and makes your frown deepen. You exhale and go for the obvious first.

“Do you want something for the pain?”

“No.”

He doesn’t even look at you. You can see his defences rising and feel yourself becoming annoyed with his martyrdom.

“Viktor.”

“I said no.”

He sets the cup down harder than necessary and sighs, defeated, as if you have just betrayed him somehow. As if it’s not the physical pain that he is looking to ease.

You cross your arms, studying him for a moment before shifting tactics. “Alright. Then tell me what happened.”

“It was just—” He waves a hand, as if dismissing an invisible nuisance. “Nothing of importance.”

“That’s not an answer,” you press, and all air leaves you. Why do you press in the first place? If he wants to sulk alone, you should let him.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. His patience is thinning, but so is yours.

“Viktor,” you try again, willing yourself to be softer this time. “Just talk to me.”

He hesitates, then finally, “I am stuck.”

You blink but say nothing, making space for him to speak. Your features soften at the sight of him cracking—just a bit.

“With Hextech. With my research.” His fingers tap against the counter, restless, agitated. “It is like hitting a wall, again and again. Every theory, every equation—I run in circles, and it is infuriating.” His voice edges with frustration, exhaustion—something raw beneath it all. “And on top of that, my leg—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing into a thin line.

When he doesn’t continue, you take a step forward and place your hand on his shoulder. “You need to take better care of yourself, Viktor.”

His jaw immediately tenses. “Not this again.”

“You don’t take breaks, you barely eat when you get like this, and it only makes everything worse—”

“Enough,” he growls, shaking your hand off.

But you don’t stop—meaning well but making it worse. “You push yourself too hard. You know stress makes the pain worse. If you just listened to me—”

“I am not your patient,” he hisses through his teeth. It isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to cut through your little lecture.

You stare at him, startled, words stuck in your throat. Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, gripping the edge of the counter as he fights for composure. When he speaks again, his voice is lower but no kinder—disappointed, for that matter.

“I do not need a lecture. I do not need to be told how to manage my own body, my own limits. I live in them every day.” His knuckles whiten before he delivers the final blow. “I need my partner. Not my doctor.”

And that does it. Because he is right. You’ve slipped into doctor mode without even thinking. Instead of just listening, instead of just being there, you’ve tried to fix it—fix him—like he was just another case to manage. Or an inconvenience.

And the worst part? You can see it in his face, in the way his shoulders have drawn inward like a man bracing for impact—this isn’t the first time.

You swallow hard, and with the lump in your throat go all the possible words you could say to him. I am sorry sounds like not enough. That wasn’t my intention sounds accusatory. I just want you to feel better feels too dismissive.

“I’m sorry.” You pick the lesser evil and reach for him again. “I’m here for you. Tell me what you need.” You say it quietly, moving closer, and it hurts you disproportionately that he keeps moving away.

“Viktor.” You plead, taking advantage of his slower coordination and sliding your hands around his waist. He raises his arms as if he’s trying to shake you off, but you persist.

“I do not need to be scolded like a child, that’s for sure,” he mumbles grumpily but lowers his arms. Still not ideal, as now you are wrapped around his waist while he stands stiffly, arms hanging limply by his sides. But he does finally look at you. “I just need you to listen, that’s all. To tell me it’s going to be all right.” Just tell me that you love me despite all of this.

You never meant to make him feel like that—like a problem to solve rather than the man you love. But how else are you supposed to react? When he is in pain, when he is hurting, barely keeping himself upright?

You exhale into his chest, trying to find your footing, trying to push back the instinct to argue—to tell him you know what’s best for him. Because that’s not what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I wasn’t trying to—” You shake your head. “I just don’t want to see you suffer when I know there are things that can help.”

Viktor rubs a hand over his face, still avoiding your touch as much as possible. “And I appreciate that. But you have to understand—I have lived with this pain for years. There is no solution. No cure. No treatment that will make it all go away.” His gaze lowers to meet yours. “Sometimes, I just need comfort.”

Something in your chest aches at the admission. “I’m sorry for not seeing you,” you whisper, placing your hand on his cheek. You see something shift in his expression. “No more lectures. I promise.”

Viktor huffs out something like a laugh, tired and wry. “That is a first.” But his hands do finally move, settling on your hips, making you sigh in relief.

You press your ear to his chest and close your eyes. His heart beats unevenly.

“Can I at least take care of you?” you plead quietly, your palms flattening against his back.

His eyes close for a beat when he sighs. And then he hums softly.

“Yes,” he admits. “You can do that.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x f!reader #arcane #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #viktor x gn!reader #viktor fluff #viktor x reader fluff #viktor angst #viktor x reader angst #requests

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revelboo · 22 days ago

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"...can u give it back?" GIRL THIS ISNT A GAME OF CATCH what is HAPPENING

READER GET UR SHIT TOGETHER WE GOTTA LOCK IN

Reader have some self respect challenge level failed hheheheaaaaa

You guys crack me up, but accurate I feel like

I should retroactively go back and add the 18+ warning to the first chapter of everything. I keep seeing new folks stumbling on the start of a fic out in the wilds of Tumblr and just slowly liking chapter by chapter. And I can’t help but watch in horrified fascination, because I know they’re going to run into smut eventually

Everything Is Alright Pt 116

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• "And there's the sire," Megatron growls as your shoulder creep up to your ears hearing the thud of peds running in the hall. And you really just want to hide inside Soundwave's cassette compartment and not deal with any of this, because this isn't your fault but you're sure the fallout is still going to be your problem to deal with. Why are aliens so weird? Can't make yourself look at Megatron or Soundwave. And then there's Starscream bursting through the door, denta bared and looking half mad until his optics find you. You catch a glimpse of the absolutely feral look on Megatron's face as Star rushes for you, hands out in demand that Soundwave hand you over. You really liked it better when Megatron looked shellshocked, just staring at nothing. Because right now? You imagine that's how a serial killer would look as he holds a still beating heart. "Starscream," Megatron says and the fine hair at your nape lifts as you try to decide whether you want to be in Star's hands for this or not.

• "Are you okay, little one?" Watching you cringe down into Soundwave's hands and refuse to look at him, he glares at Megatron. Suspecting the warlord's been trying to turn you against him again, but he can't not reach for you. Servo's feathering over you as you turn an almost pleading look toward Megatron. "What happened?" What had Megatron done to you? Wants to ask if it was the spark, but not with the warlord right there. Grinning at him. Wings lifting slightly when that expression really registers. Because he's seen it before, when he'd first been introduced to Megatron. Splattered in someone else's energon and grinning just like that. And he notices the resigned set of Soundwave's shoulders. Knows that Megatron knows about the spark and he grits his denta.

• "Neither of you thought to tell me that our little pet was sparked?" Megatron asks, voice low and reasonable. And dangerous. Soundwave cups his hands around you, head lifting as he and Starscream both turn to face the warlord, his spark constricting at that 'was.' Fear thrumming through him as the Seeker's wings drop sharply and you still won't look at them. Had you lost the spark after all? He's aware of Megatron lifting the arm with the cannon attached to point a servo at you in his hands, but he can't tear his optics from you. Because you look upset, but not that upset. You look like you think you're in trouble somehow.

• "Was." Starscream repeats and his raspy voice has a dangerous edge you recognize. That's the tone he uses right before he does something stupid. "What did you do?" He's staring at Megatron, denta bared. Wincing as his turbines begin humming, you grab at his servos when he starts to pull away and he looks down at you, those red optics cold with fury. And your breath catches, wanting to let go instead of making yourself hang on to him. Hate when he looks at you like that and just knowing Megatron is going to make things worse on purpose. It’s like neither of them can help it when they’re anywhere near each other.

• "I tried to save our pet," Megatron growls, servo shifting to point at Starscream. "After you severed Soundwave's bond. And our dear little pet repaid me by gifting me your spark." And as infuriating as all of this is, the look of abject horror on Starscream's face almost makes up for it. He's aware of Soundwave just looking down at you in disbelief when you hide your face in your hands. "I suppose it's mine, now. Good to know how fully you trust me, pet. Enough to fully bond to me."

• Tearing his optics from Megatron to stare at you only to find you hiding your face still lets him know Megatron's telling the truth. That Megatron has somehow stolen this from him and you. Stolen his future. Pulling air sharply through his vents as his head lifts to that stupid, smug grin, Starscream lunges for Megatron with a snarl aware of you yelling at him to stop.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #soundwave x reader #megatron x reader #starscream #soundwave #megatron

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smystermy · 15 days ago

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𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧

tags: geto suguru x you; gojo satoru x you; set before the star plasma vessel incident; senpai x kouhai; Pining with a capital P; Jealousy with a capital J; you've been childhood friends with satoru, but honestly, some days—read: all days—you wish you weren’t.

warnings: Love Triangle. my sincerest apologies to all the satoru lovers out there (trust me, i’m one of you, too).

word count: 2120.

oneshot, loosely related to 'peel your heart like a pomegranate'.

The mission drags on for what feels like an eternity, your muscles aching and your patience stretched thin. The cursed spirit isn’t particularly strong, but it’s maddeningly elusive, slipping through shadowed alleyways as though it knows you’re running on fumes. Each clash feels like trying to catch smoke, and by the time you finally exorcise it, exhaustion clings to you, heavy and unrelenting.

With your fellow sorcerers in tow, you trudge through the quiet streets, guided by the neon glow of a fast-food joint ahead, a beacon of greasy salvation cutting through the haze of your fatigue.

Inside, harsh fluorescent lights flood the space, washing over sticky tabletops and cracked plastic chairs. The smell of fried food hangs thick in the air, making your stomach twist painfully with hunger. Relief feels just within reach—

Until Satoru opens his mouth.

“You’re seriously just getting fries and nuggets?” he asks, leaning too close with a grin that’s both infuriating and all too familiar. His voice carries that same teasing lilt, like he’s just waiting for you to react. The lights above catch in his white hair, making it shine in a way that only amplifies his unbearable smugness.

Your grip on your wallet tightens.

“At least I’m not ordering half the menu,” you shoot back, not bothering to hide the bite in your tone. “Do you even have the stomach for all that, or is this just another excuse to show off?”

“Who says it’s all for me?” he counters with exaggerated thoughtfulness, tilting his head like he’s genuinely considering the question. Then he leans in even closer, his grin widening into something sharper, more pointed. “Not that I’d share with you, though.”

Irritation flares up inside you, tightening your jaw. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, turning back to the counter and wishing you could block him out entirely.

But his voice, his presence, the way he constantly hovers—it’s inescapable. It’s like he’s made it his personal mission to press every button you have, to keep poking at you until he gets some kind of rise.

And you’re sick of it.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

You’ve known Satoru for years, practically grown up alongside him. He’s supposed to be your friend—your obnoxious, overconfident, larger-than-life friend. That’s all you want him to be. But lately, it feels like he’s forgotten that, like he’s decided he wants something else entirely. His relentless teasing—what you know is just over-the-top flirting—it’s been chipping away at your nerves for months, leaving you irritated and, more than anything, upset.

You don’t want this from him. You don’t want to be treated like some kind of game, like his favorite source of entertainment.

You just want things to go back to the way they were, back when he saw you as his equal, his teammate, his friend. But instead, he keeps pushing, keeps treating every interaction like a chance to pull your focus toward him. And it’s exhausting.

Because no matter how many times you glare, brush him off, or tell him to knock it off, he just doesn’t stop.

“Come on,” Satoru says, bumping your shoulder lightly, his grin as casual as ever. The kind that screams trouble, the kind that never fails to set your teeth on edge. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t around to annoy you.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

The sharpness of your voice surprises you, but the exhaustion weighing on you makes everything feel ten times more irritating. On any other day, his teasing would roll off your back, but tonight, it feels heavier, more deliberate, like a needle pressed too close to a frayed thread. You glance at him, hoping your tone will drive the point home—hoping he’ll get the hint and just drop it.

But, predictably, he doesn’t.

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest with dramatic flair, like you’ve mortally wounded him. “So cold, and after all we’ve been through together.”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you turn your attention to the brightly lit menu overhead, the colorful pictures of burgers and fries blurring together in your peripheral vision. The last thing you want is to encourage him, even accidentally.

But as your eyes wander, something else pulls your focus.

Someone, to be precise—Geto.

Across the room, he is sitting at the table the three of you had claimed earlier. His posture is as relaxed as ever—shoulders loose, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, exuding a kind of effortless composure that seems almost unfair after the night you’ve had. The warm, dim light of the restaurant softens the sharp lines of his face, highlighting the quiet elegance of his features. His dark hair is tied neatly, though a few loose strands frame his face, giving him a look that’s both casual and deliberate—

But he’s not alone.

Two girls stand near him, their voices cutting through the restaurant’s ambient hum.

One leans in slightly, her body language open and inviting, lips curved in a smile so practiced it almost feels rehearsed. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, her movements deliberate, each one calculated to keep his attention. The other girl, clutching her bag with both hands, rocks on her heels, her face bright as she giggles at something Geto says. Both of them are entirely focused on him, their expressions alight with fascination, as if he’s the center of their world.

And Geto—he’s smiling.

It’s not the small, polite smile he reserves for strangers or fleeting interactions. It’s something warmer, something that softens the sharpness of his features and crinkles the corners of his eyes. His voice is low, steady, but whatever he says draws laughter from the girls, their bubbly amusement spilling into the air like a clamor you can’t tune out.

Something bitter and hot twists in your chest, spreading too quickly to ignore.

It’s sharp, unwelcome, coiling tight in your throat and settling like a weight in your stomach. You can’t name it, not entirely, but it grips you all the same, clawing at your composure.

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Satoru’s voice cuts through the haze, loud and insistent.

You don’t turn to him. You barely register him.

Your focus is locked on the scene across the room, on Geto and the strange tension building in your chest as you watch him charm the girls with that easy, disarming smile.

Geto speaks again, his voice just loud enough to carry, though the words are too muffled to make out. Whatever he says next, however, transforms the atmosphere—turning it quieter, more subdued.

The girls exchange a glance, some unspoken conversation passing between them. Their smiles falter, just barely, and with a final wave of reluctance, they turn and walk away. Their voices fade into the background noise of the restaurant, leaving only the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of dishes.

But that strange weight in your chest doesn’t fade.

It eases, but only slightly.

The scene from moments ago lingers in your mind, a faint echo you can’t quite shake. What did he say to make them leave? And why does their departure feel like a rush of relief, cool and soothing, even though you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath?

“Are you zoning out?” Satoru’s voice snaps you back to the present. His hand waves obnoxiously close to your face, fingers wiggling like he’s trying to hypnotize you. You swat it away with more force than necessary, earning a chuckle that only grates on your nerves further.

“Stop being so annoying,” you mutter under your breath, the words coming out more like a grumble.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the food is ready. The sound of trays sliding onto the counter is a small mercy, breaking the tension that’s been buzzing under your skin. Geto’s tray is the first to appear, and without thinking, your hand darts out to grab it.

“I’ll take this to him,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. You don’t wait for Satoru’s inevitable commentary, though you can feel his frown boring into your back as you step away.

Geto’s presence is grounding in a way that surprises you. He looks up as you draw near, his gaze meeting yours with a small, cordial smile. The shift in his expression is barely perceptible, but you recognize it immediately—like always, it feels like it’s meant just for you.

"Thanks," he says, his voice threaded with the kind of gentleness you’ve come to know so well.

You place the tray in front of him, but your hands hover for a moment, your thoughts already racing. And the question forms on your tongue before you can think better of it, spilling out before you have the chance to weigh it—

“What were those girls talking to you about?”

Geto’s hands pause mid-motion as he unwraps his burger. The paper crinkles loudly in the quiet space between you.

“They wanted my number,” he says, his tone so casual it almost feels dismissive, like the encounter hadn’t meant anything at all.

Your stomach sinks at his answer, twisting into a knot you can’t quite untangle. “Did you give it to them?” The words come out too quickly, too pointed. You don’t know why you ask—why you even care—but the question slips out before you can stop it.

“No,” he replies simply, resuming his task like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

The simplicity of his answer throws you off balance, leaves you grasping for footing you don’t quite have. “Why not?” you ask, the question tumbling from your lips before you have a chance to reconsider.

Geto’s movements still again, but this time he glances up at you.

His dark eyes meet yours, holding your gaze with a steadiness that feels disarming. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the space between you charged with something unspoken. He studies you, his expression unreadable yet open, as if he’s searching for the right words to bridge the silence.

And then he smiles—not the soft, warm smile he’d offered those girls earlier, the one that had been easy and charming, effortlessly pulling them in. No, this is different. It’s softer, infinitely warmer, like it holds a quiet depth meant only for you. There’s a tenderness in it that feels unshakably genuine, a kind of openness that makes the earlier smile seem almost hollow in comparison. It feels real—so real it takes your breath away.

“Guess they wouldn’t have what I’m looking for,” he says finally, his voice quiet but sure, each word landing like a gentle weight that settles in the air between you.

Your heart stumbles over itself, caught in the tangle of his words and the steady intensity of his gaze. There’s a quiet significance in the space between you, something in his tone that you can’t quite place but feel deeply. It wraps around you, intangible yet undeniable, sending a rush through your veins and a warmth blooming on your cheeks.

“And what are you—” The words falter suddenly, sticking in your throat.

You swallow, trying again, though your voice comes out weaker, almost uncertain. “What exactly are you looking—”

“Yo! What’s taking so long?”

Satoru’s voice barrels through the moment like a wrecking ball, loud and oblivious. He plops his tray onto the table with an unceremonious clatter, the sound jarring enough to make you flinch. Without a shred of awareness, he slides into the seat beside Geto, already launching into a ramble about his food choices, as if his presence is some kind of gift to everyone around him—

And, the spell shatters.

Whatever fragile, delicate thing had settled between you and Geto evaporates in an instant, snatched away by Satoru’s disruptive energy. Geto’s gaze shifts to him with an ease that feels unfair, his focus slipping from you like sand through your fingers. The warmth that had wrapped around you moments ago is gone, replaced by the sharp sting of irritation.

Your glare cuts toward Satoru, your hands curling into fists at your sides as you fight the urge to lash out. How can he be so dense, so utterly oblivious to what he just interrupted? The tightness in your chest only deepens, intensifying with every instant, fed by his infuriating ability to make everything about himself.

But just as you're about to snap, your order number is called from the counter, yanking you out of your frustration.

With a sharp exhale, you turn away, your footsteps heavy as you stomp toward the counter to grab your tray—your thoughts consumed by the fact that, in this moment, you've never hated Satoru more.

general masterlist || geto suguru masterlist || gojo satoru masterlist

#dividers by @saradika-graphics #geto x you #geto x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk x you #jjk x reader #[my posts: gojo satoru]#[my posts: geto suguru]

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msschemmenti · 5 days ago

Text

the bravo forum

melissa schemmenti x reader

a/n: the people have spoken— here is my contribution to the melissa schemmenti x reader community based on a crack idea from my notes app. bare with me, this is not edited and probably pretty bad-- but fuck it we ball ig. i also couldn't think of a name for this like at all. my tiktok fyp sort of throttled me into all things reality tv and that sparked this idea. also if you liked this feel free to check out my lisa ann walter masterlist for some of my older stuff.

”So now no one knows if they’re coming back or if they’re gonna pull a New York Housewives and just start over.” Melissa huffed over her shoulder to Barbara.

“Girlfriend, I told you, I don’t know these people, and I don’t care.”

Melissa watched as Barb entered the school ahead of her and shook her head. She really shouldn’t be surprised. Her work wife had always been very clear about her feelings when it came to the Housewives. And Melissa had tried to get her hooked. They’d tried every franchise and all she got from Barb was a disgruntled scolding for caring so much about these random women and their woes. Melissa can even recall Barbara advising her to pick up the Bible if she wanted to follow the trials and tribulations of someone she would talk about.

Melissa wasn’t normally someone who participated in any discussions about the things she enjoyed. She liked what she liked and anyone who didn’t agree with her could kick rocks. But letting Jacob move in had really changed the way she consumed media. She and the history teacher would come home from work, crack open a bottle, and go to town judging the various players in their programs. With him around, discussion became the norm. And now that he’s moved out, she’s sorta missing that community. Not that she’d admit it to anyone.

She bound into the teacher’s lounge, putting her lunch away and settling in her seat for the news like she did every morning. Jim Gardner was the only man she wanted to start her morning with. Midway through the program, excited voices floated through the swinging door.

“I’m telling you— they’re married. She won’t say anything but there’s no way they’re just girlfriends.” Both veteran teachers turned their heads at the newcomers with frowns in place. Y/n, the newest edition to the Abbott staff, winced almost instantly under both Barbara and Melissa’s gaze and quickly mimed a zipper over her lips. Barb smiled gratefully and turned back to the television, but Melissa’s eyes lingered a bit longer as they always seemed to do when the younger woman entered the room. And hard as she tried to keep her glare in place— once the teacher went back to her conversation quietly the frown melted into something softer. Almost curious.

Y/n Y/ln was something of a hot-button topic for Melissa. She’d started at the beginning of the school year, taking on the higher-grade English duties upstairs. And everyone seemed to love her. She’d flown in the week before classes started with a bright smile and brownies for the teachers. She’d spent her first month covering recesses and lunch duties for absolutely anyone who asked. And had even worked her way into some after-school clubs. She was everywhere. And after five months at Abbott, she still carried herself with the same level of joy and excitement she’d started with. It was infuriating if you asked Melissa. And Barb had asked her before. It seemed the reasons everyone else gravitated toward the new teacher were the exact reasons Melissa claimed made her dislike her. She was a kiss-ass, a pushover, and far too happy in the morning to not be doing some kind of drug. But every time Barb grilled her about it she never mentioned how distractingly shiny her hair was. Or how expressive her eyes were when she spoke about literally anything. And she all but refused to even think about how her eyes seemed almost glued to her figure whenever they passed each other in the hall during the day. She just couldn’t allow it. And she definitely wasn’t watching this morning as Y/n filled her cup of coffee and then exited the lounge with another teacher to continue her conversation.

Once she’d left the room, Melissa’s attention turned back to the television as if nothing happened. But there was Barbara, lips pursed knowingly and eyebrows set in a challenge.

“What?” Melissa asked, fighting the blush wanting to crawl up her neck. All Barb gave her in response was a pointed hum that told Melissa all she needed to know. She wasn’t fooling anybody.

“I can’t believe this is how you spend your free time. Here I was thinking you were reading Shakespearean Sonnets from three to eight when you actually just cyberbully Housewife fans.” Jacob laughed in disbelief as he leaned against the corner of Y/n’s desk.

“Okay first of all— Eileen Davidson’s delivery of ‘How dare you?’ after being called a Beast by Kim Richards was very Shakespearean. And secondly, cyberbully is a very strong word. I’m simply engaging in dialogue with my fellow Real Housewives fans. It’s not my fault I’m good at reasoning and evidence. Argumentation was my jam in college.” Y/n explained with a smile.

“So you’re saying you use your intelligence to cyberbully gay men and old ladies.”

“How rude, the Bravo-verse is not just for gay men and old ladies. It’s for everyone. I don’t discriminate on the forums— I’m an equal opportunity bully.”

“Huh, who knew there was such a sinister side to such a sweet woman.”

Y/n shrugged, “I’m multi-dimensional. Anyway, I brought all this up to run my lesson idea by you. We’re doing a unit on dialogue and I really think with some appropriately placed censors we can make it work.”

“Oh, That’s so engaging! And with so many franchises you can pull from quite a few scenes.” Jacob affirmed excitedly.

“Exactly. And it gives me an excuse to talk about my favorite show on the job.”

Lunch time came and the teachers found themselves in the lounge chatting idly at their assigned tables. Melissa’s glasses were perched on her nose as she scrolled through an article recounting the last episode. Jacob having leaned back in his chair, caught sight of the headline and instantly brightened.

“Oh Mel Mel, have I got an opportunity for community for you!”

Melissa slowly looked at the young man, unimpressed, “No thanks, I got more than enough community already.”

Jacob sighed at the woman’s lack of enthusiasm but trudged on, sure this opportunity would be up her alley. “Well, I just thought you’d take to the idea of arguing with people anonymously about the Real Housewives. There’s apparently a whole world of people discussing your programs online and from what I’ve heard they need some strong opinions to balance out the nonsense. I just think it might be nice for you to have a space to freely share your questionable takes about these extremely vapid women every week. A community is waiting for you.”

“Questionable takes? All of my takes are gold like my hatred for Eileen Davidson. That’s a very valid and based take. I’m always right. I don’t need no internet dummies telling me otherwise.”

“Well, when you realize I’m right and you start bullying randos online– I’ll be expecting a thank you.”

Melissa scoffed and watched as Jacob wrote the website down on a sticky note for her. “Huh, I’m sure you will be.”

She really wasn’t planning on looking at the website. She had no reason to. She was completely content to live with her Housewives thoughts. But then the Real Housewives of New York reboot episode was absolutely insane. And she needed to know if she was the only one in complete disbelief at this Puerto Rico trip. She pulled the sticky note from her purse and cautiously typed it in. She would only look at what was being discussed. Just a little peek.

MisterBravo: Am I the only one who HATES Meredith and Heather this season? #RHOSLC

4:00 PM in Real Housewives Board

↳20 Replies to this post

MeredithApologist: YES! YOU ARE.

HeathersReciepts: how can you hate the woman who brought us receipts, proof, timelines, screenshots?

Melissa chuckled quietly to herself as she read through the comments on the post. She hated to give Jacob any credit but this might actually be interesting. She continued to scroll until she found a recent post addressing the latest episode of RHONY.

Bravoholic: Deciding to play devil’s advocate tonight after tonight’s most recent episode. What are our thoughts on the RHONY reboot cast so far?

11:00 PM in Real Housewives Board

↳250 Replies to this post

She tapped into the replies and started skimming reactions. Lots of which she thought were stupid but not stupid enough to warrant a response of some kind. That was until she came across a crazy reply.

RepudiatedHousewives: Honestly, the trips just started and Brynn is already acting insane. Talk about a producer plant, am I right?

Now Melissa wasn’t a fan of Brynn but she also was smart enough to acknowledge Erin as a problem as well. Brynn didn’t stir things up all on her own. And also what kind of username is RepudiatedHousewives? Talk about pretentiousness. She couldn’t resist. She just had to respond.

RedHotPhilly11: repudiatedhousewives , you must be as pretentious and stupid as your username if you think Brynn is the only one producing this season. Erin is right there?

Y/n sat up immediately seeing the new reply flash across her screen. Pretentious and stupid? What the hell was this person’s beef? Brynn is a problematic producer plant, that’s just facts. So what if Erin gets wrapped up in her bullshit– she’s still better than Brynn.

RepudiatedHousewives: RedHotPhilly11– i’m assuming you’ve got your looks going for you if you’re pulling Erin into Brynn’s evil. Erin’s not perfect but Brynn is obviously the bigger issue here.

RedHotPhilly11: Yes, I’m hot. But that’s all you’re right about.

The forum shortly became Melissa’s most visited website. And she and this RepudiatedHousewives character loved going at it.

RHOAAddict: Rumor has it Phaedra Parks will be returning this season…thoughts on cast dynamics?

8:00 AM in Real Housewives Board

↳100 Replies to this post

RedHotPhilly11: Good! She’s kept Atlanta fun!

↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Incorrect– Bravo needs to make up with NeNe is they think they can save RHOA. Phaedra is actually a lawsuit waiting to happen. And she’d know, as a lawyer.

↳ RedHotPhilly11: Of course, you have so much to say.

↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Careful RedHotPhilly11, if you keep this up I’ll start thinkin you like me

RHONYLover: Calling all historians, Who’s the biggest villain in RHONY History?

10:00 PM in Real Housewives Board

↳100 Replies to this post

RedHotPhilly11: Aviva Drescher. Only right answer.

↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Wrong. It’s Brynn Whitfield.

↳ RedHotPhilly11: What are you, captain of the Brynn hate club?

↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Hell yeah! She won’t win in my lifetime.

↳ RedHotPhilly11: I feel like I have to admire your persistence but that feels to nice.

The morning after the finale episode of the season was a doozy. Both Melissa and Y/n had spent the evening going back and forth on the forum dissecting the drama that unfolded on screen. Other users had tried chiming into their conversation but both RedHotPhilly11 and RepudiatedHousewives refused to engage with anyone other than each other. And that energy seemed to carry into the teacher’s lounge that morning. Melissa was at her seat as usual, nursing her second cup of coffee as the news came to an end. And Y/n burst through the door with a sigh heading straight for the coffee machine. Her entrance obviously caught the attention of the other teachers but she was too busy mentally urging the coffee machine to brew faster to care.

“Woah, Shakespeare what’s up with you?” Jacob asked, sliding up next to the woman with a frown. “You’re never down here this late.”

“I had a rather late night so I decided to sleep in for a bit,” Y/n answered pulling the coffee to her chest with a sigh.

“Oh yes, too busy cyberbullying to get a proper night’s sleep?” The history teacher poked. At his jovial tease, the other teachers seemed to tune in. All eager to learn more about the English teacher.

“You cyberbully?” Janine asked incredulously from her spot next to Gregory. “That’s so mean, why would you do that?”

Y/n rolled her eyes and glared at Jacob pointedly before addressing Janine, “I do not cyberbully. I merely chat about television online. If people have bad opinions, I feel obligated to correct them.”

“Oh right, season finale for RHONY was last night. I’m sure you were lighting that little forum up, huh?”

“You know it. Although I’ve got this one person on the forum who replies to everything I post and we were going back and forth all night. They just know every button to push. Like last night, I was going off about the way Brynn was keke-ing with the producers after causing all that chaos the night before. A literal production plant! And then that RedHotPhilly11 comes in my replies arguing with me about facts! So we were going at it for quite a bit.” At Y/n’s words, Jacob’s eyes turned to Melissa curiously with a smile. Maybe the redhead had taken him up on his recommendation. And at her arched eyebrows and startled expression he was right.

“Wait a minute, you’re Repugnant Housewives?” Melissa’s hard voice piped in.

Y/n’s eyes widened in confusion, “Um no, I’m Repudiatedhousewives. How do you even know that?”

“Cause I’m the one pushing your buttons.”

”You’re RedHotPhilly11?” Y/n tilted her head in shock but that didn’t last long before a knowing smirk settled on her face. “Huh, now that I’m saying that out loud I’m not that surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melissa challenged, ready for another fight. Offline.

“You are hot.” Y/n shrugged easily. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze at her admission but she stood tall in her words and leveled Melissa with a knowing gaze. “What? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our very first argument. Where you very boldly called my username pretentious and stupid.”

“Right right, and you said the only thing I had going for me was my looks,” Melissa smirked.

“And your only reply was that you’re hot. Again, can’t argue with facts.” Y/n snickered. “Wow, I can’t believe that of all the people on that forum we’ve been sparing with each other for the last 5 weeks. I didn’t even know you watched the housewives.”

“Who are you kidding, I’ve been watching longer than you’ve been alive kid.”

“Doubtful, I think I came out of the womb watching that franchise.” Y/n pushed up from her place at the counter to walk closer to Melissa’s table.

“Ah what do you know? You probably can’t even remember the original RHONY cast before this godawful reboot.” Melissa goaded, rising from her chair to look Y/n in the eyes.

“Wanna bet?” Y/n said and just as the women were closing the charged distance between them, Barbara reached up to pull Melissa back.

“Alright ladies, I think that’s enough fun for the morning. Why don’t we save this energy for your little chatroom, hm?”

Melissa shrugged and took her seat again working to push her irritation down. But as assessed her body– it wasn’t irritation she found. And Y/n found herself fighting the unexpected but familiar heat that a bossy beautiful woman could inspire within her. They both slinked back to their corners and everyone in the lounge exchanged curious looks over their heads. Not much later the school bell rang, and almost everyone dispersed. Except Y/n and Melissa. They eyed each other cautiously before Melissa broke the silence.

“Reunion part one, next week, my place. Bring wine.”

“Roger that, Red. Maybe we can tag team some poor souls while we’re at it.”

Melissa grinned at the prospect and nodded before heading out the door, “Now you’re speaking my language.”

Let’s just assume they’re still trying to get out of Bravo Forum jail.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary x reader #msschemmenti #lisa ann walter x reader #lisa ann walter

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sleepisapriviligethatidonthave · 5 months ago

Note

Fir the MegOp request: TFA Megatron reaction that TFA Optimus is a space bridge repair worker

Finally I found your ask! I spent a century combing through my notifications XD

Aaaaanyways, here it is! Hope you like it ^^

Megatron swung his swords at the Prime, missing by a wire’s breath when the Autobot ducked and returned the attack in kind. It was a familiar song and dance for the warlord by now, though usually their fights were not so… private.

As luck would have it, both of them had answered an energy anomaly in the forest near Detroit. It had been a rather pleasant surprise to find the young Prime all by his lonesome right after locating the Allspark fragment in the middle of a small clearing in said woods.

“Not too shabby, Autobot. A few more millennia and you might stand a chance at defeating me!” he mocked as he kicked his opponent to the ground. It was almost too easy sometimes, but the Prime always pulled through one way or another.

“I have a name!” snapped Optimus as he rolled just out of reach of Megatron’s pede which left a small crater right where he had been a moment ago, “I am Optimus Prime, and you ought to remember that!” he growled and slashed with his axe at the pede, only grazing the thick warframe armour. Megatron couldn’t help but laugh at the feeble attempt to injure him.

It was always fun to see his enemies infuriated at the fact that he didn’t know their names. He did, but one thing he had learned early on in his gladiatorial career was that an unconcentrated opponent was a weak one. That practice of his had helped him all throughout the war and even after that. It wasn’t often that he met an opponent that kept their cool so well in the face of such disrespect.

“Ah, yes, the rank of Prime. The standards for it have fall quite a bit, haven’t they?” he chuckled with a smirk and parried the angry swing aimed at his helm, throwing the Autobot into the air. Megatron watched with a hint of surprise as his foe flipped in the air and landed square on his pedes, ready to resume their fight. “Or maybe not.” he muttered to himself and went in for another attack.

Few survived an encounter with him and lived long enough to tell the tale. Even fewer willingly went against him again, which made fighting the young mech such a delight.

The little Prime never ceased to surprise. He was always so resourceful and selfless – two qualities he had long believed to be extinct when it came to Autobots. He fought rather rigidly, yes, but he knew when to change tactics in order to secure an advantage. That, he could respect, he could use. If only the Prime wasn’t so foolishly loyal to his rusted cause.

Optimus dodged blaster fire with ease as he shot a grappling hook at one of Megatron’s swords, attempting to seize it.

Megatron grabbed the chord and pulled, sending Prime once again flying through the open sky, but this time luck was not on his side. He smashed against a tree, with a loud crack before falling to the ground, heaving.

“You Autobots never learn, do you? You can not defeat me, even the best of you.” he knew that praising him was a contradictive move, but he had earned it.

It came as a surprise to hear the Prime snort and try to stifle a chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Autobot?” the reaction puzzled him. He was about to be offlined and yet here he was, laughing like Megatron had told him the funniest joke in the galaxy.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just that, if you really think that an academy washout, space bridge technician is ‘one of the best’, then it’s not the Autobots’ standard that has fallen.” snickered Optimus as he looked up at Megatron with a slag eating grin.

The warlord froze in place, his CPU attempting and failing to process the new information.

“What?”

Optimus laughed even harder, wincing when his vents, damaged by the hit he took, expelled a wheezing sound.

Megatron pressed the tip of one of his swords right against the Autobot’s main fuel line, effectively silencing him. “Explain yourself, now.” he growled menacingly.

“What exactly is there to explain? I already told you the truth. I’m not a fully fledged Prime. Officially I’m not even considered a warrior, no one on my team is. We’re space bridge technicians. Our job was to travel around the corners of the galaxy and repair the Autobot space bridge network.”

Megatron looked at the Prime in disbelief, every interaction they had ever had, replaying itself in the warlord’s mind as small, incongruous details about the team of Autobots slotted themselves into place to finally reveal the horrific truth.

They were no warriors, they were civilians who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. That was why the Elite Guard had done next to nothing to help them. To the great Autobot machine they were fodder, disposable.

Disgust and hatred flashed through Megatron’s field, making Optimus flinch minutely when his own tense one came into contact with his.

This changed everything and nothing at the same time which only infuriated Megatron even more. It was dishonourable to fight against someone who could not face you properly in battle, who was not a warrior. It was Descepticon code, something he himself had put into place to prevent unnecessary carnage in the name of keeping Cybertron populated. Overtime, even the worst of the Descepticons had accepted it as law, even he himself had begun to view it as something on which his honour depended.

And here he was tarnishing it in the worst way imaginable.

“You know, if you ask me, I would much rather fight Cons for the rest of my life than go back to the most boring job in the universe.”

Immediately, Megatron’s helm snapped to the location of the voice only to see the bright yellow Autobot speedster sitting on a tree stump, looking at the bots before him while twirling the forgotten Allspark fragment in his servos.

“Personally, I’d rather be a space bridge technician. Bossbot is right, we aren’t warriors, and I’ll be more than happy to go back to doing what I signed up for.” came the voice of the big green Autobot from the other side of the clearing.

“Quit yer whining, will ya? We still need to save Optimus from Buckethead!” barked the team’s medic as he primed his magnets.

“I do not believe Optimus needs our saving.” chimed in the ninja bot who appeared from behind a tree.

Megatron took in all of the newly gathered Autobots, ignoring the last comment. Before, all he saw was a bunch of low-class warriors with lacking training, but now, he saw them for what they really were. It was so obvious in hindsight, he wanted to kick himself for missing it.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Prowl, I really appreciate it.” Megatron snapped his attention back to his original foe, having thought him incapacitated. Clearly, he had miscalculated again, as a spray of foam hit his faceplates, completely blinding him. He tried moving back, only for his pedes to be restrained in Prime’s grappling hook.

Megatron fell backwards with a grunt. As he tried to regain his sight, he could hear the commotion around him.

“Let’s go before he gets back up and hunts us down!” yelled Optimus. His command was met with no complaints and soon enough Megatron found himself alone on the clearing.

He growled and muttered curses as he cut the chord around his pedes. The mission had been a disaster. Of course, he could give chase to the Autobots and try to retrieve the Allspark fragment, but ultimately decided against it.

Once he finally deemed himself presentable, he gave one last glance to the direction in which the Autobot team retreated, sighed, and began the journey back to the Descepticon hideout. He was in no mood to rush back just to deal with his subordinates, so he opted to walk. That way he had some time to mull over the new information he had obtained and formulate a plan…

And think of a way to break the news to his Descepticons without causing a riot.

#megop #megatron #optimus prime #transformers #maccadam #tfa #answered asks #asks #asks open #ask game

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scarletwinterxx · 1 month ago

Text

NCT Jaehyun | Long Drives

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The engine hums beneath you, a gentle rhythm that matches the steady pulse of Jaehyun’s hand resting on your thigh.

It’s your spot—the universal “you’re mine” gesture he’s adopted since the two of you started these aimless drives. You can feel his thumb tracing absentminded circles through the fabric of your jeans, and it’s enough to make your heart flip, even after all this time.

"Did you bring the snacks, or am I going to have to pull over and starve dramatically on the side of the road?" he asks, his eyes flicking over to you with that teasing smile that’s somehow infuriating and irresistible all at once.

You reach into the brown paper bag at your feet, pulling out a pack of gummies and dramatically waving it in his direction.

“Crisis averted. Your survival depends on me, you know.”

“Obviously. What would I do without you?” His voice is laced with exaggerated sincerity as he navigates the winding backroad, one hand on the wheel and the other still on you.

“Starve, apparently.” You rip the pack open and pop a gummy into your mouth before holding one out to him. He leans over, eyebrows raised expectantly, and you roll your eyes as you press it to his lips.

“Why do I feel like you enjoy this power dynamic a little too much?” he says around the candy, his smile muffled but no less charming.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jaehyun chuckles, low and rich, and it fills the car like music. It’s moments like these that remind you why these drives are your thing. There’s no agenda, no deadline. Just the two of you and the open road, wrapped in this bubble of unfiltered happiness.

The car ride is a little quiet for a while. That is, until Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield comes on the playlist.

“Oh, it’s happening,” you declare, turning the volume up.

Jaehyun groans dramatically but doesn’t even try to stop you.

“You’re going to make my ears bleed, aren’t you?”

“Rude. I have range, thank you very much.” You clear your throat and launch into the opening lines, overly dramatic, dragging every syllable out just to mess with him.

“I am unwritten, can't read my mind…”

Jaehyun glances over, biting his lip to keep from laughing as you wave your hands around like you’re onstage at a sold-out concert.

“You really think you’re the main character right now, don’t you?”

“Obviously.”

But when the chorus hits, something magical��or maybe chaotic—happens. You’re belting the lyrics with every ounce of air in your lungs, completely off-key, and instead of stopping you, Jaehyun joins in.

Unlike you, his voice is smooth, deep, and stupidly good. You pause mid-line to gape at him, but he doesn’t even notice. He’s too into it, drumming the steering wheel and singing like he’s in a music video.

“Feel the rain on your skin!” he sings, his voice so good it’s unfair.

“Okay, why are you actually good at this?” you demand, trying not to laugh and also not to feel a little jealous.

“Why are you still singing like a drunk cat?” he shoots back, grinning.

“Oh, it’s on.” You double down, your voice cracking spectacularly on a high note, but you don’t care. You’re too busy laughing at the way Jaehyun starts harmonizing with you, turning your off-key performance into something almost listenable.

By the time the song ends, you’re both out of breath from laughing so hard. He glances over at you, eyes crinkled at the corners, looking like he’s never been happier.

“See?” he says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “We’re a duet made in heaven.”

“More like made in a karaoke bar at 3 a.m.,” you retort, but you don’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, I have an idea,” he says suddenly, breaking the quiet

“That’s dangerous.”

“Ha ha. No, really. Let’s find a new bakery. Something random, middle-of-nowhere kind of vibe.” His eyes spark with excitement, and you can already tell there’s no point in arguing.

“Sure, but if it’s weird and their bread tastes like cardboard, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Deal.”

You pull out your phone and start scrolling for nearby bakeries while he hums along to whatever playlist is shuffling through the speakers. Ten minutes later, you’ve got a winner: a little mom-and-pop spot a town over.

When you arrive, the place is as quaint as you’d hoped—chipped paint on the window frames, a bell that jingles as you step inside, and the scent of freshly baked bread that makes your stomach growl.

Jaehyun wastes no time grabbing a tray and loading it with pastries. “We’re getting one of everything,” he announces.

“Are you feeding an army?”

“Nope, just my girlfriend who’s definitely going to steal bites of everything I pick.”

You can’t even argue, not when he grins at you like that.

Back in the car, with the sun dipping low on the horizon, the two of you dive into your haul.

Crumbs scatter across your laps as you take turns feeding each other bites of cinnamon rolls and flaky croissants, laughing when powdered sugar ends up dusting Jaehyun’s nose.

“You’ve got something—” you say, leaning over to brush it off.

“Are you helping me or trying to kiss me?” he teases, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Both.” leaning over to do exactly that. The kiss tasting a bit sweet and you love it.

You love him.

It’s not glamorous or grand, but it’s yours—just two people, a car full of snacks, and a love that feels like it could stretch on forever.

#fic #story #nct #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 #nct 127 jaehyun #jaehyun #jeong jaehyun #nct imagine #nct au #nct scenario #nct x reader #jaehyun imagine #jaehyun scenario #jaehyun boyfriend #jaehyun fluff #jeong yuno

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hongism · 2 years ago

Text

DUNE. - p. seonghwa (m)

➼ genre; smut ➼ pairing; seonghwa x fem!reader ➼ au; outlaw/biker!seonghwa, dystopian futurism, lore accurate ateez ➼ warnings; explicit smut, vaping mention ➼ rating; m/18+ ➼ wc; 5.4k

Your excursions with Seonghwa are never anything holy despite how sacred the time shared between you feels at times.

part of the outlaw miniseries.

────────────

➼ smut warnings; piv, unprotected sex, public sex (ie outdoors and on a motorcycle), oral: m, hair pulling, dirty talk, marking/biting, face fucking, deepthroating, slight edging, petnames: princess, kitten & doll, breeding kink, creampie, some religious imagery, slight objectification

────────────

“You bastard.”

Dressed in nothing but a towel to keep you modest, you exit the bathroom in your far too small apartment expecting nothing but the simple task of getting your nightclothes from your bedroom. That, however, seems to be an impossibly tall order given what’s waiting for you in the living room. Sitting on your couch. With his stupid dirty boots all over your best piece of furniture in the house. So you can’t very well be blamed for your outburst upon seeing him, especially given the fact that he’s dared to show his face here and now like this.

The window adjacent to your couch is cracked as well, letting the evening air and likely every bug in the city into your home too.

“It’s been two months,” you snap before you can think through the lengthy list of things you’d like to rip into him about.

Seonghwa drops his head on the back of the couch and shifts to smile over at you, lopsided and dorky and all-around infuriating. Even more humiliating is the fact that you missed the sight of that grin, of him on your couch and in your home, and you dearly missed knowing when he would come back to you.

“And?”

“Did you use the fire escape to get in here again?” You thought that you had latched and locked the windows particularly well after you settled with the fact that Seonghwa wasn’t coming back. And yet here he is, and your windows are unlocked again. The man laughs, bringing his head off the couch and leaning forward in a way that makes his slicked-back black hair shift and fall around his face. This is a dangerously unwell situation for you to be in. Shutting your eyes, you turn towards your bedroom, hand tightening at the towel around your body. If you look at him a moment longer, you’re well and truly going to jump his bones. While that’s not the worst fate you could think of, you’d like to seem a little more upset at him before you give into both your desires and his.

You hear the couch creak then the soft scuffs of his boots over wood flooring as you pull clothes out of the dresser. He’s not in the doorway when you turn around, which does surprise you somewhat, but you take advantage of the brief moment of privacy to change into the tee and jeans you just pulled out. You toss your towel at the doorway once you’re safely under the comfort of clothes, and half of Seonghwa’s face peeks around the corner.

“You going somewhere?” He asks the question so innocently that you nearly think he’s changed in the past two months. Still, he’s leaning fully against the door frame now with one hand pressed high up along the wood and leaning over the edge into your bedroom, and the seduction is still there. His allure with all its perks and twists and all the ease he performs his enticement with are on full display before your eyes.

“Aren’t we?” you offer in response, too impatient to bother with playing your usual push-and-pull game with him.

“You still know me well, huh?” Now that you’re closer to him and can look at him head-on, you see the all too familiar jacket clinging to his broad shoulders, the tight tank top beneath it that shows off a hint of his muscled arms and chest. Seonghwa must see something across your expression that you aren’t consciously aware of because he hooks his index finger under your chin and lifts your head to look you in the eye. “You’re irresistible when you pout, kitten.”

A hand reaches up to cup the back of his neck, skating across the fabric of his shirt as you move upwards, and when you grab hold of him, he’s already leaning down to meet you on your path to his lips.

“I’m still mad at you, by the way,” you murmur before laying a kiss against him. Seonghwa laughs into your mouth as his tongue breaks the seam and finds yours. He tastes like the same stupid flavor of vape juice you remember, which means he hasn’t quit like he said he would last time you spoke, but he seems to have kept using your favorite flavor. “It’s past curfew.”

“No it’s not,” he denies quickly, and you pull off his mouth completely just so he can see how hard you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s past curfew.”

“Fifteen minutes outside the city—” a firmly planted kiss that keeps you from responding “—twenty tops, it’s fine. You can even drive if you want? You know how hot I find it seeing you on my bike.” Now that you’ve broken the seal, Seonghwa can’t seem to pull his lips away from yours for even a full sentence with the way he keeps rushing to lick into your mouth between every few words.

“If this—ah, hey!” He nips the corner of your mouth, grin cheeky at best when you squeeze the back of his neck hard. “If this is what we’re going to do then why not just stay here?”

“Because I have something to show you.” When suspicion starts to overcome your features, Seonghwa leans down and bumps his forehead against yours. “And we haven’t checked the bike’s sturdiness in over two months… what if my baby isn’t as sturdy as she used to be, huh? She’s not getting as much practice as she used to.”

“And I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Mine and no one else’s, princess.” He’s giving you that damn smile that makes you cave every time without fail — the upturned lip one that makes his laugh lines appear — and you groan purposefully loud like it’ll change the outcome of the night you’ve already handed yourself over to. Everyone close to you in your life would rush to call you a doormat for this man, and you can’t say that they’re horribly wrong on any front. Maybe if they knew exactly how good the dick and banter are they would cut you some slack though.

“Fine, you win.” You pull him into another open-mouthed kiss that lets you have another taste. “But you’re driving there, I’ll drive back.”

Seonghwa grins like he’s just won the lottery of life, hand snapping to brace yours against his chest as he guides you to the window where he made his grandiose entrance. There are many questions at the forefront of your mind admittedly, but you opt not to bring any of them up quite yet solely because you don’t want to cause any headaches this early on in the night. If he decides to turn tail and run upon being confronted then what? You’ll have wasted your night on this man for no reason and it’ll be totally unfulfilling for the both of you, so you imagine he wants to keep the mediocre peace as much as possible too. You have no trouble leaving the window unlocked now, mostly because Seonghwa is the only person who has dared to break in in your area of town, and he doesn’t do so with the intention of taking any of your belongings: just you and your poor fragile heart.

His motorcycle sits alone in the alleyway your fire escape leads down to, and you watch him pop the small box trunk attached to the back of it for a few seconds before realizing that you truly are what he came for. He pulls a helmet out — the same one he used to always make you wear that fits you just right and you used to be convinced that he bought it solely for you, but he denied it so heavily you gave up on that notion a long time ago. He never carries it around unless he knows he’s coming to you because he’s always claimed to need the space for “work” related things if you can even call it that given the rather illegal nature of what he does with this very bike. You don’t mind that part one bit; Night City has gone to shit anyway, and the government keeps finding new ways to impose absurd laws on all of you. If Seonghwa wants to mess with their new world order a bit and piss all over their business, then you’re all for it. You hope he and whoever he works with bring them down a few notches while they’re at it. But you do want him to be safe, and you want to know he’s okay and alive out there, and you don’t want months of radio silence that leaves you wondering if you did something to run him off or if he got captured by the guardians or worse—

“Hey.”

You inhale sharply. Seonghwa slides the helmet down over your head then braces his hands on either side of it to lay a kiss on where your forehead would be if not for the protection. Behind the visor, you shut your eyes and take a deep breath. When you open them again, Seonghwa is perched on the bike, pulling his own helmet on, and you admire the pretty slope of his nose mere seconds before it disappears.

Unspoken rule #1: you don’t ask about his little foray into anarchy.

“I don’t even believe in any god yet I pray for your safety every time you leave.”

He reached across the space between your bodies on the couch that night and squeezed your thigh.

“I’ll give you something to believe in.”

That night he buried his face between your thighs and ate you out like a man worshiping at the altar on the cold floor in front of your TV.

Tonight, you’re more than okay with that.

Seonghwa’s body is like a furnace when you wrap yourself around him. He’s warm and comfortable in the most familiar of ways, and you can still taste him on the inside of your lips. You smile despite yourself, clinging to him harder as the motorcycle lurches into action. Seonghwa never wastes time, though there’s an added layer of danger tonight with curfew, but you have it in good faith that the whole notion is just a little scare tactic to keep people in line. Even months ago there were no patrols or active guardians wandering the streets at night. Whatever drones do monitor from the sky don’t do anything except spook citizens.

In retrospect, you should have stolen Seonghwa’s jacket off his back or brought your own because the night air whips your shirt and leaves you cold. The man in front of you isn’t much of a meat shield against it either, yet the combination of your shivering and the ever-increasing speed of the bike makes adrenaline drop in your gut. You could chase this feeling for the rest of your life but still not be able to capture it unless it’s with Seonghwa, and as much as you hate to admit that sort of dependency, you also revel in the knowledge that he only gets it from you as well. Maybe you’re more religious than you thought with the exchanged reverence and devotion you two hold for one another. A sort of sacrality permeates every touch and breath between your lips. It reaches you in full when Seonghwa pulls the bike to a stop at what must be his chosen destination. He eases your helmet off first before ridding himself of his own. The moment his lips are within reach, you find them with your fingers and trace over the soft skin there like he himself is holy text to be studied and recited.

“Come,” he says with a hand stretched out towards you. Like a sheep following its shepherd, you sling your leg over the bike and come to stand beside him. He’s brought you to a hill, just beyond the outskirts of the city, but the spot where it overlooks showcases something as fascinating as it is beautiful. Beyond the fences surrounding Night City, there is a clearing of simple dirt yet it’s full of light and life. Crowds upon crowds of people occupy the space, though they look more like ants from where you’re perched, yet even in the distance you can see how they move about. Dancing. “That’s one of the only spots the people in this hellhole can still be free.”

“Are…” You clear your throat and glance at your companion briefly. “Is that where your coworkers are?”

“There are others, yes. Many of them. Our bike crew likes to show off some nights and do tricks around the lot when we know the government is gonna be busy with other problems. But for the most part, people go there to listen to music and dance and sing… to enjoy the things every rich prick is trying to take away from us.” Seonghwa sighs. He brings a hand to his hair and runs his fingers through the strands to the point of disarray. “It’s not an excuse, but this is why I’ve been away from you for so many weeks. Trying to get some solid plans in motion and all that. You knowing too much would just put you at risk, and that simply wouldn’t do, princess. I need you safe and sound. I can’t be the reason you get hurt or suffer, especially not at their hands.”

“But… you hurt me.”

“I thought it would be easier to disappear entirely than to come up with some lie as to why I couldn’t come around anymore.” He draws his arms up in a rather clear act of defensiveness but he turns to face you directly as he relays the information. “And I knew that the second I showed up at your door with a lie figured out, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. I guess everyone has a point in saying you’re my soft spot.”

One corner of your lips pulls up to form a crude smile, laugh exhaling out your nose in a rush of air. You reach for Seonghwa’s wrists.

“Cm’here.”

“What?” he complies nonetheless, matching your grin as you pull his arms away from his chest. His hands move around your body to tug you into his personal space like it’s just an extension of simple human movements, and you match the gentle affection with your own soft touches across his chest. Tracing upwards, you seek his jacket and secure your hands around the collar.

“Don’t lie and don’t hide from me again. If you can’t tell me, that’s fine. I’m okay with that. We can play house and do whatever when we’re together, then when the revolution comes knocking, we’ll deal with that too.” This is as close to I love you as you can go.

“Okay, princess. That’s a deal I’m gonna hold you to though.” Seonghwa leans against your body, and you let his weight sink down onto you with a quiet sigh. The lingering pass of silence lets you indulge in the feeling of him as he exhales heavily down your neck. He drifts lower until his lips ghost over the juncture of your neck, and the pressure in your chest increases tenfold with each feathering touch. When his teeth drag across your skin, you gasp out loud. Goosebumps rush across your body, a moan pulls from your lips, and Seonghwa sucks at your neck like he wants to pull the blood right out of you.

“H-Hwa.”

“Want you,” he murmurs. You have other things on your mind right now, however, and you doubt he’s going to be opposed to your suggestions so you tug yourself away from his wandering hands and tighten your grip on his jacket. His body is lax as you pull him around and lean him against the seat of his motorcycle. “Princess…” Seonghwa already looks to be in a daze when you sink to your knees between his legs, hands sliding across the firm muscles of his legs that are hidden beneath faux leather. His lips part in silent wonder, and his gaze follows yours with such intense focus that it feels like you’re the only two people on earth. You watch his mouth move but no noise comes out, no words, and whatever thoughts he’s having right now are lost on you because you can’t read his lips. It doesn’t deter you from your current goal — you have his zipper caught between your fingers already, and his button comes undone just as easily.

His shame knows no bounds, apparently, because you peel back his pants to bare skin with nothing between.

“You been thinking about me all day?” you tease, teeth toying with your lower lip as you flutter your lashes at him on purpose, but he sweeps you away with his hasty and breathless response.

“All day. All week. Every day since the last time I saw you.” A hopeless romantic, after all. You work his pants down his hips just enough to pull his half-hard length out, putting your lips around him without wasting any more time than you have to. Seonghwa moans from the first touch as your wet heat surrounds his cock and buries all the way in your throat. You take him in until he nudges the back of your throat and threatens to make you choke. Similar to how he laid between your legs and worshiped at your alter, you do the same now — on your knees for him with hands clasped around the base of his cock, you blink up at his strained face with glistening eyes and a prayer on your lips.

Seonghwa brings a shaky hand to the back of your head, but he finds his confidence the moment he grabs hold of your hair and guides your mouth to take his dick deeper. His tip pushes into your throat, and you’re quick to adjust your breathing, focus snapping away from his face so that you can steady your breath and bring air into your lungs. Wetness touches your lashes as your eyes fall closed. You tap his crotch twice, and he understands the signal immediately. It’s hard to believe two months have passed when you fall back into usual and familiar routines with such ease. Seonghwa tightens his hold on your hair, burying his fingers closer to your scalp, and air whistles through his teeth. He pulls out of your mouth suddenly, until the head of his cock lays heavy against your lips. You missed the taste of him desperately, even more so in this filthy and hedonistic way, but that realization quickly turns into an afterthought as you suck at his tip.

“Fuck, doll, missed using you like this,” Seonghwa groans above you, and you respond by swiping your tongue along the bit of his cock that he lets you touch. “You always let me fill your pretty little mouth so well. Could use you like a toy forever, fuck.”

“Then do it.” You grin against his cock head, chin tilting down so that you can press a kiss to the same spot. The noise that tears from Seonghwa is close to animalistic as he jerks his hips towards your mouth. You’re forced to drop your jaw as quickly as you can but it doesn’t fully keep your teeth from snagging at his skin, though that seems to do nothing but drive Seonghwa further into insanity as he thrusts hard into your mouth.

“Shit, my little doll, look at you.” You force your eyes open against better judgment just to look at Seonghwa’s face. He coos, free hand reaching around to cup your face, and he swipes his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “Such a messy doll you are, tears and spit all over that pretty face.” You gag, only for it to turn into a sob as he fucks your mouth like it's just another hole to use. “I’ll grant you your veneration, princess, if only you give me my absolution.” He still treats you as though you’re something holy after all this time too, it seems. His balls knock against your chin with each one of his thrusts, until you grow totally accustomed to the rhythm. You had been certain that he would stop before coming undone, but Seonghwa doesn’t seem keen on stopping any time soon with the way he’s enjoying your mouth, wet and warm around his dick. You want to drive him to completion now — the cotton fuzz in your brain that’s starting to block all thoughts outside of him and your arousal demands more, and you crave the feeling of his cock twitching on your tongue. You wish to taste his seed on the back of your tongue, to watch his legs tremble and buckle under his pleasure at your hands.

You hum around the weight on your tongue, and Seonghwa lets his hand go loose on your hair, swinging it back to catch on the seat of his bike so he can steady himself better. He hands over control to you in the same moment and gives you the blessed initiative that makes you splay your hands across his hips and brace yourself over his length as you take some time to catch your breath. It makes you acutely aware of your wrecked state too because you can feel the moisture all over your face, both from tears and the trails of saliva that Seonghwa caused. He leans back and pushes the bike further against its side-stand; not to the point of immediate concern but he is testing that sturdiness as he claimed he wished to earlier. You lick along the underside of Seonghwa’s cock, relishing in the way he twitches against your tongue.

“Are you close?” you ask. You aren’t expecting how horribly wrecked your voice is or how it sounds like you’ve chewed and tried to swallow gravel actually. Seonghwa makes no comment on it himself and instead just nods several times over as he gulps down greedy breaths of air. “Do you wanna cum in my mouth?”

“Jesus, princess, how can you just — say that with a straight face like that, christ.” Seonghwa brushes hair away from your forehead, pulling it back to be out of the way.

“You can keep going, right?” Your fingers curl around the base of his dick just to squeeze him a little bit to tease and stimulate him some more. “You’ll still be able to fuck me if you cum once, won’t you?”

“Baby—”

“Or can you still not finish without breeding me?” Seonghwa’s whole body reacts to your statement, and you hear the audible choke that overtakes him when you flatten your palm on his cock and press it against his stomach. His fingers extend while trembling then he draws them back into fists so tight his knuckles bleed white. You drive the heel of your hand further into his length, coming up halfway to let your fingers curl up over his tip. Taking precum onto your fingertips, you pull the same digits into your mouth and lick them clean, eyes glinting as you watch Seonghwa’s lips part in either want or wonder.

His mouth stays agape even after you stand up and press your body firmly on his. Your nipples clearly show through your top, bra forgone in your rush to get dressed when you saw him, and Seonghwa lets his hands wander up to pinch at them through the thin cotton.

“I take that as a no,” you whisper close to his mouth, letting your breath huff out across his lips. He moves against you with more force now and takes your lips with his own. You’re distracted despite the kiss on account of your hands being busy with your pants and unable to maintain contact without having to pull away to separate your shoes and pants from your body entirely. Seonghwa wraps an arm around your waist to bring you back to him, already attaching himself to your neck and nipping at the mark he left not long ago. “H-How?”

“Ride me—” he twists at the waist “—on the bike.” You’re taken aback by the request, but it also shouldn’t come as much of a surprise given the long list of delightful positions Seonghwa’s taken you in previously. Still, when he pats the back of the seat and slings his own leg over the body, you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to manage this at all. Over the back of the bike? Sure, you’ve done that many times. He’s bent you over the handles several times too, but never like this — with his back to the handlebars and you crawling up to his lap in what feels like a rather precarious position. “I’ve got you, kitten, come on.” Securing a hand on his shoulder, you let Seonghwa hoist you up over his spread legs, fingernails digging into your ass as he brings you down to his lap. You reach down to grab hold of his cock and guide him to your pussy. Normally, you’d love to have some sort of prep, especially with his dick and its size, but that’s far from your concern right now. You’ll regret it tomorrow when you’re sore and aching; by then, you’ll have him in your bed, looking after you and taking care of you, and you can make that his problem to sort out. Right now, you want him inside you and filling you up with a burn and a sting to remember him by.

Seonghwa takes great care to ease you down his length, hands holding you steady and firm. You hiss at the stretch of your walls around him.

“Feet on the rests, kitten, I’ve got you.” You hear the words and react accordingly, but your mind is elsewhere — focused on relaxing as best you can to accommodate his size. When he bottoms out at last, you lean your forehead against his, and he drags his hands up from your ass to massage along your lower back. “Don’t hold onto me, okay? Grab the handlebars.” Your firm glare is hard to miss, especially with your proximity to one another, but it just makes Seonghwa laugh into your cheek. “I’ll keep the bike steady no problem. Gotta put my long legs to use somehow, right?”

“Can’t believe you’re making me do all the work when you were the asshat who disappeared for two months!”

“It’s not too late for me to fuck you face first into the ground, doll, if that’s what you’re wanting,” Seonghwa purrs against the corner of your lips, and you reply with a cheeky kiss that involves you biting the tip of his tongue gently when he tries to explore your mouth.

“Don’t get too excited, baby. It’s my treat tonight.” You feel him twitch inside you as you reach around his body to grab for the handlebars, and the motion forces you to pull up from his cock a bit. He’s watching you with rapt focus, the same unholy expression as before paints his features again now, and it’s borderline intoxicating to see him unravel as you drop back down on his length. The noises of passion between you are reduced to exchanged moans and heavy breaths. For a man who always has something dirty to say, if only to rile you up further, he’s fallen to a mess of stuttered groans and pants that make you bounce on his cock faster and faster.

“Do I feel as — as good as y-you remember?” you ask through the sounds of skin slapping skin. Seonghwa’s whole face contorts and he throws his head back, unable to keep his hands to himself any longer. He scrambles to grab at your waist.

“Even better, s-so much fucking better.”

You tilt your chin towards the sky and laugh through a choppy moan. It’s then that Seonghwa catches you off guard: he eases you back along the seat of the motorcycle, forcing your hands to release the handles and laying you along the length of the seat. It’s not quite long enough to accommodate the position he’s going for, but you understand better when he pulls you down to meet his cock. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust further, driving his cock into you with a rabid passion that fills your stomach with fire and desire. Your dangling feet move to brace against the handlebar, and you plant them firmly against the flat of your foot just as Seonghwa pulls you down some more. Either you can’t control your noises as well like this or he’s simply fucking you better than ever because every thrust knocks a whiny moan out of you. There’s nothing for you to grab onto like this either — not above or around your head at least — so you have to settle for reaching down between your legs and bracing your hands on Seonghwa’s forearms.

“D-Dear fucking god, Hwa,” you whine.

“Touch yourself, touch yourself now, doll, I’m gonna cum soon.” You think you’re just as close yourself, to the point where a minute touch might make you cum embarrassingly quick, but you do as told, moving one of your hands down to roll firm circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You don’t really have to move at all because his movements are doing the work for you. So when the climbing sensation of an impending orgasm starts to overwhelm you, you bring your fingers to a halt and let them press into your clit instead, where Seonghwa’s thrusts can jerk your hand against yourself in a crude form of masturbation.

“P-Please hurry, cum quick please, I’m about to—” your thoughts come to a grinding halt. Your mind goes blank, turning to an empty canvas, then the pleasure explodes and the orgasm shakes your entire body. Your toes curl around the handles in the same way that your back curls away from the seat.

“Inside? Do you want me to cum inside or — fuck, not? In or out?” Seonghwa’s voice is wound so tight that it sounds painful to the ears. You fist the sleeve of his jacket.

“Breed me? In, in, in, please breed me, Hwa.” He doesn’t need more instruction than that. A groan rips through him in time with his finish, and the sensation of his cock releasing hot spurts of cum makes you shiver. He leans back, your legs fall away from the handles, and the afterglow of your sex feels warm and heady. Hands are on your bare thighs, fingers rub deep into your muscles and work against the lingering tremble in them, and the air turns into a song of both your breathing. The whole atmosphere around you two feels sacred once more. You don’t want a single thing to disturb this carefully found peace, not even for a second. Folding your fingers around Seonghwa’s wrist, you use him as leverage to pull yourself up to a sitting position across from him.

All it takes is one quick beckoning motion for him to fall against your lips, granting you the kiss you’re after and securing you in his hold at the same time.

Seonghwa rights himself but keeps a hand firm on your hip as he climbs off the bike, only letting his touch fall away once he’s certain you’re steady and safe on your perch. You watch him tuck his softened dick back into his pants without exchanging words. You’re dazed yet exceptionally and thoroughly satisfied, and that feeling persists for some time. You don’t opt to speak until Seonghwa is bent over and grabbing your pants from the ground.

“Will you stay with me when we get back home?”

Seonghwa jerks his head in your direction. His dark eyes are wide, and you can see the contemplation cross his features even in the low light.

“Yeah, I think I will this time.”

────────────

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enbyfvcker · 2 months ago

Text

[Poke the bear and face the consequences]

𝙒𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙭 𝙇𝙤𝙜𝙖𝙣 (𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙨𝙩!𝙬𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙚)

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 2,8k

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮/𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩: Logan gets enough of Wade's teasing and decides to use other tactics to shut the merc's mouth.

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙨: Smut, top!Logan, bottom!Wade, dom/sub dynamic, masochism, sadism, brat-taming, oral sex, face fucking, anal fingering, anal sex, orgasm control, orgasm denial, edging, degradation kink, blood, violence (claws are used).

It's common knowledge that Wade Wilson does not know when to shut up.

People call him the merc with a mouth for a goddamn reason, and it took minutes after meeting Wade to Logan learn that.

It doesn't matter how many times Logan drills his claws into Wade, how many times he breaks his bones or punch him, Wade always says some shit that pissed him off.

The guy did not have a fucking filter, his mouth works faster than his brain and yeah it did got him into a hell lot of trouble but it's not like he ever learns.

Despite the affection for Wade slowly growing in Logan, it did not changed the fact that the merc was fucking infuriating.

Now and then, Logan would drill Wade into their shared apartment's walls or floor with his claws through his organs whenever he'd crack a joke that had Logan growling with rage, and Althea would always shout for them to clean the goddamn blood from the carpet.

Either Wade's a fucking masochist or he just enjoys poking the bear. Or maybe he's just stupid. Maybe a combination of all above.

The thing is: Logan was having none of it. If his methods weren't working, then he'd simply find new ones.

...

After Logan moved in, he quickly got bored. Between sitting around in the apartment and spending hours in random bars, there wasn't much to do. So, eventually, he accepted Wade's invitations to join him in his mercenary jobs.

It wasn't really what he was used to. After spending so much time working with the X-men, he couldn't help but have Charles's voice in the back of his head when he'd help kill Wade's targets.

But it's not like he didn't spend the last years in a killing spree without an ounce of a moral compass, so now that he was killing actual bad people, it didn't weight on him so much. Besides, it helped pay the bills, so win-win.

In this job, though, Wade was more mouthy than usual. And that's saying something.

"Gosh, Wolvie, your suit really should come with a boner warning. Didn't know it was my birthday, that cake's outstanding." Wade babbles as Logan slices through a guy, both of them fighting a dozen criminals at the same time. "Wish I was wearing my white pants."

"Do you ever shut the fuck up, bub? Focus on the damn mission and zip it." Logan growls, driving his claws into two guys at once, a cacophony of screams filling the abandoned warehouse they found themselves in.

"Sorry, can't control myself when you're in that heavenly comic-accurate outfit, peanut." He remarks while piercing his katanas through one of them. "Makes me want to put those bj-handles to test."

Logan snarls, but before he could curse at Wade, he grunts when 6 bullets pierce him at once from behind. If his mood wasn't great, then now it just got damn worse. He turns around to see a man desperately pulling the trigger of his now empy pistoll and walking backward in fear as Logan stalks like a fucking predator before using both his claws to cut through the man, an animalistic growl leaving him.

"Oh god, I'm soaking wet right now. Can I be next?" Wade comments as he slices the last one of them, a pile of bodies around the place.

When Logan's victim drops dead, he sighs as his body rejects the bullets, a pained grunt leaving his throat.

"Yeah, any other funny quip and you're right next on the list."

"I'm 'bout to do a fucking stand up act, then, peanut." Wade retorted, gasping when Logan roughly grab him by his collar.

"I'm not in the fucking mood, bub. Quit it." He warns through gritted teeth, and he was almost sure he could see Wade grinning behind his mask.

"Oh, you know me better than that, baby girl." Wade teases, running his finger sensually against Logan's chest and his control barely slips as he just grunts and shoves Wade with force.

"Let's just get the fuck home, already. Contact your guy, say we did the job." Logan walks through the bloody bodies, the merc following right behind him like an excited puppy.

Wade chuckles. "You're so sexist! Who said it was a guy?"

"Isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is, but my point remains."

"Let's just wrap it up, Wade."

...

"Honey, I'm home!" Wade shouts when they got in their apartment. They realized Al was out, probably walking mary puppins or at the market or something. The author wasn't feeling much creative to tend to side characters.

Logan sighs with frustration, sliding off the upper part of his suit as soon as he closes the door. He was sweaty from the fight, and he could hear a whisle behind him.

"I swear I can still hear Madonna in my head whenever you take your shirt off. I mean, look at those boobies-"

"Shut. Up." He growls. "I'm not saying it again." He was about to walk to the bathroom to take a shower when Wade made him turn around:

"Alrighty, if you jerk off, can I put a glass on the door and hear it?"

Usually, Logan has a level of tolerance over Wade's idiotic jokes, but they were getting more and more flirtatious, and now it not only pissed him off but it also send a mix of animalistic arousal through him and it confused the shit out of him.

Before he realizes it, he has Wade against the wall.

"Ooh, 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑦."

Logan was gritting his teeth and looking at the merc like he was about to gut him right then and there, and Wade actually thought he was going to.

For a while, Logan decided to see Wade's obvious teasing as simply jokes. He was never sure if the merc actually meant the shit he says, but well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Get on your fucking knees." Logan orders in a dark tone, not leaving room for arguments. "𝘕𝘰𝘸."

For a few seconds, Wade was speechless, and as much as Logan loved him silent, he thought maybe he had read it wrong. Maybe it was all jokes, after all.

"What-" The mercs eyes drift down to the raging bulge against his thigh, and god, he may be daydreaming this. "Oh, 𝘨𝘰𝘥, yes daddy." Wade moans, already kneeling in front of Logan.

"Do 𝘯𝘰𝘵 call me that."

"Too late!" He says while making quick work of Logan's belt.

Logan rolled his eyes. "Lose the mask." And Wade did as told, unzipping his mask and throwing it somewhere, he didn't cared. He pulled Logan's pants and boxers down, and Logan stepped out of them, standing completely naked in front of Wade and with a very large erection tall and proud.

"Oh my god. Did you stabbed me in the brain and now I'm hallucinating?"

Logan doesn't respond, instead gripping Wade's jaw tight and gripping himself at the base of his cock. "Put that damn mouth to good use, will ya, bub." He smirks, not waiting before filling the mercs mouth to the brim with his lenght.

Wade fucking 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 with his eyes and suck greedily, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue around Logan's dick, the musky taste of him making his rock hard cock twitch in the confines of his suit.

Logan groans in pleasure, looking down at Wade on his knees and with his mouth full of him and best of all, fucking quiet. It's a goddamn head rush.

"Finally, some fucking peace." He grunts, gripping the back of Wade's bald head and starting to move his hips steadily to fuck into the mercs mouth, reaching deep into his throat until his lips meet his hairy groin and watching with a smirk as Wade gags and his eyes get glossy.

"If I knew this is all it took to shut 'ur sassy mouth, I would've done this ages ago." He thrusts particularly hard, watching with lust as the merc's throat bulges.

"Gonna keep ya on your knees from now on, bub. Using your mouth as my own personal fucktoy whenever you start annoying me too much." He moans, his thrusts getting faster.

Logan notices the tent in Wade's pants and grins, placing one foot on top of it and adding pressure, earning a moan from his mouth that vibrates through Logan's cock and his eyes roll back in pleasure. He could see a wet spot on the mercs pants as he felt Wade's cock throbbing under his feet. He adds a bit more pressure with a wicked smirk.

"Fuck, you look so good like that." His hips grow more erratic, fucking the merc's throat mercilessly as he groans. He pulls out suddenly, Wade gasps for air, his eyes holding a dreamy look. Logan slaps his cock against the merc's face three times, spearing his pre-cum on Wade's cheeks before pushing it back into his mouth, settling a relentless pace.

"Gonna fill your throat, bub. Swallow every drop like the cockslut you are." Oh, he didn't have to say it twice. After a few more thrusts Wade could feel him twitching repeatedly in his mouth before he thrusted deep and stilled, spilling his cum deep into Wade's throat to ensure he wouldn't waste a single drop. He swallowed eagerly, his own dick leaking desperately with pre-cum at the sight in front of him and the lewd animalistic noises leaving Logan's mouth.

When Logan finally pulls out after a few seconds, Wade gasps for air. His lips were puffy, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glossy filled with lust, and Logan's dazed mind didn't think he could be any more beautiful. He removes his foot from Wade's crotch and runs a hand through his own hair, catching his breath.

"God that was so fucking hot. Fuck, peanut, almost jizzed in my pants just watching you." Wade gasps, making Logan smirk.

"Can't have that, bub. Get up. Now." Wade immediately obeys, and the moment he gets up on his feet, Logan is pressing their lips together in a heated, hungry kiss. Wade lets out a soft moan into his lips, kissing him back with equal fervor.

Logan could taste himself in Wade's tongue and his cock twitched back to life in response. He leads Wade backward to his own room while their lips are connected, closing the door shut the moment they get in. He shoves the merc into his own bed and looms over him with a predatory look.

"Oh, 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬." Wade gasps, feeling like he was being fucking hunted by an starving beast.

Logan's hand palms and squeezes Wade's bulge before removing his suit entirely, tossing it somewhere in the room.

Now with Wade's cock free, Logan grasp it in his hand and squeezes tightly, drawing a pathetic whimper from the mercs mouth.

"Now, listen to me carefully, bub. If ya even dare to cum without my permission I'll fucking chop your dick off, understand?" He asked with a dark tone, feeling Wade's scarred cock twitching in his hand, beads of pre-cum leaking from the tip.

"God, yes yes yes, please Wolvie~" Wade babbles, his mind overwhelmed with need.

Satisfied by his response, Logan turns him around and manhandles him into all fours, making him bend over. Spitting in Wade's hole, he rubs his finger against the rim teasingly. He thought about sliding in without preparing Wade first, but he's not that mean. I mean, sure, he stabs him with his claws all the time, but he wants Wade to feel good, wants to control his pleasure.

He slides one finger knuckles deep, feeling his cock throb at the moans that it elicited from Wade.

"𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺..." Logan smirked at the desperate whimpers and obliged him, adding a second finger and scissoring his hole open. He eventually adds a third one and thrusts them deep into Wade, grinning when he hears the gasp and whines that comes from the merc's mouth when his fingers brush against his prostate.

"Fuck- Wolvie... not enough, please, need your cock- Ah!" Wade gasps when he feels a hard smack against his ass. He was begging so prettily and besides Logan still wanting to tease him further he could feel his own cock throbbing with need.

"Desperate little thing, ain't ya?" He pulls his fingers out of Wade, earning a whine from him. He grips his own cock and rubs it against the merc's prepared hole.

"I'm taller than you- Oh fuck 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘫𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴-" Wade whimpers loudly when Logan roughly pushes inside of him in one brutal thrust, reaching deep until his groin meets Wade's ass.

"Stop talking and just moan for me, bub." Logan grunts as he sets a punishing pace, fucking into Wade hard and fast, knocking the air out of his lungs. "God, you're tight."

Wade could feel Logan's cock so deep inside him and his whimpers were growing louder and louder with each rough thrust against his sweet spot, his cock leaking obscene amounts of pre-cum into the matress.

"Wolvie, feels so good~ fuck, so fucking good please don't stop-" Wade whines, his cock twitching desperately. He feels Logan scratching his back with his nails and the pain mixed with pleasure almost had him cumming right then and there already. "Shit- Logan, fuck- I'm so close, please please..." Just when it was all getting too much he whines out when Logan suddenly slow down his movements, fucking him in a torturing slow pace.

"No no no, please go faster, please, need it-" He's interrupted by his own gasp when Logan slaps his ass again, harder this time.

"Shut up. Take what you're given." He orders, driving into Wade slow and deep, not enough to drive him over the edge.

He keeps it like that until the merc is straight up crying out desperate pleas, alternating between fast and slow whenever Wade gets too close, his neglected cock slapping against his abdomen.

"Ah, fuck... That's it." Logan grunts as he thrusts hard into Wade, pleasured whimpers coming out of the merc's mouth non stop.

"C-Can't hold it- Please Wolvie please I'msosoclose-" Wade begs desperately and cries out loudly when Logan's claws suddenly dig into his shoulder, pressing him on the bed, his blood soaks the sheets as Logan keeps railing into him. The sudden pain sends shockwaves through Wade's brain. "Fuck!"

"Yes, you fucking can." He grunts, driving deep into the merc. But right when Wade was about to tip over, Logan pulled out and cums in his ass cheeks and back, leaving him desperate and needy. He unsheathed his claws from Wade's shoulder, watching as the wounds close in seconds.

"God- You selfish little prick! You're mean-" He curses but gasps when another hard smack is delivered against his skin.

"Watch your fucking mouth or I might just not let you cum at all." Logan warns.

"No no no, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'll be good, peanut. Pinky promess."

Logans grins at the desperation in Wade's voice, feeling a rush of power. He turns Wade around, laying him on his back.

Wade was panting, his sensitive cock twitching and leaking against his stomach.

"You look filthy." Logan grunts, his eyes filled with hunger.

"And you look like you're about to eat me alive."

Wade's eyes shine when Logan settles between his legs and a whimper leaves his lips when he takes him into his mouth, the pleasure making the merc's eyes roll back. "Yes, yes, yes... so good, shit-"

He couldn't help but buck his hips up into Logan's mouth, earning a dark glance and hands tight on his hips, Logan using his strength to hold him down. He bobs his head up and down over Wade's cock, sucking eagerly as he watches in awe every little reaction coming from the merc. Not long into his ministrations he could already feel Wade twitching in his mouth and his moans growing more desperate. He keeps it up until Wade was teetering on the edge and pulls his cock out of his mouth with a 'pop', chuckling at the frustration in Wade's whines.

"Already?" He tsks. "Such a pathetic little toy." He smirks and it earns a whimper from Wade.

"Don't bully me! It'll only make it worse..." He cries out, trying to buck his hips up but Logan didn't let him. "Please, this is torture! can't take anymore... Pretty please please please with a cherry on top!"

"Hmm... 𝘕𝘰." Logan grins before diving back and taking Wade's cock back into his mouth, setting a relentless torture as he brings Wade to the precipice and then brings him down again, taking him deep in his throat ans then pulling away just to watch the tears welling in Wade's eyes as he grow more and more desperate, begging and pleading.

When Logan did allowed Wade to cum, though (after what felt like hours) Wade was sure he never came so fucking hard in his entire life. The pleasure was so overwhelming and lasting that he got straight up dazed and nonverbal for minutes, only babbling incoherent words and something to do with "Luv ya, sugar tits" and "Sweet marvel jesus".

As he lies beside the groggy merc, Logan was just happy Wade got fucking quiet for once.

He might do this more often.

#deadpool and wolverine #deadclaws #poolverine #wade x logan #logan howlett #wade wilson #smut #fanfic

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stnkiconverse · 4 days ago

Note

HI ITS YOUR GIRL SWANONNN

im interested in sum....enemies to lovers.... with toby....

-🦢

Enemies to Lovers - Ticci Toby x Proxy!Reader

- You and Toby are oil and water from the start. His sharp tongue and impulsiveness immediately put you on edge, while your no-nonsense attitude only fuels his irritation.

- He has a knack for throwing off your focus, his muttered sarcasm or outright refusal to collaborate during missions always sends your blood boiling.

- "For someone who talks so b-big, you're pretty bad at k-keeping up," he'd mock after outrunning you in the field.

- "And for someone who's so 'skilled’ you sure love making my job harder," you'd shoot back.

- The tension comes to a head during a high-stakes mission. His recklessness forces you to cover for him, leaving you both bruised and pissed.

- You corner him afterward, chest heaving as you shout, "Do you even care that you almost got us both killed?!"

- Toby's jaw tightens, his usual smirk absent. "I didn't a-ask you to save me." His words sting, but his tone is more defensive than combative, like you've hit a nerve.

- After that mission, something shifts. You start noticing things about him you hadn't before, how his hands shake when he's still for too long or the way he fiddles with a small, battered notebook when he thinks no one's watching.

- One night, you find him sitting alone on the porch, hood pulled low as he stares at the stars.

- Instead of walking past, you sit down beside him. He doesn't look at you, but he doesn't move away either.

- "W-why do you care so m-much?" he asks quietly after a long silence.

- The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard.

- Slowly, the hostility between you softens. Toby starts listening to you during missions (mostly 🥲), and you stop snapping at him over every little thing.

- He begins showing up in your space more often, dropping little jokes or leaning against the wall as if daring you to tell him to leave.

- You catch him sketching once, his natepad open to a rough but surprisingly detailed drawing of a bird. He notices you staring and slams it shut, cheeks flushing slightly. "W-what? Never seen someone d-draw before?"

- During another dangerous encounter, you get hurt protecting him. For once, Toby doesn't crack a joke or brush it off. Instead, he's frantic, hands clumsy as he tries to stop the bleeding.

- "Why the hell w-would you do t-that?" he demands, voice shaking. You can't tell if he's angry or scared.

- "Because l'm not going to let you get yourself killed," you reply, and for a moment, he just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression.

- After that, Toby becomes noticeably more protective. He doesn't say anything outright, but he's always nearby, watching your back during missions and lingering a little longer in your shared spaces.

- The teasing doesn't stop, but it changes, less biting, more playful. He starts calling you nicknames that are just annoying enough to make you roll your eyes but secretly make your chest tighten.

- One rainy evening, he invites you to sit with him on the porch.

- "Y-you're quieter than I thought you'd b-be," he says after a while, the corners of his lips twitching up in a small smile.

- It's not a grand, all-out moment, Toby isn't that kind of guy.

- Instead, it happens during a quiet night in the aftermath of another mission.

- "You kn-know," he says, not meeting your eyes as he fidgets with a loose thread on his sleeve, "y-you're not as bad as I th-thought."

- You laugh. "High praise coming from you."

- He finally looks at you, his expression unusually serious. "I mean it. You... you make all this c-crap a little easier to d-deal with."

- The kiss that follows is skeptical at first, as if neither of you can believe it's actually happening.

- But when he pulls back, there's a fondness in his eyes that makes your heart ache.

- Toby doesn't change totally, he's still brash, sarcastic, and occasionally infuriating.

- But he's also fiercely loyal, sticking close to you and showing his care in subtle ways, like leaving snacks outside your door or quietly patching you up after missions.

- "G-guess you're stuck with m-me now," he says one day, his smirk as annoying as ever.

- But the way he squeezes your hand tells you he means it in a way he doesn't know how to put into words.

SWANON IM SO SORRY FOR MAKING U WAIT THIS LONG😔😔

#creepypasta #fandom #slenderman #slender mansion #jeff the killer #ticci toby #creepypasta headcanon #ben drowned #nina the killer #ticci toby x reader #jramblesaboutsoap

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merumis · 7 months ago

Text

you gave kuroo a notebook last may—he hasn't quite had the courage to open it yet.

it's almost august now; it's that sticky kind of heat outside, the one that clings to both his skin and the inside of his lungs, so he's stuck in his childhood room. there's a rickety fan that keeps blowing half-cooled air into his face and downstairs, he can hear his father talking to his grandparents. something about dad's hardware store, something about a new employee, something about grandma wanting to make grandpa's favorite for dinner tonight.

the fan keeps lifting the cover of the notebook up. it's sitting on kuroo's desk. to his right, between all the remnants of last semester's college apartment that he couldn't leave there this summer: an air purifier his mom sent him (it was a peace offering, he thinks, after a particularly bad phone call. he doesn't think he forgave her), a box of his dishes, filled with cracks from his shitty dishwasher, and a bread basket you thrifted him. just to name a few.

and still, between the clutter, the breeze from the fan lifts only the cover—just enough for it to catch his eye. he reaches over to grab it, playing with the cover, bending the spine and flicking through the pages. it's an old notebook, well-worn and imprinted by your fingertips. the leather bends and gives where you would've held it, or where it would've jumbled around in your bag—molded by textbooks and pencil cases and your laptop.

he supposes he'll see you again next month, so now is as good a time as any to open this. you've been awfully incurious regarding this whole thing—sending him texts about your and his internships more than anything else. he's been partially grateful.

it's not that he doesn't want to read it. he doesn’t know quite how else to say it. he’s watched you scribble in this thing over the course of the year. it’s almost always late at night, in his bed or yours, lit only by his half-broken lamp or yours, gifted by a professor who you get lunch with every other week.

it was never that he didn’t want to read it—he means it, really. he’d always try to sneak glances while you were writing in it, and you’d tsk and laugh at him while pulling the papers up to your chest. in a weird way, it felt wrong to read it after you’d given it to him—like he hadn’t earned it, or like he’d be looking at something all too personal that hadn’t been there during all those failed attempts.

the fan lifts up the cover again, and this time, he sneaks his index finger under it, flipping to the first page.

i don’t normally fill the first pages of notebooks, it reads, scrawled out in your too-neat handwriting that he’s always made fun of. but it’s a good thing, you continue, because this way i get to fill this page with this. you finally get your way, tetsurou. you can read the notebook. i’m so—underlined three times, drawn a little darker, he can feel the sarcasm seeping through the pencil led—proud of you.

and then at the bottom, one more bit.

and by the way, do NOT tell me when you read this. don’t even mention it to me at all. this is embarrassing enough as is.

he lets out that stupid breath of laughter through his nose. those uninterested texts suddenly make a little more sense. he turns the next page.

i’ve met someone infuriating, it reads. crooked smiles, tequila-drenched breath, eyes made just to match. he leans in close when he speaks, laughter bubbling between words and fanning his warm breath across my ear and neck.

and then there’s that pull. i couldn’t put a name to it if i tried. that sweet tingling across my skin whenever he gets close enough; it feels like someone’s placed magnets beneath the surface of my flesh, and he’s holding their pair.

i knew we were going to kiss before he ever got that close—and i think he did too. he was too warm, too enticing, too, well, magnetic for anything else. and i love watching his brows furrow at the sound of my voice—indifferent, maybe a little cold. a comment about his big nose in return for one about my pretty eyes.

and all at once, kuroo knows this moment. the fan acts as a poor imitation of the cool october breeze—but it feels similar, all the same. it wasn’t quite halloween but at every party, you could see hints of it popping up in the corners. window decals of a witch and a ghost hanging in someone’s room, pumpkin carving kits tucked against the wall because no one had planned for a place to store them.

it was hardly the first time he’d talked to you—much less the first time he’d seen you—but you are right. he did know he was going to kiss you that night.

the fan catches one of his old posters behind him—making the thick paper scrape against his wall. the noise makes him turn. it’s an old periodic table (groan) and now it’s starting to get a little tattered at the edges. the fan catches again, this time on the notebook, and flips to another page.

kuroo allows it—call it fate or languor—and flattens out the notebook onto this new page.

i don’t know if you know this, it starts, but you fell asleep last night. shocking, i know, but it was before me, in my bed. you were sprawled out on my sheets—taking every inch of space you could in my mediocre full-size.

two weeks ago you told me you loved me. i didn’t know what to say. i laughed and kissed you and maybe said thank you. you took it like a champ while i dipped tofu into panko crumbs.

but tonight, i whispered it to you. once, twice, a third time—my lips brushing against the curve of your ear. i stopped every time you tossed or turned—i love, i would begin, and then hold my breath until your body stilled against mine. you, i breathed out. warm and all mine for tonight.

and kuroo has always known that you’re a writer—a good one, at that, from all those nights reading over your latest essay or poem for class, but this is different.

you like to write break-up poems for class—all about him, all fictionalized (he hopes) and all there to get a bit of a rise out of him, he knows. you love to write about the grand, the grotesque, things that he couldn’t put words to describe and you always did.

you had never written about him like this. or not to his face, anyway, and yet here it was—laid out in front of him, your handwriting looping around the college-ruled lines.

he flicks through a few more pages, fanning them out underneath the slow glide of his thumb—the fan swirling them in front of him faster than he wants, so he has to do it once, twice, and then again—a third. they’re not all about him, some are about her roommate, others about an essay or a concept that kuroo couldn’t put a name to. but most center him—in one view or another.

his grandmother clatters a few pans downstairs, a sharp clanging of metal hitting just beneath his floors. he can hear his dad call to her, his grandfather watching the tv 4 clicks too loud.

but here, with his rickety fan and tattered posters and his claustrophobic childhood scattered around him, he also has you. his phone buzzes next to him.

i think my job hates me btw, you send, and then another. how was your day off?

good, he replies, read a little.

anything good?

and because kuroo is so compliant to your word—perhaps maliciously so—he replies.

eh. not really. he smiles to only himself. maybe i’ll tell you about it later.

#LOL this one is shorter than i expected it to be but that's okay i think #i wrote this half on my laptop and half on my phone so i'm not responsible for any inconsistencies #hq x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #haikyuu x reader #x reader #kuroo x you

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cinnahoons · 7 months ago

Text

visions of gideon - (n. riki) 𖤓

— to love, is to trust.

p. criminal!nishimura riki x criminal!reader w. 2.8k

genres & warnings. angst, partners in crime, established relationship, guns, blood, death & killing, very slight character study, riki is complicated but reader gets it, tears and more tears, cussing, did i mention angst, this has been stuck in my pea brain for so long pls bear with me

“I won’t let anything happen.”

Rain pelts against the windows of the dark cabin. It cracks against glass like shards of ice, sharp and stabbing; a staccato of impending doom.

“Stop—acting like everything’s fine,” you snap, agitated. You’re cradling a pistol in your arms, huddled on the wooden floor with your knees up like they might shield you from your current predicament. It’s dark, dark enough that you can barely make out the ashen metal against your skin.

Riki turns around, silvery moonlight glistening across his black hair. It shimmers like a frozen lake; crystalline. He fixes you with an authoritative glare, one you can only outline by the grace of the moon.

“I need you to trust me, Y/N.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a deep breath coursing through your lungs in an attempt to quell the anger that simmers just below your collarbones.

“I do. That’s all I’ve been doing. Trusting you.” You toss your arms out, suddenly gesturing wildly around the dark cabin. “But this is different, Riki. This time, they have us. They fucking have us.”

Something like guilt flashes in his eyes for a passing moment, and then it’s gone. His jaw hardens.

“By the skin of their teeth,” he retorts, crossing the room to squat in front of you. His boots crack against the wood. “Listen. They have us surrounded, but we’re smarter than them. We have a straight shot from the cabin door to the trees. The lake isn’t much farther. We’ll swim it.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes. The anger in your chest has given way to something heavier, sharper. Pure, unadulterated fear.

“It’s too dangerous. They’ll shoot us.”

Riki frowns, a marvelous thing. His arms come down to your shoulders, giving you a little shake.

“You can’t cry now,” he scolds. “I told you, I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

You draw your lips into a line, hot tears slipping past the chapped skin. It’s infuriating. In all your years of skirting around danger with Riki; pulling off heists, sprinting down guarded alleys, gunfights with gangs looking to score the bounty on your heads…nothing has ever shaken you like this. You’ve never been compromised in this way, and it’s terrifying.

“But—what about you?”

A flash of white. Riki’s teeth; he’s smiling. He reaches behind his back, pulling out a dark, heavy pistol.

“Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

You stare at it, eyes wet, before nodding slowly. He’s right. You’re not thinking straight. Youve done this before.

You reach a shaky hand down to your lap, wrapping your fingers around your own pistol. It’s cold and solid against your palm. Riki watches you with something careful in his eyes. It’s almost like he’s relieved that you’ve finally snapped into your usual resolve.

He stands up, beckoning you with his gun. The floor creaks as you both make your way to the door, guided by the light that flushes through the window. He signals you to stop.

“Remember, as soon as we step outside this door, they’ll close in. We need to move fast.”

You nod. Your neck feels stiff; cold. The rain outside has slowed. It sounds like a gentle drizzle now, taps against the window that are hardly noticeable. Your fingers flex in anticipation.

You catch Riki’s eye as he leans into the door. He’s all sharp angles and deep shadows, but there’s a curiosity that seeps through him like sticky pine sap. He’s an enigma, really. Quietly self-assured but with a wide-eyed innocence all the same. It’s exactly why you fell in love with him. Why all those years ago; you followed him. Why you’ll follow him today.

“I love you,” you tell him, because you can. His brows soften.

“You can say that when we make it to the lake.”

You don’t say anything else. He’s said I love you back.

It’s what’s most important to him. To love, is to trust. There is no greater gift.

The door swings open.

The moonlight is odd now. Sickly. There’s an incessant buzz that you imagine the drizzle might sound like; a thousand roaring droplets. Run, they chant. Run for your life.

Soil crunches beneath your feet. Are you running? You’re running. Riki is running.

There’s a splintering to your left. No, to your right. Or was that behind you?

Everything blurs around you. Shadowy forms lurk on your periphery, slinking around like in your particularly awful nightmares. A chill runs through your veins. And suddenly, there’s yelling. Loud, horrid sounds; a chorus of angry commands, and then—gunfire? A bullet whizzes past your ear. You duck, hissing.

“A thousand times, Y/N,” Riki yells over his shoulder. His gun fires loudly as he lifts his arm up and pulls the trigger. You think you see a body crumple to the ground.

There he is. So sure. So trusting.

You lift your own gun, firing it at an agent that’s been popping up in your line of sight often enough to piss you off. He grunts, shoulder flying back as he stumbles, wounded.

There’s a commotion to your left, a cluster of agents that have broken off together and are firing in your direction. Their bullets crack like dynamite in the night air, loud and bright.

A searing pain shoots through your leg as one of the bullets grazes your skin. You stumble, but Riki is there, grabbing your arm and pulling you forward.

“Keep moving!” He shouts, his voice laced with urgency.

You grit your teeth. There’s a feeling blooming in your chest, a sort of technicolor that winds and oozes around your bones. It tells you to push through the pain.

There’s a spattering of trees not too far ahead. They offer some semblance of cover, but the agents are relentless. One lunges from the side, giving you a hair's-breadth of a second to react. You twist, slamming the butt of your gun into his face. He drops with a groan, but the others are quick to follow.

Your grip tightens. Together, you and Riki press forward, firing off bullets in quick succession. Each shot is calculated, deliberate. Another agent falls, then another.

There’s a dark blur, and then suddenly Riki is being tackled to the floor. He hits the ground hard, gun flying out of his hand. An agent has him pinned.

“Riki,” you gasp.

You try to fire at the agent, but the shot goes wide. He grins, pressing his advantage, but Riki manages to get an arm free, grabbing a rock and smashing it to his temple. The agent slumps immediately, unconscious, and Riki shoves him off with a groan.

You grab him by the arm after he grabs his gun, pulling him along while bullets zip past. He curses loudly, turning to you with bright, clear eyes.

“We need to split up,” he says, breathless. “They won’t follow us both.”

“No fucking way,” you argue, but he’s already breaking away, squeezing your hand before he’s yelling loudly at a group of agents. They charge at him, guns aimed.

You take a short, squeezing breath. With Riki distracting them, you have a chance to make it to the grove of trees just before the lake. You press on, a dull ache spreading through your leg with every sharp jolt of boot to soil. Wind whips across your face. The rain is gone now, but the darkness still makes it difficult to see where you’re going.

You lose count of how long you’ve been running when your surroundings change from practically barren, vast land to the dense forest that Riki had mentioned earlier. There’s a whirring sound in your ears, damp air escaping your mouth when you collapse against a large tree trunk. It’s even darker here, pale moonlight barely reaching through the dense foliage overhead. A cold sweat drips down your back; you can feel your heartbeat in your leg.

Looking down, you finally catch sight of what damage the bullet inflicted. There’s a fleshy pink hole visible through the fabric of your pants from where the bullet grazed you, dark red blood pooling over it. You dart your eyes up to the sky, stomach turning. The pain is dull, probably from the adrenaline. It’s going to be a real bitch later.

Now, sitting here, the forest is quiet—alarmingly so. You belatedly realize that maybe you should be pushing on towards the lake, but you can’t bring yourself to strain upwards onto your feet. Your head falls back against the tree trunk, willing yourself to take steady breaths as your head swims with exhaustion.

A rustle in the underbrush snaps you to attention. Your heart flips, fear flooding your senses. You reach silently for your gun, aiming it shakily at the source of the noise. There’s a shifting in the shadows, and then a figure emerges—it’s Riki. Your arm falls, relief washing over you in waves.

“Riki,” you whisper. “You’re okay.”

His eyes widen when he sees you, and he rushes over, boots crunching as he crouches beside you. He lays his gun on the ground, hands ghosting over your extended leg.

“I lost them,” he mutters distractedly. “Damn it, Y/N.”

His eyes are dark and narrowed, glazed over with concern. You let a little shiver wrack over your body before hardening your jaw.

“It’s just a graze,” you say, trying to sound more convinced than you are. “I can still walk.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“We still need to swim the lake. Can you do it?”

You pause, and then you try to smile at him. It comes off more like a grimace.

“That should clean it out,” you joke.

Riki frowns, eyes dropping to your leg again.

“Funny,” he deadpans.

His next movements are swift. He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a pocket knife. He grabs the bottom hem of his shirt, slicing a long piece of fabric. The knife falls, and he moves toward your leg. Gingerly, he lifts it up, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress. When he’s met with nothing, he wraps the fabric around your leg, above your wound. Tying it, he pulls it tight enough to act as a tourniquet.

“This won’t help for long, but it’s something,” he murmurs, voice low. “We’ll get you to the medical contact I have as soon as we’re out of here, okay?”

You nod, slightly sluggish. Riki moves closer to you, reaching his arm around your back and using his shoulder to hoist you up so that you’re finally standing again. You breathe evenly, focusing on the feeling of your boots on the ground.

“We need to keep moving,” he tells you, his voice apologetic. You sigh.

“I know. Let’s get on with it.”

Immediately, Riki tries to wrap an arm around your shoulders to have you lean on him, but you shake your head.

“Just—let me do this,” you tell him, putting a little distance between the two of you. “I don’t fall down that easy.”

He raises a speculative brow, but seems to think better of trying to argue with you. Instead, he turns around silently, keeping his gun close at his side.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, the only audible sounds being the various chirps and buzzing of whatever insects live in the forest. It’s colder now, too, the type of cold that comes after a bountiful rain. It’s sharp and biting. You pull the jacket you’ve been wearing a little tighter to your chest.

There’s something bothering you. It’s like an itch, maybe. A senseless, baseless thing. It crawls up the length of your spine and sends a rigid, uneasy feeling to lodge itself at the bottom of your throat. You wonder—is it your leg? The blood loss must be causing ghost sensations to travel all around your body. You feel them, but they’re not there. That must be it.

But then there’s the chill. The knowing.

How long have you and Riki been walking?

How long have you and Riki been walking towards the lake?

How long have you and Riki been walking towards the lake, without looking back?

A gun clicks. Your blood runs cold.

When you turn around, nothing feels real. There’s a man; an agent. He’s alone. He steps out from behind a large tree, his gun trained directly on you. The forest seems to hold its breath. The agent’s eyes are shadowy, a cruel smirk playing upon his lips. He cocks his head at you, mocking.

“Riki,” you choke out. You can barely hear your own voice through the sound of blood roaring in your ears.

Riki’s boots scuff from behind you as he comes to what you assume to be a languid stop. You can hear a trickle of fondness in his voice when he speaks.

“Are you finally coming to your senses and letting me—”

A terrible, screeching halt. You blink, but your eyes feel numb. Trust, trust, trust. To love is to trust. You trusted him, he trusted you. You’ve tiptoed to the eleventh hour, and now the axe must fall.

“Don’t do this,” you rasp.

A deafening blast sends a flurry of birds up through the canopy.

There’s a lily.

It’s dripping rainwater. You try to reach out and touch it, but you have three-thousand arms and two-thirds of your fingers. A pale halo of light caresses its milky petals, illuminating a spattering of iridescent droplets.

No.

Are you allowed to touch it? Or must good things stay unaltered?

No, please.

It’s okay, you think, to just be content with watching it from where you are. There’s no sense in disturbing what has been or what could have been.

Three perfect droplets roll right off the beautiful lily, plopping earnestly on your cheek. How did they get there? They’re salty, your skin says.

A dark shadow engulfs your vision.

When your eyes flutter open, Riki is crouched over you.

His hands fly uselessly over your abdomen, fingers stained scarlet. You can feel his frame against your body, shaking. And when you take a wheezing breath, his eyes fly up to yours. There are wet marks on his cheeks, like tears had had their way with him.

“Jesus fuck,” he moves fast, cupping his trembling hands against either side of your face. They leave bloody prints on your skin. “Just—stay with me,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

You swallow in your throat, your eyes moving sluggishly to the area in front of you. The agent who shot you is crumpled in an awkward pile on the ground, a gory hole drilled into the center of his forehead. You have to fight the urge to smile. It hurts too much to move more than your eyes, anyway.

Riki brushes hair off your face, causing your gaze to snap back over. His eyes look so different to what you remember. Where there was once a somber serenity, there is now an ocean of uncertainty; glistening with more unshed tears. You make a sound in the back of your throat.

Riki’s hands tremble harder against your skin. They slip and slide as he tries to caress your cheek. It’s almost pathetic.

“I know it—I know it hurts, Y/N. Just…” he pauses, cursing under his breath. “You can’t leave, okay? You’re not ready. I’m not ready.”

You can see it now—the boy inside him. He’s only eighteen, burdened by a life he chose with you years ago; a choice, which was made under bitter loneliness, and disguised by ardor.

Trust is his vice, because it’s all he’s never known.

Slowly, and with all the strength you can muster, you bring a cold, shaky hand up towards your face, cupping the back of his own and leaning your head towards it as much as you can. He lets a quiet sob wrack through his body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers fiercely. “I’m so sorry. You trusted me.”

I don’t blame you, is what you wish you could say. Instead, your eyelids droop with a heaviness so extreme that they fall shut. Riki jolts immediately, his futile hands scrabbling for purchase against your face, trying desperately to keep you awake.

“Stop trying to die on me,” his voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes flicker open.

But then his face falls more, if that’s even possible. Guilt will eat him alive.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I love you. All you did was love me back.”

You try to shake your head, but nothing moves. Riki’s eyes fall shut for a brief moment.

“You can rest.” The words ring muffled in your ears. “It’s going to be okay.”

You think you can feel a kiss pressed against your cheek, but, oh, the lily is back, and you think you’d like to go off after it. It holds you close to its chest.

And, even in death, there is nobody you trust more.

tags! @vousty @hittoki @neos127 @junityy

#enhypen #k-labels #enhypen x reader #enha imagines #ni ki enhypen #riki enhypen #riki nishimura x reader #ni ki x reader #enhypen angst #enha angst #nishimura riki #enhypen drabbles #enhypen headcanons #ni ki angst #riki angst #enhypen fic #enhypen scenarios

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ihtherik · 7 months ago

Text

When You Bare Your Teeth It Almost Looks like a Smile

Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav (not described)

Astarion’s POV

SFW/Fluff/Angst (seriously there’s no s€x here)

Summary: Set in Act 2 when the group begins scouring Moonrise Towers and Astarion and Tav encounter Araj Oblodra, the Drow blood merchant. She won’t take no for an answer, and learns why that is a very very stupid thing to do.

~3.2 K words

Bit of a deviation from the canon interactions/dialogue and what the outcome is because ummm little guard dog with her love that most certainly does doesn’t need one is a trope I LOVE and needed to vomit out a lil flash fic at 1 AM last night to perform catharsis help I also kind of made myself sad

I may get this posted on my AO3?

I also will post the next part of Turn My Heart to a Spade soon!!!

“Oh, but I’d prefer if you did.”

The sneering Drow’s reply to his assurances that he would not bite anyone doesn’t quite register for Astarion before she lets slip another gut-reeling string of words, this time directed at you.

“I assume he belongs to you? Judging by the way he’s clung to your shadow since you walked up…” her laugh is mirthful, the metallic smear of red around the blue-grey skin of her eyelids crinkling and cracking in her amusement. “It’s a truly remarkable boon, to have had a spawn at your beck and call during your trek through the Shadow-cursed lands. I’d be remiss and dishonest to say I’m not jealous.”

His pale brows furrow as an unfamiliar emotion hits him. Maybe unfamiliar isn’t right, but he’s been so long separated from it that encountering it again feels like meeting a stranger he’s all too wary of.

Much like how he felt when he met you.

Kind, generous, trusting, infuriating you.

Oh, how he loathed being proven wrong. Having his tried and true skills of determining who people are and what they want sidestepped, his—sometimes hastily drawn—conclusions about things tipped on their heads like a cat swiping a cup off a table. Mostly by you. Endearingly and maddeningly.

For Gods’ sakes, he is supposed to be the unpredictable, unreadable, unflappable one. It’s his armour. His sodding lifeline. When one is in control of their faculties and has only themselves to rely on, their ability to save themselves is entirely up to their skills, or lack thereof.

But you, you whose only purpose was to take a fall or stab (sometimes literally) for him, has somehow managed to get him to willingly hand over the one thing that could kill him.

His trust.

It had kept him from trancing, some nights, gnawing the inside of his lip to shreds while going over every possible scenario in which his trust could be wielded against him.

Yet thus far, you’d not only permitted, but encouraged him to hold the other metaphorical end of it.

Both in battle, and in his bedroll.

He wonders most days if you know. If you’ve caught onto what he’s now realized was a very poorly conceived ploy. He has to tell you, at some point.

There’d been a humbling, blind fierceness in every fiber of your being when you last drew your weapon for him—looking up at the devil Yugir as if he didn’t have his crossbow bolt aimed right between your glaring brows. You swung and hacked and sliced like it was your soul you were fighting for, not his.

You’d done more than received his trust, you’d earned the right to hold it.

And here he is, silently watching, pleading, mentally tugging on the other end like a child grasping at their mother’s shirt—hoping you feel it.

“He has a name,” your voice appears as even as ever to the average onlooker, and certainly to this Drow; but there’s a strain, a warning that Astarion can detect that, to him, feels like the gentlest tug back from your end on the rope.

“Is that so? How quaint,” the Drow tilts her head. Turning her attention back to him, she appraises him from his boots up to his curls with a gaze that makes that strange, ugly feeling swell again. “Do indulge me then, what are you called, spawn?”

“Astarion—but-hold on—“

“Well, Astarion,” the way her tongue flicks over every syllable of his name puts a crinkle of disgust on the slope of his nose. So unlike how you say it. Usually uttered, quick and delicate, the ‘Ah’ nearly clipped off—shortening it to ‘Starion. Familiar and sweet and warm. “I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl.”

His disbelief manifests in the way he stutters over his words, managing to compose himself into a semblance of his normal character by the end of his reply. “You—What? I’m sorry, You—you want to be bitten?”

“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance between the edge of life and death? Yes, I want it.”

Though he’s already decided that this woman is, in fact, a stem short of a brain, the arrangement she proposes catches his attention. And not in any way that’s enticing. A likely dangerous and potentially faulty potion in exchange for drinking her blood is a shoddy deal at best, and a revolting one at worst. Her blood smells foul. Acrid. He can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, which only worries him more. Not a sort of sickly sweet smell of decay like Gale’s. Nor is it twinged with something medicinal like Halsin’s, or like the pleasant muddle of Shadowheart’s half-elven and half-human blood. And certainly not like yours.

Putting on all the politeness he can muster, which is already more than the Drow deserves, he replies.

“I will have to…erm, decline.”

“Excuse me?” The Drow scoffs, displeasure creasing the space between her brows. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you’re squandering it.”

“I gave you my answer,” he shocks himself with the lack of grace he speaks with, voice lowered and snarling. He used to be so good at evading people like her. What the Hells has gotten into him?

Tutting, the Drow turns back to you. “Can you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?” Addressing you like he’s not in the room, with scant more respect for you than she had for him.

Proving the Drow’s earlier observation right—as loyal as a bloody mutt—he looks to you, anxiety tightening the muscles over his stomach. The scenarios begin to churn in his mind, the worst among them not even that of you asking him to bite her to get the potion—but instead acquiescing his wants in front of the Drow only to reprimand or even punish him in some way later.

They come to a hilt as both he and the Drow await your move, holding his breath.

Then, you do something that manages to stun, relieve, and thrill him all at once.

You smile.

Though a half of a head shorter than him, and barely a few inches taller than the Drow, your presence seems to swell to intimidating heights among the three of you.

“My, you are slow on the uptake, Ms. Araj,” you speak with a lowered, gentle voice, one which commands the both of them to listen carefully—maybe even get closer, though at this point the Drow would have to have a death wish to get within stabbing distance of you. How dreadful, and disappointing, to Astarion; that the ominous and certain threat in your voice still yet seems to fly over the Drow’s head.

And how entertaining it will surely be to watch her pomp crumble in a few moments.

“My dear companion deigned to give you his name and answer, twice. I would pity the other acolytes and pilgrims here—if I cared for their lives—for the mere cruelty it is to converse with you in any capacity.”

Dear companion? Now this is new. And not…entirely unpleasant.

“I’m—sorry, I—“ the Drow’s poise wavers, though outrage still lines the edges of her voice.

“You will be sorry, if you do not shut your Godsdamned mouth while I speak,” you let the full fury of your voice be felt, though you have yet to raise it past what can be heard within five paces of the Blood Merchant.

As a meager credit to the Drow’s intelligence, she does snap her jaw shut. Astarion’s lips curl all the higher with each passing second.

“As I was saying—though I do not pity the acolytes here for the ordeal it must be to give you some form of station here, I think I have reason enough to remove you from it. For how you have treated my—for how you have treated Astarion,” your smile beams brighter, not a crease beneath your eyes to suggest you’re anything but seething. He realizes, in a way, you’re baring your teeth for him. The near possessive slip seems to loosen the anxiety in his frame, slightly. But your self-correction helps more.

“You may be a True Soul, but you don’t have any authority to—“ the Drow’s lips suddenly quiver shut again, but clearly not of her own doing. Astarion glances at you and his own tadpole wriggles as he feels yours come to life.

“I should have been more specific,” you sigh, your tadpole holding the Drow rigid. Brushing past him, you beckon with your finger as you move towards the balcony’s doorway across the room. The Drow begins to follow, feet shuffling awkwardly as the fear wells in her eyes. He’s not used to feeling planted to the floor, but for a moment he can only watch in gleeful disbelief at what you’re doing. He picks up his feet at the Drow crosses the threshold and slips out to the balcony with the two of you.

“When I said I had reason enough to remove you from your station, I meant that in less of a bureaucratic sense—I mean literally remove you from it,” you continue to hold the conversation calmly, one-sidedly, as you turn back to look at the Drow from the stacked-stone guardrail. You point and snap your fingers, gesturing to the one spot on this balcony where the stones have broken off and fallen down to the inky, boulder filled shallows at the bottom of the tower. The Drow moves even more resistantly as the psionic force from your tadpole urges her to obey, but eventually she stands at its edge.

“Tell me, Araj, would you like the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to feel what it’s like to fly? All you have to do—“ you lay a hand upon her back, just between her shoulder blades, giving her the slightest nudge. “Is step off.”

Astarion hears a strange, strained sounding humming, and realizes it’s the Drow trying to plead behind sealed lips.

“Oh—but it’s a simple exchange, really! And I’m a woman of my word. You step off, and I cast ‘Fly’ upon you. The only risk is if you fall too quickly, well—then my spell won’t reach you in time…and I’ve only seen it happen once before, but to fall from this height? Your body would pop like a champagne bottle thrown to the floor. Skin and muscle and bone will split, and all your warm guts and blood will burst and spray everywhere. What do you say? In my mind, it’d be plain idiotic to squander an opportunity like this.”

You turn back, meeting Astarion’s eye. Within yours, he can see a volatile mix ready to explode. Wrath. Outrage. A cruel hunger for revenge.

But even with those powerful emotions threatening to overtake you, there’s a tenuous thread of patience still wavering. Patience, and a question: that which asks for his permission. To not merely act or speak on his behalf, but decide whether or not to take this woman’s life for the affronts to his dignity and autonomy.

Indignation. Righteous indignation.

That is the feeling that’s been gnawing at him, the words for which he couldn’t recall until now. And it’s all because of you. Because you’ve refused to let him think of himself, talk about himself, treat himself, like a loaner to his own body and mind. Stepping off the wall, he approaches the two of you with a swagger.

First taking hold of a strap on the Drow’s armor, he then plants a steady foot on a piece of the stone guardrail to hold himself upright. Looking to you with a reassuring smirk, you step back, and with a rough shove Astarion sends the Drow’s upper half forward, dangling her precariously over the edge of the balcony. He lets her moan and protest wildly behind her teeth for a moment longer before nodding to you, and you release her from the hold of the tadpole. She takes a ragged gasp, as if preparing to scream, and he leans in to her ear.

“Now now, Araj, let’s not arouse any undesirable attention from the guards, hm?”

Stifling a groan of fear, her arms unsteadily pinwheel in the air as her feet try to find solid stone, and not the edge which Astarion has forced her onto.

“I think I’m feeling generous, so close to the overwhelming splendor of the Absolute—“ he mocks the name of the so-called deity that had proven itself a thorn in their group’s side thus far. “Whom, need I mention, blessed and deemed me a True Soul, just like my dear companion.”

Throwing a conspiratorial smile your way, it deflates only slightly to see your face set so tightly, all but trembling in anger. Not at him, of course. With a sigh, he tuts and yanks the Drow from the edge, throwing her to the stone floor of the balcony further in. She scrambles back from the both of you. Following her towards the door with unhurried steps, he tilts his head in the same mocking way she had before addressing her once more. “The next time someone tells you ‘no’, Drow, I suggest you not argue. You might not be so lucky next time.”

—

The two of you eventually reconvene with the remainder of your group, and after determining your next move you all settle within an abandoned wing of the tower for the night.

Neither of you relay what happened to the rest of your companions—and in turn don’t find an easy opportunity to address it with each other, until the others have gone to bed.

He finds you hunched over your pack, inventorying your potions yet again—worrying and fidgeting his hands and fingers as he approaches.

“I think we’ll come across more, we’ve not unlocked every door in this bloody tower,” he offers—sounding uncharacteristically optimistic. It betrays just how uncertain and uncomfortable he feels about what he’s actually come over to say to you.

“Ah, I know. Just a bit paranoid since we got here. We had our asses kicked out in Reithwin, then again when we took care of Raphael’s dirty laundry—and to walk in to that whole spectacle with Thorm? Gods above—“ you huff, coaxing a genuine smile to Astarion’s face. Finally you turn, rising from your crouched position with a tired, lopsided grin. It falters as you take in his expression, and Astarion worries he’ll collapse in on himself if you look at him for a moment longer like you currently are.

Like you’re concerned about him. Which you are. Like you care for him. Which you do.

Like you love him.

“Everything alright, ‘Starion?”

“Oh—yes, of course I’m fine-“ he stumbles over every word, his charming, easy, impervious shell cracking. “It’s just that…I feel—awful.”

You push aside your own exhaustion, giving him your full attention—of course you do. You ask him why. He’d almost rather pull his own fangs out than confess what he’s about to. But as you listen, as you take in everything he hurries and tries to explain or make excuses for, your expression does not change. Not for the worse, anyway. Those same shining, gentle eyes hold his, and make his undead heart swell. He makes sure to express his gratitude, for how you stood up to the Drow—but even more so for letting him decide.

“Well—yeah,” you sheepishly look down at your feet, scrubbing at the back of your hair. He almost can’t take it, how wonderful you are. “I wasn’t going to rob you of that satisfaction,” you joke. Sighing, you meet his eye again. “I was ready to kill her, Astarion. You know I was. But then… I wouldn’t have done anything for you. Not really. Who’d’ve been empowered if I’d done it? Definitely not you. So, sorry for almost doing that. I was…well, I was fucking pissed.”

He’s not sure if he can recall how to breathe. How could you be apologetic right now, when you were ready to defend him like some knight in shining armor? He came here to apologize to you, not the other way around.

“Hells, darling, I might find an opportunity to make you a villain yet,” he offers you a small smile, voice soft.

You reciprocate, your cheeks dusted with a blush illuminated by the few candles lit outside your tent.

“So, um…what you said—about forcing yourself through-does that mean our—erm,” you try to be so cordial, so empathetic, even though pain seeps from every pore at the implication of what he said.

“No—no, darling,” he rushes out, taking a breath. “Being…close to someone, it just…it was always something I did, had to do, to lure people back—for him. I—want us to be different. I know we are. But intimacy feels…” he struggles to articulate it, feeling your eyes on him even as his own flit around the shadows of the room. “…tainted. I just…don’t know how else to be with someone, no matter how much I’d like to.”

“I care about you, Astarion,” you murmur after a heavy pause, and he manages to find your eyes again.

“Really?” He asks, throat filled with a bubble of emotion that threatens to burst.

And where words failing him and the inability to wield his body would normally make him feel completely hollow—a useless husk of a man—the embrace your arms suddenly surround him in makes him seem…whole. Solid.

And unfortunately, capable of dragging him down to the depths of sadness and pain with how heavy he now feels.

However, your arms around him remind him that you’re there with him. That you will be there with him no matter what, Gods and Devils and Mindflayers be damned.

Astarion remembers how to use his own as realizes they’ve been merely hovering, outstretched, and hugs you back. You tighten around him, sighing into his shirt.

He closes his eyes, nuzzling his face into your hair, into the crook of your neck—looking for those places he’d be happily cradled in for the rest of his thus-far miserable life.

When you eventually pull back—Astarion’s hands linger at your waist, his fingers almost curling around your shirt to tug you back in.

“You’re—um-full of surprises,” he musters a shaky smile, which you reciprocate, warmly.

“I am yours until you tire of me, Astarion,” you offer half-jokingly, the gravity of which does not go amiss in his mind.

“Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t sleep—so don’t get your hopes up for being rid of me, darling.”

Your eyes crease, nearly obscuring your irises as you smile.

“I love you, Astarion,” the words are carried from your lips on a breath as it slips out—falling tenderly as a kiss to his ears and piercing as true as an arrow through his heart.

You can tell as much, stepping forward into his arms once more to squeeze his hand and reassure him. “You—you don’t have to say it back. I just want—need you to know that. In the event we die tomorrow or something. Very real possibility, given our dwindling potions.”

“Oh. Well. If we’re telling each other things we need to know, I suppose I should tell you how I’ve been building a stash of potions I’ve erm…borrowed from you, then. You know, clearing guilty consciences and all,” he counters, squeezing your hand back. “I’ll share them with you—as a last resort—of course.” You snort, and then fall into a fit of giggles that he’s dragged into all too easily.

After a considerable effort and a number of failed attempts to stop laughing, a sharp ‘Tsk’va’ uttered from Lae’zel’s tent nearby finally manages to silence you both as you slip into his tent, you staying awake only long enough for him to clear the bedroll of clutter and shake the blankets out.

As you settle your cheek on his chest, snuggled up to his side, his lips press idle kisses to your forehead and hair, desiring to commit your smell, warmth, and weight in his arms to memory.

He eventually slips into a trance—for once, one not filled with crimson eyes and shadows and death—but your sweet smile, laugh, and the way those three words he once longed to forget sound in your voice.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x female tav #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion ancunin #fluff #fanfic #short fiction

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