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get-shiggy-with-it · 4 years ago

Text

collab masterlist

✧ pairing: villain!hawks x afab!reader

✧ word count: 5k

✧ warnings: this is like all smut, angst, ambiguous but happy ending, unhealthy relationships, mentions of transactional sex, reader has a healing quirk but it's really just for poetic purposes, reader has a vagina, no other gendered parts, oral sex (reader receiving), vague metaphorical drug reference, mentions of blood, mentions of wounds, mating press, soft sex (?), sorta, slight potential could be read as dubcon but they're both into it

✧ summary: for years you've stitched hawks back together when the world has torn him to shreds—and he always pays you back, though you can't help but start want more than he can give you.

✧ a/n: hey y'all this months theme was villain/hero swap with a shared opener! please go check out all the other wonderful works in this collab, there are so many talented writers/artists involved!! credit to @/lady-bakuhoe for the amazing intro. also bonus points if you catch the old aesthetic tumblr post references.

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before.

Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city?

Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary.

One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

***

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

That fact is made even more horrifically apparent as he stumbles through your open window—and how long has it been since you’ve slept with it closed?—dripping with blood and panting from his flight.

The T.V. blares in the background, filling your tiny apartment with incessant ramblings that only grow louder by the day, and you already know what they’re going to say before they say it. Because you see him, before the reporters stumble upon heroes in the wreckage—you see what they do to him before they’re warning the public of dangerous villains loose in the streets.

They spout off about failing heroes but you think they’ve done a pretty damn good butchers job. Red feathers matted together, sticky and brown, fall in tufts from his back. You burn with shameful jealousy at the thought of those who would call themselves heroes having laid hands on what is yours.

He isn’t really yours and you know that, though you often wish you could be a bit more delusional. It might not hurt so much then.

They call him a villain. They call him a threat to society.

But even faced with the truth spilling from him and onto your creaking floors, it is easy to forget what a ruthless predator the man before you becomes when he leaves these four walls.

Especially as he falls forward on heavy feet straight into your arms, outstretched and waiting. There are stains on your shirt but you’ve known the secret for getting blood out of clothing for years now. Cold water for the fabric, warm to wash away the grime on his lovely skin.

“Gonna need you to fix me up again, sweetheart,” Hawks mumbles into your shoulder where his forehead rests.

His breathing is even more ragged now, not just from the flight.

“I know,” you reply and your hands shake when they find the gaping wound at his side—wide and deeper than the ones before. “I know. Can you walk?”

He doesn’t respond but that mop of golden hair shifts a bit as he slings an arm over your shoulder and rests his weight. You don’t need to direct him to your bedroom. This is an old game you’re playing and he knows the steps.

So do you.

Though, you’re never sure if it's dread that fills you and makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. Or if it’s that awful, momentary rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to run your fingers over him, bare and giving you free reign.

As long as he’s bleeding out on your floor.

Then you can feel him.

When he’s dying and needs you.

Needs you to fix him.

But won’t ever let you close enough to finish the job the way you want to.

You comfort yourself in with the knowledge that at least he lets you this close. At least those thin, silver-skin scars are the unmistakable mark of your healing hands. At least you’ll always haunt him like the red feather down that sticks to your pillows or between your floorboards.

So you strip him carefully and try not to let his sculpted chest distract you from the work. Hawks is silent, such a model patient as always. Only grunting when your fingers move to knit together the ragged edges of his flesh.

This will leave a nasty mark, you know it already. But you can’t find it in yourself to mourn the loss of that lovely skin.

It will only make it harder for him to forget you.

You’re knelt beside him, laid out on a towel you keep at the edge of the bed. Blood will soak through to the sheets regardless, but you try your best. He takes a sharp breath, white teeth catching the back of his hand between them to stifle groans.

You wish there was more pleasure to it. That he was biting back moans for you instead of trying not to scream as his flesh pulsed and grew hot while it was rebuilt under your fingertips. So you indulge, pretend your hands are elsewhere, roaming his perfect waistline and pulling whimpers from him.

Your dangerous, villainous, predator Hawks sprawled on his back, wings spread and cumming onto his chest under you.

The sounds above you change, and you know it hurts—must be excruciating as bone is set back into place—but you chose to believe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself from screaming your name as he reaches his release.

Hawks, you’d croon to him—Hawks because you don’t know his real name. Don’t know who he was before he started this underground life of crime on the fringes of a society that called him a monster and then turned him into one.

He isn’t a monster in your bed, though he may cry like one.

Cry as you mold his flesh and try not to look him in the face. Try to pretend they are an overflow of some better emotion. And when those summer wheat field eyes roll back in his head and those horrible pretty noises stop, you push past the growing ache in your limbs until the skin under your palms is smooth and no longer leaking thick, red blood.

And you do your best to resist the itch to feel more of him while he can’t stop you. Even with your fingers numb from overexertion, you can’t help but fall back on your heels and long for the feeling of his cheek in your hand, or his chest on your face.

But your part of the transaction is done.

And your permission doesn’t extend past these limits.

And it pains you to wish harm on him.

But it hurts even more when he does not need you.

So you sit and hate yourself and hope that those heroes with their disgusting philosophies get their shit together just a bit more. So you won’t lose your purpose. So he’ll keep coming through your window, permanently open through rainstorms and snow and spring heat.

Hawks’ breath evens slowly, and you stay still as a watched painting—no shifting eyes or moving limbs.

You crave these times like water or warm food—constant and instinctively.

And this is the only time you’ll ever have them, hands so filled with pinpricks of fried nerves that you can barely feel the soft, relaxed muscle beneath them.

What a tragedy.

What an injustice—

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

***

“Hmm,” he groans, sitting up and wincing as the new flesh protests under his movements.

“You should rest for a bit longer.”

Hawks looks at you, stretched next to him on the mattress—a purposeful few inches of space left between your bodies. It’s both selfish and practical advice.

But he isn’t here for that kind of help.

“You know I can’t just be sittin’ on my ass,” he quips, flashing you that eyes closed, wide smirk that sets your heart hammering in your chest. “Can’t have anyone tracing me back here.”

“Normally I’d agree,” you don’t find it in yourself to give the words any bite, “but you were just actively bleeding out a few minutes ago.”

“Sure, but that was a few minutes ago,” he winks and you can already feel the bed shifting as he moves to settle himself over your hips, one toned thigh on either side to bracket you against the bed. “Now, let me pay you back for all that hard work, yeah sweetheart?”

You wish the way he peered up through those long lashes, gold eyes honed in on you like a piece of meat on a hook, didn’t make your face burn this much.

It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Because this arrangement really is transactional—so you have to get something out of it too. At least, that’s what he tells himself, you think. He doesn’t know that those scant few moments you hold his life between your fingers is more than enough payment.

It’s been this way since the very first time you stumbled across him, half dead in an alley. But then you think it might have just been a ‘heat of the moment’ sort of thing that had just stuck.

You heal him and he makes you writhe on the sheets with his tongue and his hands, until you're fucked into unconscious bliss and he can slip away without your prying eyes watching him go.

But you still aren’t allowed to touch Hawks, even when he reaches into those deep parts of you and molds them to fit only him.

“You don’t—” you start to protest, partly because you want to believe you don’t want it and partly because you want to hear him insist that he does.

“Shh,” Hawks presses a calloused finger to your mouth and it takes every ounce of strength not to suck it past your lips. “I don’t like leaving my debts unpaid.”

That’s the end of your determination for the night. So you try to relax into his touch as slides your bottoms off and tosses them to the floor. Try not to clench up under those fingers that spread your legs. He doesn’t like it when you squirm away, when you flinch from his hands.

You want to think it’s because he hopes you aren’t afraid of him—of what he is—like the rest are, and not because he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

You want to.

But he’s so hard to read, and your mind is not often a kind place.

“Mm, god I’m always so hungry after you patch me up baby,” Hawks licks his lips as he stares down at you. “You won’t mind if I eat you right?”

You cringe at how fast your head shakes.

“Mm, course you wouldn’t.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and he’s right though you resent it a bit that he’s got you pegged so easily.

But you’re weak, you’re no villain, you’re no hero.

And so you’ll never be able to resist him. But, damn, did you wish you had a name to cry out. Then at the very least, you could keep a part of him with you too. Then you’d have some to moan on the nights he goes uninjured and you have to bring yourself to lonely release, only thinking of him.

Of those wings spread above you like a burning, red sunset, obscuring the rest of the world from view with his blinding light.

“Hawks…” you hiss instead as he shifts your legs over his shoulders and lays his tender chest on the sheets. “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s it gonna be tonight then?” he asks, breath ghosting over the damp folds between your thighs.

“Thought you said you were gonna use your tongue,” you whine, impatient now for any scrap of attention he’s willing to give.

“If that’s what you want,” he presses a kiss into the crease of your leg and hip, nipping the delicate skin so you whine again. “It’s whatever you want, you know that.”

It isn’t though.

It’s not whatever you want.

You can pick the position, you can ask for his mouth or his fingers, but even then, they won’t go past your neck. Your hands must stay firmly knotted in the comforter and away from him while he works. Cause he is working. This is part of the job to him, it's only in your fantasies that he’s doing it simply for the hell of it.

Hawks nudges your embarrassingly soaked slit with his nose and hums at you, “So is that what you want? Want me to eat your pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes—ngh,” you don’t get much in past the confirmation.

He’s a busy man.

He doesn’t have time for your stupid, romantic day dreams.

So he dives right in, and it’s enthusiastic enough that you can convince yourself he simply wants you that badly.

Hawks tongue licks a long strip from your hole to your clit and sucks the little bud past his plush lips. They’re a lovely, soft pink against your skin and they make a mess of you in seconds. He starts up an even rhythm, drawing circles into the nerves that sing and have heat building up in you only seconds after he’s started.

You hate that you love how well he knows your body.

You hate that you only know his when it’s shutting down.

“You taste so good, you know that?” he mumbles, lapping at you and kneading your thighs. “Could live down here just drinking you every fucking day.”

He doesn’t always talk like that but you’re happy he is now. It distracts you from the deep, ingrained urge to yank him by the hair and taste yourself on his lips.

“Makes me wish I’d let those damn heroes get hits in more often,” he’s back to panting and you keen at the sound. “Want my fingers too?”

“Fuck yes,” you don’t even bother hiding the desperation anymore.

He deserves the boost to his ego. You’d shower him with praise if he’d let you, bathe him in warm words and press them into his skin with your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you.

Hawks’ hand on your thigh trails slowly against the sensitive skin until he’s pulling back to run his fingers through your folds to ease the stretch a bit as he pushes two inside. He knows you can take what he gives to you, knows you love the way he fills you up.

Your tingling hands ache to grab his head and force his lips back as he sits for a moment, eyes glued on the space where his fingers disappear into your body. He groans low at the wet sounds your bodies make at their joining. Your legs shake where they rest on him, the one other point of contact he’s allowed. Those deadly soft feathers brush your calves as he curls his fingers up and waits expectantly for the strangled cry he pulls from you.

“There it is,” his voice is so much lower when he speaks now. “Can’t exactly show you the real ones, but how ‘bout you let me make you see some stars, huh?”

He asks so much of you. So much. So often.

In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever actively asked him for a thing he hadn’t already offered in the few years you’d known him. Hawks does it all—the taking and the giving and the demanding.

And you’re simply along for the ride, holding on for dear life lest he drop you, let you plummet like rock to the barren ground.

Still, you are mortal and you crave and you will take what you can get.

“Mhm,” you whimper when his deft fingers increase their pace, not thrusting but grinding mercilessly into that delicious spot inside.

“You wanna cum now, sweet thing?”

Then, true to his villainous nature, Hawks latches his lips back onto your clit, wracking your body with waves of truly sinful pleasure. His tongue draws quick, perfect circles across the bud just how you like. You’ll never know why it feels so much better when it’s him touching you.

How he knows exactly what you want.

Most of it.

Then his other hand is reaching around your hip, thumb taking over to press down where his tongue had been. Panting for the third time, his gorgeous head rests on your thigh and he stares dead on into your eyes. That predator yellow gaze pins you to the pillows better than any hand could and he licks across his lips while you watch, moaning as he tastes you there.

You groan deep and unabashedly at the sight.

“What is it?” he’s teasing you, unable to keep that part of his cruelty hidden even now. “What do you want?”

You shake your head and wish you could turn away, flop against the mattress and writhe but you can’t. You just can’t give up this moment that’s etching itself into your retinas—like you’re staring head on at an eclipse, celestial and short-lived.

“Tell me,” Hawks whispers, nipping at your thigh and working his fingers harder on you. “Whatever you want, you’ll get it.”

And maybe it’s the sudden heat of the room, or the little breeze from his wings spreading defensively to block you from view of his nonexistent audience—the outside world maybe? To keep you, this secret indulgence, hidden from their prying hands. Or quite possibly it’s just your own weakness at the feet of years and years of loving—because you do, you love him, it’s clear by now that’s what this is—this man whose name you don’t know and whose eyes never seem to leave you even when he’s gone.

Maybe you simply crack under the pressure of keeping this awful, looming silence for too long.

You feel your lips split at the seams and it all comes rushing out in a polluted flood—a stagnant river of secrets.

“Let me touch you,” you gasp and close your eyes then just so you won’t have to see that grin slip from his beautiful face. “Please Hawks, let me touch you. I can’t do it anymore, just—I need to kiss you, I need more.”

All this time he hadn’t let up on pulling pleasure from your skin, but he stops now, bringing your release to a screaming halt.

The quiet that follows—devoid of fast breaths and wet slapping—is suffocating.

You wish you regretted the outburst, the waste of years worth of work to keep him coming back.

But you don’t.

Of course you will in a minute, when he slips away and doesn’t return.

But now it just feels as though that boulder of secrecy has been lifted off your chest and you can finally take in lungfuls of sweet, unhindered night air.

It’s only after that dreadful minute has passed and there are still hands on you—buried in you—that you dare to open your eyes again.

Hawks is staring blankly, an expression you’ve never seen before, so stark from the usual quirk of his lips and tilt of his chin. Blank, but calculating. You can see the gears clanking as his thoughts rush a mile a minute, faster than he’d ever dream of soaring over the city skyline.

He blinks once, twice, then again and you can see the redness blooming at the corners as his eyes grow glassy between each flutter of lashes. And then, as though moving through honey, he draws back from you, only to crawl up your body until your noses touch.

You hold your breath, lip caught between your teeth, but his slicked thumb comes up to pull it out of your gnawing reach. He strokes across the puffy skin, never meeting your gaze, until he slowly, slowly leans down.

It’s not really a kiss, more of an accidental brush, so little of your lips touch you could easily have imagined it. When he speaks again, you can feel him forming the words against you.

“I—” he starts and licks his lips and yours and you don’t think it’s an accident, “I can’t.”

It isn’t what you want him to say, but it’s better than a silent loss .

You know truth when you hear it.

“I know.”

And you do, you do know, you’ve always known. He’s darker when he’s not with you. You’ve seen the carnage he leaves behind broadcasted on screens, but it’s never stopped the ache before.

He can’t keep you the way you want, can’t have things that get in the way.

You can only touch him when he’s dying. You can heal him, reform his flesh and bone—pull him back from the brink—but you’ll never feel his chest against yours or his hair slipping through your fingers or have all of him buried inside you. He’ll never love you like you want him to.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing.

And apparently, it doesn’t stop Hawks from kissing you anyway.

“I can’t,” he repeats and it sounds so broken you almost think that wound has reopened and he’s going to start slipping away again.

But the only thing that slips is his tongue past your lips and tangling with your own.

And then the levee breaks.

It’s a sudden torrent of hands and legs knotting together like the torn edges of too many injuries. Hawks covers every available part of you like an addict seeking his fix. It’s breathless and uncoordinated but you’ve never felt more alive, alight, aflame.

He presses his lips to yours again, pulling away and then diving back in. Frantic hands pull you off the mattress until your back is against the headboard and he’s straddling your lap. You take the opportunity to sink your fingers into that goldenrod hair and it’s just as silky as you’d imagined it to be.

Hawks moans into your mouth, kissing you wildly, like the beast he is with teeth clacking and your tongue sucked between his lips.

“I can’t,” he keeps mumbling, between groans and hips grinding and hands grabbing, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— “

You wonder then which one of you he’s trying to convince.

But you don’t ask, just let your hands wander to the delicious curve of his ass on your thighs and squeeze, rolling his bulge against you. His fingers push and proud, ghosting across your chest and stopping to pinch your nipple. He drinks down the whimpers you let out, letting his lips wander your jaw and throat, sucking bruises—leaving his own scars on you—as he goes. He pushes you back down to the pillows so his lips can continue their work, latching onto the quickly hardening bud and suckling lightly. His groan sends little shockwaves through you and he looks up with brows furrowed like he’s in pain with how good it all feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s so soft you barely hear it between licks at your chest.

“No,” you finally find it in you to respond, shaking your head and pulling him back to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says again while you nip at his earlobe and down his jaw, tight pants yielding under your hands as they’re tugged away so he’s just as bare as you.

“No,” you shake your head and any response dies on his tongue as you dig your fingers into the feathers at the base of his wings and pull him forward.

Hawks lets out a choked gasp as his length, bare, hard, and leaking glides across your cunt. Any other time, you’d have liked to savor this moment. Get on your knees and worship his pretty cock—and you know it's pretty, just from your short glimpse. He’s long and perfectly thick, just how you dreamed he would be. The cute tuft of blond curls at his base is course in the best way as you trail your fingers through it to take him in your palm.

“Ahh,” he keens, arching above you with his head thrown back as you stroke him for the first time.

It’s been so long, you're not sure how you ever resisted this before. Not with how heavy and warm he is in your fist.

“Hawks,” you moan, sucking at the dip in his collarbone and moving to bite at his nipple. “Hawks, please.”

“I—” you think he might protest but you flick your thumb over the tip and it pours precum to help the slide of your fingers.

He’s already got those powerful arms hooked under your knees, all he has to do is lean forward and sink into that tight, awaiting heat, and he knows it. You can see the resolve cracking.

“Hawks,” you beg again. Because you are begging, that’s what this is.

And he looks at you, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and brows all bunched up with his head shaking.

“Hawks.”

His hands grip the underside of your thighs and knock your hand from his dick.

“Hawks.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, eyes squeezed shut and red at the edges. You feel the sting at the corners as if they were your own.

“Hawks.”

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

Is he dying now?

Are you killing him?

“Hawks.”

His breath hitches, whatever he might have said is long gone when the head of his cock catches against your entrance.

“Hawks—”

He sinks in to the hilt all at once and the last utterance of his name is a yelp. Your walls clamp down hard around the intrusion, so much bigger than his fingers, so hot and long and thick as he pulses inside you.

There are no words after that.

No names, no refusals, just his face pressed up on yours as he pushes your thighs to your chest and rolls his hips, fucking you evenly into the mattress.

Not soft or slow or overly rough.

Though it is all of those things at once as well.

Hawks has always been full of contradictions. It makes sense that this is too.

Both your eyes stay open, lips brushing and sharing breath as he slips a hand back down to your clit and starts those perfect circles up again.

He doesn’t ask you questions now. Just stares in your eyes and sinks his cock into your over and over until you feel fuller, more complete than you ever have in the whole of your life.

There’s no warning leading up to the end. You feel the crest approaching, the coil waiting to snap low in your belly and you don’t dare take your eyes off his face. You need to commit the entirety of this moment to memory. Just in case.

Just in case it never happens again.

Or worse, it happens over and over until it doesn’t.

Until you run out of chances to touch him.

Until he comes to you too far gone.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and that’s all the warning you get.

All the warning you have the strength to listen to as you tumble over the edge, waves of rolling pleasure burning under your skin. You clench hard around his cock as his hips stutter in their pace, thrusting unevenly as you gush and he spills rope after rope of hot release deep into you.

And you’d been wrong before, because this was full. This was whole, your stilling bodies pressed together at every point with his cock still hard and twitching as your walls milked him of cum that warmed you from the inside out.

This is what you would die for.

***

Later when you stumble into unwilling wakefulness, there are hands tucking a thin sheet over your bare skin.

Hawks has pulled himself from you after resting like you’d told him he should. He’s dressing, though not hurriedly, and you can’t find it in your jelly bones to move or stop him.

You’re both silent, even when he looks down to find your eyes alert and raking over him—costume donned and wings prepared for flight.

His face is drawn in a way that might have been resentment. Maybe towards you for breaking his resolve, maybe at himself for indulging in what he cannot have.

I can’t.

You hear the words as clear as though he’d just said them.

I can’t.

Can’t have you. Can’t forget his purpose. Can’t have gentle things.

Hawks is a villain, first and foremost, above all else and that includes you.

So you don’t move to stop him as he walks softly through your door. You just watch as he makes his way to the open window and perches on the ledge. He does look back, only briefly, to see you draped across the sheets, head resting on your arm and staring at him as he leaves you.

The ghost of that cheeky grin crawls its way onto his face before he tips backwards off the landing and into the night sky. He winks once before the indigo of the night swallows him like the maw of a leviathan. The city has teeth and it will chew him up and spit him back out into your arms soon enough.

So you’re content to wait.

You know this isn’t the last time. That he’ll come back to you as he’s always done. And offer you more and more of himself each time.

Because you can only touch him when he’s dying.

And this world is nothing if not determined to kill him.

So you can keep your purpose.

And by extension, you can keep him.

#hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #keigo takami x reader #villain!au #bnha fanfiction #tw blood #tw dubcon #hawks angst #hawks smut #bnha smut #mha smut #bee.writes

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junghelioseok · 4 years ago

Text

clandestine. | 01

↳ forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ smut | fluff | brother’s best friend!au ◇ 10.3k [1/6]

notes: this fic was originally going to be a oneshot, but i changed my mind and decided i didn’t want to kill tumblr with a totally unnecessary 50k jk fic so 🤷🏻‍♀️ here is part one of a fic that 100% only came about because @puellaigmotum coerced me into it like 2 years ago (lmao rip 💀) and also bc i have zero self-control and am hopelessly h*rny for jungkook these days and don’t look at me i don’t wanna talk about it okay??? 🙈

warnings: jk’s massive noona kink, some ~under the table~ action, too much detail about jk’s dumb veiny arms probably, but at least he doesn’t have tattoos bc i started writing this before he got them and i don’t need to torture myself anymore than i already do!!!

⇢ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

It’s always been easy to spot your brother in a crowd. Passengers flood off the train, jostling around you on their way to the station’s exit, but even in the swarm you can perfectly see Jimin’s golden head of hair bobbing its way toward you, a deep scowl etched across his face. “You’re late,” he says in lieu of a greeting, his honey brown eyes raking over your scuffed suitcase distastefully as he comes to a stop a few feet away.

“And you’re just as impatient as ever,” you retort, coming to a stop before him with your luggage in tow. “Think you can lord it over me since you can drive now?”

“Don’t forget that I’m your ride home,” Jimin scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I could just as easily leave you here to fend for yourself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you tell him, raising a brow in silent challenge.

Jimin stares down at you unflinchingly, and you stare right back. The tension stretches between you, taut and heavy, until every passing second feels like a light year. Around you, the crowd slowly dissipates, but still you remain—two motionless statues locked in a wordless struggle. From somewhere overhead, a monotone voice announces the next train departure times.

Jimin’s mouth twitches. You blink, twice in quick succession.

And then your little brother breaks into a grin—one that’s so wide you fear his mouth may detach from his face entirely. An answering smile settles across your face as you watch him throw his head back, dissolving into laughter that you can’t help but echo.

“Damn it, Chim!” you say, instinctively grabbing onto his wrist when it looks like he might fall over. “Your poker face still sucks.”

“I’ve gotten better!” Jimin immediately defends. “I mean, you’ve got to admit that, right?”

“Nope.” You sigh and hold a hand over your head so you can measure your height against his ever-so-slightly taller frame. “Same old annoying kid I grew up with. Seriously, have you grown at all in the past year?”

“Whoa, too far, Noona.” Jimin takes ahold of both of your cheeks, pinching them affectionately. “You’re only a year older than me, you know. Besides, I’ve been taller than you for two years now!”

“I’m pretty sure hitting puberty at age seventeen isn’t something to be proud of,” you reply, pulling away from him with a mock grimace and giggling when he lets out an offended squeak. Playfully, you reach up to ruffle his hair, scrubbing your knuckles just a little too roughly against his skull.

“Noonaaa,” he complains, drawing out the last syllable until he runs out of air. “Jeez, you haven’t even been back for an hour yet and you’re already being mean to me. When do you go back to Seoul again?”

“Three weeks,” you reply, narrowing your eyes. “But I can and will make these three weeks hell for you. Don’t test me.”

Jimin snickers and drapes his arm over your shoulders. He picks up your suitcase with the other hand, and you thank him with another, gentler hair ruffle as the two of you start toward the exit of the train station. “College hasn’t changed you one bit.”

“And senior year hasn’t changed you,” you say, letting him guide you outside and breathing in the balmy summer evening air. Jimin’s brow furrows as he tries to remember where he’s parked, and you kindly take your suitcase back when he nods decisively and heads toward the left side of the lot. “You excited to graduate?”

He sighs, fumbling in his pocket for the keys as the two of you approach the car. “It’s going to suck. Your ceremony was boring as hell last year.”

“Wow, rude.”

Jimin looks up from where he’s unlocking the driver’s side door. “Am I wrong, though?”

You flash him a grin as he unlocks the remaining doors, heaving your suitcase into the backseat before sliding into the passenger seat beside him. “Nope. But afterward, you’ll be done with high school forever.”

“Thank god.” Your brother rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it further as he carefully starts the ignition and checks his mirrors with all the diligence of a new driver. Once satisfied, he pulls out of the parking space, meandering his way out of the lot and onto the main street.

The ride back to your childhood home is a short one, full of familiar storefronts and landmarks that dredge up all sorts of fond memories. You hadn’t expected your first year of university—away from your family and your hometown—to make you quite so emotional. But before you know it, Jimin is making the turn into your neighborhood, and you can’t stop the way your eyes begin to well up when you see your house in the distance.

As if reading your mind, Jimin glances at you as he pulls into the driveway. “Feel good to be home?”

You nod, blinking back tears. “Feels great.”

He grins. Pulling the key from the ignition, he climbs out of the car and grabs your suitcase, waving for you to head inside. Eagerly, you start toward the front door, but you barely make it halfway up the driveway when it bursts open, revealing your father standing there with open arms and an enormous grin. He’s just as tall as you remember, and looks exactly the same save a few more strands of silver lacing his hair. All of a sudden, you’re a little girl again, running up to give him a hug and giggling madly when he tries to scoop you up like he used to do so many years ago.

“Hi Dad,” you greet when he gives up and sets you back down on two feet. “Where’s Mom?”

“Cooking up a storm,” he replies, chortling. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he leads you into the kitchen where your mother is hunched over the stove with a spatula, delicious aromas wafting up from the array of pots and pans in front of her. “Honey, look who’s home!”

“Hi Mom,” you say, grinning when she whirls around, startled. The spatula, still dangling loosely from her hand, drips sauce onto the tiled floor, but she barely notices in her eagerness to give you a hug, throwing it down into one of the simmering pots and striding forward to wrap you up in a tight embrace.

“How was your trip?” she asks, pulling back and angling your face this way and that. “Did you sleep on the ride? Did Jimin drive safely?”

The last question draws a protesting whine from your brother, who has lugged your suitcase over the threshold and is now seated at the dining table, fiddling with a spoon. “My driving was fine, right Noona?” he says, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout.

“Yes, Chim,” you agree, laughing at the pleased expression that overtakes his face. Curiously, you walk over to the stove to inspect the food, your jaw dropping as you take in the assorted vegetables and meats. “Wow, Mom. Are you cooking for an army?”

“Jungkook is coming over for dinner,” she explains, following you over and plucking up the spatula again. “That boy has the biggest appetite I’ve ever seen—you remember, right?”

You laugh. “Of course I remember. He and Jimin were always stealing bites of my lunch at school.” Peering over at your brother, you fix him with a mock glare before walking over to the cutting board on the counter and sizing up the pile of onions and peppers sitting there. “It’ll be nice to see him again, though. How is he doing?”

To your surprise, a new voice answers your question—a voice that somehow manages to be simultaneously familiar and foreign. “Why don’t you ask me directly, Noona?” it says, and you whirl around, wide-eyed, to face the newcomer.

This can’t possibly be Jeon Jungkook, is your first thought upon seeing the young man standing in the kitchen doorway. The Jungkook you knew in high school was a scrawny kid—all gangly limbs and a nose that was too big for his face. The Jungkook you knew wore oversized white t-shirts that made him look even younger than he was, a look that was only enhanced by round wire-rimmed glasses that always gave him a look of permanent astonishment. The Jungkook you knew was nowhere near this tall, and definitely not this broad.

But this Jungkook—this Jungkook takes up nearly the entire doorframe with his bulk. Dark eyes stare at you from beneath equally dark hair, his gaze unhindered by his old glasses. A cobalt blue shirt stretches tight over his chest, and you swallow when you notice just how much the buttons are straining to contain the muscle underneath. Black jeans and simple black sneakers complete his outfit, and the entire look is so jarringly different from what you’re used to that you are left momentarily speechless, gaping like a fish out of water. Vaguely, you wonder when he got his ears pierced.

And then Jungkook—or at least, the young man claiming to be Jungkook—takes three steps forward, his entire face melting into a crinkly-eyed grin. You catch a glimpse of the adorably prominent front teeth that always made him look like a rabbit, and that’s all it takes to break the spell.

“Jungkookie!” you exclaim, darting forward to greet him. “It’s been so long!”

“Hi, Noona,” he replies, his grin widening at your approach. In an instant, he has you wrapped up in an embrace, easily lifting you off the floor in a display of strength that would’ve had a lesser woman swooning. His hands curl firmly around your waist, and you have no choice but to wrap yours around his nape, squeaking in protest when he spins you in a full circle.

“Kookie!” you gasp, wriggling helplessly in his grasp and huffing when he only cackles. “Put me down!”

Obediently, Jungkook lowers you back to the ground. His hands linger on your waist until he’s certain that both your feet are planted firmly, and it’s only then that he pulls back to get a good look at your face. “You know I’d never drop you, right?” he asks innocently.

“As if I can trust anything that comes out of your mouth,” you retort with a laugh. “I’ve seen you scam your way out of detention with those pretty doe eyes. Don’t try me, kid.”

Jungkook snorts. “Kid? I’m not that much younger than you. Plus I’m older than Jimin, y’know.”

“By a month!” your brother protests from the dining room, his blond head popping up from behind the vase of daisies serving as a centerpiece.

“Month and a half,” Jungkook stage-whispers to you, cupping a hand and bringing his mouth to your ear conspiratorially. His breath tickles your cheek, and you swat him away with a giggle that becomes a full-on laugh when Jimin lets out an offended cry and rises to his feet. Striding over, he pokes Jungkook squarely in the chest, his eyes narrowed.

“I invite you over to my house and this is the thanks I get?”

Your dad chooses that moment to interrupt from the living room. “Your house? When exactly did you start paying rent, Jimin?”

Jimin’s jaw drops. “Are you taking his side?” he asks in disbelief, glaring at Jungkook when he starts laughing. “I’m your son!”

“I’m your father,” your dad replies.

“And I’m your mother,” your mom pipes up, brandishing a spoon. “And I’m telling all of you to get your butts over to that dining table in the next ten seconds, or no dinner for any of you.”

Your dad, Jimin, and Jungkook immediately fall silent, cowed by her proclamation. Grinning, you join your mother at the counter, grabbing a handful of spoons and accepting the platter of kimchi she hands over. “Direct as always, Mom.”

She laughs and picks up a bowl of rice. “To deal with men like them? You have to be.”

Food in hand, you make your way into the dining room. The table is set, the steaming food arranged neatly in the center, and you watch as your mother takes her seat next to Jimin and leaves you to sit beside Jungkook on the opposite side. Your father beams from his spot at the head of the table, glancing at each of you in turn before turning and giving your shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

“Look at you kids, all sitting at the same table again.” He sighs, and you’re certain that he’s thinking back to the last time all of you were together—well over a year ago, at this point. “It’s a shame that your parents couldn’t join us, though, Jungkook.”

Jungkook nods. “Yeah, they told me to apologize on their behalf. They have tickets for the theatre tonight, and couldn’t get a refund on them.”

Your father laughs and waves the apology off. “I’m sure we’ll catch them next time,” he says. “Pretty hard to avoid each other when you live next door, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Jungkook agrees with a chuckle. Then he turns to you, the silver hoops in his ears glinting in the light from the overhead chandelier. “I’m sure they’ll drop by soon to see you, Noona. Mom wants to hear all about Seoul—I think she’s worried about sending me so far away by myself.”

“Junghyun stayed in Busan for university, didn’t he?” your mom asks.

Jungkook nods. “Yep, he still lives downtown and everything. He wanted to come over tonight, but his work wouldn’t let him take the time off.”

Your mom sighs. “That’s such a shame. Is he at least attending your graduation?”

“He’s driving in the day after tomorrow for the ceremony,” Jungkook confirms. Then he pauses, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His gaze flickers down to the plate of sweet potatoes on the other side of the table, and before he can even open his mouth, your mother is already passing him the plate. He thanks her with an embarrassed chuckle but digs into the food nonetheless, and everyone else takes it as a sign to follow suit. You’re in the middle of scooping rice into your bowl when Jimin speaks up again.

“So what’s it like living in Seoul?” he asks, his cheeks bulging with pork belly. “You have roommates, right?”

“Suitemates,” you correct. “But yeah, I live with three other people. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jennie are all great though, so it hasn’t been a problem.”

Jungkook pauses mid-chew to gape at you. “You live with guys?”

“My building’s co-ed,” you explain. “We all have separate bedrooms, but we share a common space and bathrooms.”

Your mother—on the lookout for any potential future grandchildren, as always—perks up. “Namjoon and Hoseok sound like nice boys. Are you friends?”

“Yes, Mom,” you sigh. “We’re friends. Just friends.” And then before she can ask about whether or not any other boys have caught your eye, you quickly turn back to your brother. “So, what’s your plan for next year? Are you and Jungkook living together?”

Jimin hums. “Yep, that’s the plan. Unless you want to live with us too, Noona.”

You laugh. “Why, so I can protect you from all the bullies like I did in elementary school?”

He flashes you a cheeky grin. “More like so I can protect you from all the weird college guys. Who’s this Hoseok guy anyway? Do I need to beat him up?”

“Please don’t beat up Hobi,” you entreaty, giggling when he pretends to crack his knuckles. “Or Joon!” you add quickly when he remains undeterred and makes to stand up from the table to defend your honor. Balling up your napkin, you throw it at him, and both of you burst into hysterics when your makeshift weapon bounces off his forehead and straight into his glass of water. The rest of dinner passes in a haze of similarly playful antics and happy chatter, and by the time the last bowl is scraped clean, it feels as if you’d never even left.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you volunteer, standing up and gathering up the empty platters. Jungkook and Jimin are quick to jump to your aid, collecting any utensils that you missed, and you offer them a grateful smile as they follow you into the kitchen.

“Let me do the washing, Noona.” Jungkook rolls up the sleeves of his cobalt blue shirt to expose a familiar silver watch glinting on his left wrist—a watch that his father handed down to him when he was sixteen, and that had been worn by his grandfather before him. You still remember the day he’d first worn it to school, proudly displaying it even though the band was too loose around his narrow wrist.

He’s grown into it now, you realize. The watch no longer flops around like it used to, and sits snugly in place instead. Your eyes trace the silver buckle on the inside of his wrist before trailing up to follow the network of thin, branching veins in his forearm, admiring the smooth flex of muscle as he grabs a sponge from the wire rack hanging above the sink and squirts some dish soap onto the surface.

“I’ll dry,” Jimin chirps, selecting a towel and brandishing it. “Noona, do you want to help me? We’ll finish faster that way.”

Nodding, you pull another towel out from the drawer and rejoin the two boys at the sink. Jungkook washes quickly and efficiently, and you determinedly avoid staring at the way water trickles along the patchwork veins on his hands as he gives you bowl after bowl to dry.

It doesn’t take long for all the dishes to be washed and dried. The three of you take the time to put them back into the proper cabinets before bidding your parents a good night, heading out onto the back porch. Falling back into old routines feels like second nature, so you plop down onto the steps without hesitation and grin when Jungkook takes a seat beside you.

“Wait, I almost forgot!” Jimin exclaims, bouncing up from where he was beginning to sit down next to Jungkook. “I bought some beer earlier and left it in the trunk. Be right back!”

You watch your brother run off, his floppy blond hair a stark contrast with the deep blue evening sky. In seconds, he’s disappeared around the corner of the house, leaving you and Jungkook alone on the porch steps.

“Chim really hasn’t changed one bit,” you remark with a laugh, turning toward your dark-haired companion.

Jungkook chuckles. “The kid loves his alcohol, that’s for sure.”

“Please.” You elbow him in the ribs. “I know you’re just as bad as he is.”

“Maybe,” he concedes with another chuckle. “But come on, Noona, you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy a drink every now and then. What about all that college stress?”

You hum, leaning back on your hands and staring up at the sky where the full moon is just beginning to rise, surrounded by a smattering of stars peeking through the velvety darkness of night. “I never said that I didn’t enjoy a drink, or five.” Jungkook laughs at your remark, and you smile before letting out a soft sigh. “I’m glad Jimin got the beer, though. Maybe I’ll finally be able to stop stressing out about my internship.”

That sobers Jungkook up immediately, his eyes widening as he peers down at you and lays a gentle hand on your back. “Are you still worried? You already got the job, didn’t you?”

You nod slowly, thinking back to the job offer that you had accepted at the end of the semester. It had been difficult finding a company in your desired field that offered internships to first-year students, but with dogged persistence and a lot of luck, you’d managed to snag a summer position. It isn’t due to start for another three weeks, however, and while you’re grateful for the chance to visit your family, part of you also wishes that you didn’t have to wait such a long time. “I just have no idea what to expect, you know? The only jobs I’ve ever had were in retail and food service, and that was all ages ago. I don’t feel ready at all.”

A strong arm settles across your shoulders, and you look up to see Jungkook gazing down at you with something indiscernible sparkling in his deep brown eyes. “You’re gonna be amazing,” he murmurs, his voice whisper-soft. “You know that, right? You always are. This won’t be any different.”

And you believe him. Every detail of his face is bathed in silvery moonlight—the gentle slope of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, the little scar high on his cheekbone—and you wonder how you never realized how handsome he is before now. And maybe it’s the low, soothing timbre of his voice, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you—with unspeakable tenderness and gentle affection glimmering in his irises—but you lean in before you can even realize what you’re doing. You don’t look away, and neither does he.

Jungkook’s gaze drops, trailing down the slope of your cheeks until it lands on the curve of your mouth. He hesitates for a split second, his throat bobbing harshly as he swallows and sucks in a breath.

And then his lips are pressing against yours—soft and tentative and just a little bit chapped. Your eyes flutter shut almost on instinct, your body relaxing as he shifts and pulls you a little more firmly against him. Slowly, his arm finds its way to the curve of your waist and settles there. Your fingers curl around his nape, carding through his silky hair.

It’s only when Jungkook’s tongue darts out to run along the seam of your lips that reality comes crashing back down, your stomach plummeting down to somewhere around your toes as you wrench away from his embrace. “Kookie!” you gasp, your breathing labored. “We can’t!”

Jungkook blinks, momentarily entrancing you with the way the stars reflect in his gaze like glittering diamonds. “Why not?” he asks, reaching out for you again. “You kissed me back, didn’t you?”

Squeaking, you bat his hands away. “Jungkook, no! We can’t! You’re Jimin’s best friend, and god, this is all kinds of weird, and—“

The dark-haired young man looks like he wants to protest more, but the sound of footsteps coming back around the house sends both of you scooting back to your original positions on the porch steps. Jimin appears two seconds later, plopping down beside Jungkook cheerfully and dropping a six-pack of beer at his feet.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to the tension lingering in the air as he pops open a bottle and hands it to you.

“Nothing,” you say immediately, accepting the proffered beer. The cool glass bottle is a welcome relief, and you hurriedly take a long sip when your mind unwillingly begins to wander back to just how warm and soft your dark-haired companion’s lips had been.

Jungkook is much slower to respond to Jimin’s question. His shoulders slump as he reaches down to grab a drink of his own, twisting the cap open viciously and taking a swig. “Yeah,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing at all.”

Luck must be on your side, because Jimin doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss as he grabs a beer for himself and flops backward, resting his weight on his elbows as he gazes up at the night sky. “It’s nice out,” he remarks, looking utterly at ease.

You are anything but. Beside you, Jungkook is sipping pensively on his beer, and you are painfully aware of the heat radiating off his body. Jimin is still chattering away, rambling about whatever pops into his head, and you take the opportunity to sneak a glance at Jungkook. His face is cast in silvery luminescence from the moon, his mouth pulled down into a deep, contemplative frown—and you are once again forced to shake off thoughts of how nice it felt to have his mouth pressed against yours.

This is Jeon Jungkook, you tell yourself sternly. Friend, neighbor, and Jimin’s best friend in the entire universe. You kissed him, sure, but it was a mistake. A moment of weakness. And it won’t happen again.

You repeat that over and over, silently reciting it in your head like a mantra, until, at last, you finally start to believe it.

///

You’re in the middle of brewing a fresh pot of coffee after a lazy morning spent sleeping in when you spot Jungkook outside through the kitchen window. He’s standing in the yard in a sleeveless white tee, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand as he thoughtfully regards the row of hedges that serves as the property line between your house and the Jeons’ house next door. In his other hand is a shovel, and you can’t help the way your gaze automatically traces his exposed biceps, admiring the way they flex when he finally selects a spot and begins digging.

“Is the coffee done yet, Noona?”

Jimin’s voice yanks your attention away from your gardening neighbor, your vision overtaken by a mess of fluffy blond bedhead as he sneaks into the space between you and the counter and obnoxiously cuts you off from the pot of fresh brew. “Hey!” you protest, but Jimin just gives you a cheeky wink before grabbing a mug and pouring out a generous helping of piping hot coffee. After a moment’s thought, he pours you a mug as well, handing it over with an exaggerated bow.

You roll your eyes, but accept the warm cup nonetheless. Following him into the living room, you make yourself comfortable on the couch as he flops down onto the carpeted floor and turns on the television. Idly, he begins flipping through the channels in search for something to watch, and you endure random snippets of the morning news, a cheesy soap opera, and a series of infomercials before sighing and rising to your feet again. “I’m getting some food. Want some toast, Chimchim?”

“Mmm. Sure.”

Slowly, you meander your way back into the kitchen. Your mother is standing at the counter stirring sugar into her coffee, and you smile as you walk up to join her. “Morning, Mom.”

“Good morning, sweetie,” she says, taking a careful sip of her drink. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log,” you reply with a grin. Grabbing the loaf of bread off the counter, you pull out a few slices and shove them in the toaster. “Do you want toast? I’m making some for me and Chimchim.”

“Just one slice for me,” she says, opening up the dish cabinet and pulling out three plates. Obligingly, you hand her one of the two freshly toasted slices and drop the other onto your plate. Popping some more bread into the toaster, you’re just about to grab the jam from the fridge when there’s a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it!” Jimin yells from the living room. You hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway and the low creak of the front door as it swings open—and then your brother is snorting out a laugh at whoever is on your doorstep. “Dude, why are you covered in dirt?”

You’re beginning to have a sneaking suspicion as to who your guest is, and it’s confirmed when your brother’s question is answered.

“I’m helping Mom plant some hydrangeas out back,” Jungkook’s voice explains, his tall figure stepping into view a moment later. “Can you come help me lift the bushes?”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “You could’ve just texted me.”

“Who knows if you would’ve answered?” Jungkook asks, laughing. “Knowing you, you’d just leave me on read. Besides—” and here he glances over at you, dark eyes glimmering with an emotion that you can’t quite pinpoint, “—I wouldn’t get to see two of my favorite ladies if I didn’t stop by.”

Jimin pretends to vomit at the line, but your mother laughs delightedly as Jungkook takes another step into the foyer and flashes her a winning grin. “Good morning, Jungkookie,” she greets him. “Have you eaten breakfast yet? {Name} was just making some toast, and we’ve got fresh coffee.”

Jungkook’s gaze slides over to you again, taking in the flannel pajama pants and oversized t-shirt you’re wearing. “Thanks, Mrs. Park,” he says, though his eyes never leave yours. “I ate already, but coffee sounds wonderful.”

You are beginning to feel increasingly vulnerable as Jungkook continues looking unblinkingly in your direction. Thankfully, your mom pipes up, drawing his attention away with a decisive clap of her hands. “Coffee it is, then!” she says brightly. “{Name}, why don’t you grab Jungkook a cup?”

Hurriedly, you turn toward the cabinets, trying your best to ignore Jungkook as he chats comfortably with your family. Your success is limited though, and you can feel his penetrating stare lingering on your back even as you fetch a mug and fill it up to the brim.

“Noona.” Jungkook’s voice comes from behind you, much closer than you remember him being. “Can I have some cream and sugar, please?”

Somehow, you manage to reply without stammering. “Yeah. Sure.” Dumping some of the excess coffee into the sink, you spoon in some sugar and give it a quick stir. Just as you turn toward the refrigerator for the cream, a strong arm cuts you off.

“I got it, Noona,” Jungkook murmurs, backing you up against the counter as he tucks the little white carton into your outstretched hand. His proximity has your heart skipping several beats, and you almost drop the carton entirely when he speaks again in a husky whisper, his mouth at the shell of your ear. “Just a little bit, please.”

You are acutely aware of the heat radiating off of his body, warming your back and flushing your cheeks. Quietly, you open up the carton and pour a splash of cream into his mug, the swirl of white melding with the dark liquid within. “Is—is that enough?”

Jungkook reaches around you to open up the silverware drawer, grabbing a spoon and giving the coffee a stir. “That’s perfect,” he purrs, his hot breath stirring gooseflesh on the back of your neck.

This close to him, it’s easy to forget where you are and who you’re with, but you somehow manage to regain enough of your senses to wrench away and reclaim your personal space. “G-great,” you stammer, picking up the mug and shoving it into his hands, determinedly ignoring the ripple of his arm muscles as he accepts. “Um. Chim. Did you want your toast?”

“Yes, please,” Jimin says, barely glancing up from where he’s made himself comfortable at the kitchen island, idly playing on his phone.

Your mother pokes her head around the doorframe of the adjoining laundry room, where she has clearly started a fresh load if the sound of splashing water is anything to go by. “Don’t make your sister do all of the work, Jimin. Go help her—it’s your food, isn’t it?”

Obligingly, Jimin hops off the stool and grabs his favorite jar of jam, joining you at the counter. He takes the slice of toast you offer him, slathering it messily and taking an enormous bite. “Thanks for breakfast, Noona,” he says, blowing you an exaggerated kiss. “Ready, Kook?”

Jungkook raises his mug of coffee in acknowledgement. “Ready.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, twinkling with silent mirth. “And Noona—thanks. The coffee’s delicious.”

You can’t find the words to answer. Silently, you watch him disappear out the front door with Jimin, following his dark head of hair as it bobs across the yard. His biceps flex as he gestures for Jimin to help him lift a hydrangea bush, and your eyes linger on the stretch of defined muscle, tracing the network of prominent veins running along his forearm before your brain can caution you to stop. It’s almost as if you’re on autopilot, and by the time you zone back in, your gaze has wandered too far south for your liking. Letting out an audible groan, you tear your eyes away from the mouthwatering view of his thick thighs and return to your now-cold breakfast. And you don’t think about Jeon Jungkook again, pushing the image of his broad shoulders and handsome face into the darkest recesses of your mind.

Or at least, that was the plan. Jimin comes back inside after about an hour, tracking mud through half the house before your mother reprimands him and orders him to take off his shoes. Jungkook, thankfully, chose to return to his own home as well, and you immediately banish the thought of him showering off all the sweat and grime that has no doubt accumulated on his toned body. You shove away the mental image of water slicking his golden skin and collecting in the hollows of his collarbones, and when your mind conjures up pictures of what lies south of his waist, you resist the urge to scream into the pile of freshly laundered pillowcases your mom presses into your arms.

You’re just about to head upstairs to scream into a real pillow when there’s another knock on your front door—a familiar cadence that you heard just this morning. And that’s when you realize—to your complete and utter dismay—that Jeon Jungkook isn’t done tormenting you yet. Not by a long shot.

“You again? You do realize that this isn’t your house, right?” you ask, swinging open the door and thanking whatever gods may be out there that your voice remains steady. Then you raise a brow, glancing down at his change in attire. “Wait, why are you wearing a suit?”

Jungkook gives you an infuriatingly impish grin. “Do I need a reason?” His hair is still damp from the shower, a stray lock flopping down across his forehead, and as you watch him brush it away absently, you notice that he’s holding something in his free hand.

“What’s that?” you ask curiously.

Footsteps sound from behind you, interrupting before he can answer. “Jungkookie?” your mother asks, appearing at the foot of the stairs. “I thought I heard your voice. Are you here for Jimin again?”

Jungkook flashes her a winning smile and raises the garment bag he’s holding. “No, I was actually hoping to get some advice. I’ve got my suit ready to go for graduation tomorrow, but I can’t decide which shirt looks better. My mom likes how I look in blue, but I wanted a second opinion from you and Noona.”

To your utter annoyance, your mother coos and gestures for him to come in. He’s already wearing the blue shirt—a pale periwinkle one that reminds you of a cloudless day—but your mom takes the garment bag out of his hand and unzips it to look inside. “What are your options?” she asks.

“Blue, red, and yellow,” Jungkook replies, pulling each shirt off its hanger and holding them up to his chest in turn. “What do you think, Mrs. Park?”

“The blue is lovely,” your mom says thoughtfully, straightening his collar. “But this shade of yellow looks nice too. A handsome young man like you—you really can’t go wrong with any of these.”

Jungkook grins and scratches behind his ear, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Thanks, Mrs. Park.”

The dryer chooses that moment to beep shrilly, signalling the end of its cycle, and your mother darts off to tend to it, leaving you and Jungkook alone in the living room.

“What about you, Noona?” Jungkook asks, just as you’re about to try and sneak out under the pretense of helping with the laundry. “Which shirt do you like?”

“Does it matter?” you ask. “It’s just going to be hidden underneath those horrible black trash bags they make you wear.”

He laughs. “Sure, but what about before and after? You know my mom’s going to want to take a million pictures.”

“Can’t argue there.” Resigning yourself to your fate, you put your stack of clean pillowcases down on the arm of the couch and cross your arms over your chest. “Show them to me again?”

Jungkook raises the yellow shirt, holding it up for a few seconds before swapping it out for the red. “Well?”

You pause to consider it. “Red,” you decide after some deliberation, pointing at your choice. It’s a deep crimson color—almost burgundy—and you rub the silky material between your fingertips before taking it and replacing it onto its hanger. Jungkook joins you with the yellow shirt, his arm bumping into yours as you both reach for the garment bag, and even though you flinch away from the contact, Jungkook doesn’t let you stray very far. A strong hand clamps down around your forearm, and you inhale sharply when he backs you up against the wall and cages you in with his solid body.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Jungkook looks thoroughly unfazed as he blinks a few loose strands of hair out of his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Jungkook—” you hiss, struggling to see over his shoulder if your mother has returned. “Get off me.”

“Come on, Noona,” Jungkook murmurs. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. Ever since you got back—ever since we kissed—”

“A mistake,” you say, cutting him off with a finger to the lips and glancing around furtively to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “That was a mistake.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Was it? Because I really wanted to kiss you, and I’m pretty sure you wanted to kiss me too. You kissed back, didn’t you?”

“Y-you—“ You clear your throat and try again, cringing at how shaky your voice comes out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Jungkook simply laughs. “Don’t I?” He inches closer until you’re chest to chest, his gaze darkening as it flickers downward and lands on your mouth. Your heartbeat quickens, thudding erratically in your ribcage. It would be so easy to push to your tiptoes and close the distance between your lips.

“God,” you huff. “You’re so—”

His other eyebrow rises to join the first. “I’m so—?” he presses, tilting his head as he awaits your answer. The loose lock of hair flops across his forehead again, and this time you cannot stop yourself from reaching up to brush it away.

“Shut up,” you hiss as your fingers drop down to wind into the soft hair at his nape. “Just shut up.”

And then you’re kissing him—really, really kissing him—pulling him down to your level and sliding your free hand up his infuriatingly toned chest.

“See?” Jungkook’s lips curl up into a smug smirk as he pulls away slightly, his warm breath fanning across your cheeks with every word. “I knew you were into me.”

“God, do you ever stop talking?” you retort, pushing him back until you have enough room to switch your positions and maneuver him against the wall.

Jungkook lets you pin him in place, blinking down at you lazily with his mouth still stretched into that maddening little smirk. “Only if you make me, Noona.” His hands slide down your sides, coming to a stop at your hips in an ironclad grip. “Only if you kiss me like that again.”

So you do. Your fingers tighten in his hair as you crush your mouth to his, and when his lips part you slip your tongue inside. Jungkook—still smirking—relaxes and lets you take control of the kiss, but his hands continue to wander. Before you know it, he’s already snuck underneath the hem of your shirt, rubbing warm circles into the soft skin of your waist. His lips move languidly against yours, his tongue careful and gentle in its exploration of your mouth, and you sigh when he tugs you closer. You’re pressed flush against him by this point, pinning him between your body and the wall, and neither you nor he have any intent to move anytime soon.

The sudden slamming of a door jerks you back to reality. Here you are, standing in the living room where anyone could walk by and see you kissing your brother’s best friend—again. Shakily, you pull away from Jungkook with your heart in your throat, putting as much space as you possibly can between your bodies. “Fuck,” you mutter. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. We can’t do this.”

Jungkook’s chest is heaving, his lips swollen and red. “{Name}—” he tries, but you shake your head and cut him off before he can continue.

“You need to leave,” you whisper.

“But—”

“Please,” you say, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. “Please, Jungkook. Just leave.”

Jungkook swallows, hard. And then, much to your relief, he picks up his garment bag, shoving both shirts back inside. “Okay,” he rasps. “I’ll go.”

Elsewhere in the house, you can hear your mother calling for Jimin. Your father is watching TV in his study—you can hear the low hum of voices and a laugh track. Your entire family is here.

And yet, you’ve never felt more alone as you watch Jungkook stride down the hallway and disappear out the front door.

///

Returning to your high school is odd. The hallways and classrooms are familiar, but they all seem smaller than you remember. And were the ceilings always this short? You aren’t sure. What you are sure of, however, is that Jungkook and his family are currently headed your way, with beaming smiles on their faces and colorful flower bouquets in hand. Greetings and congratulations are exchanged, and it isn’t long before you are face-to-face with Jungkook himself, a tight smile on his face as he meets your eyes.

“Hi, Noona.”

“Hi,” you reply. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Now that the graduation ceremony is over, he’s taken off his robe to reveal the red shirt underneath. The silky material drapes over his torso and clings to the toned planes of his chest, and your fingers itch to run across the defined muscle. Swallowing down the urge, you instead gesture toward his parents, who are engaged in deep conversation with your own parents while Jimin chats with Junghyun off to the side. “I guess we’re all getting dinner after this, huh?”

He nods. “Yeah, at that one place downtow—“

“Jungkook! Jimin!” A feminine voice interrupts him mid-sentence, and you watch in surprise as both your brother and Jungkook are suddenly engulfed in a massive tangle of limbs. Immediately, you recognize Jisoo and Lisa—two girls you considered casual friends from your own high school days. The third girl in the trio of friends—Chaeyoung—is noticeably absent, but you don’t get a chance to question her whereabouts. “Can you believe it? We’re graduates!” Lisa is saying excitedly, still clutching tightly onto Jungkook’s shoulders. She’s pressed flush against him, her chest molded to his, and the sudden rush of jealousy that takes root in the pit of your stomach takes you aback with its ferocity.

Calm the fuck down, you instruct your pounding heart. Stop it, right now.

“Has Tae told you about the party tomorrow night?” Jisoo asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You guys better be there—and that means you, too, {Name}! It’s been forever since we’ve seen you!”

You clear your throat and attempt to smile. “Yeah, it’s been way too long. It’ll be nice to finally catch up.” Unwillingly, your gaze flickers back over to Jungkook and Lisa, doing your best to maintain a neutral expression when you notice the casual way his arm drapes over her shoulders.

Your attempts are in vain. Jungkook notices your stare immediately, a massive shit-eating grin spreading across his face. One eyebrow rises in a silent taunt, and you swear his grip around her tightens. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you instead turn back to Jisoo, finally voicing the question that’s on your mind.

“So, where’s Chaeyoung? I saw her during the ceremony, but haven’t seen her around since. She didn’t leave already, did she?”

“No, she’s still here,” Jisoo answers, exchanging a look with Lisa. Curiosity piqued, you watch her gaze dart over to Jungkook for a split second before returning to you, a tiny smile gracing her face once more. “She’s with her family right now, but she’ll be at the party tomorrow.”

“I’ll congratulate her there, then,” you say, returning her smile with one of her own. Silently, you wonder at the uneasy glance the two girls had exchanged, but decide not to press it, chalking it up to some senior year drama that isn’t any of your business.

“Well, we should probably get going,” Jisoo says after another beat. “We’re off to dinner.”

“We should be on our way too,” you agree, glancing over at where your parents are still chatting, having absorbed Junghyun into their conversation at some point. Bidding the two girls goodbye, you sidle over to join them, trying your best to subtly nudge your parents toward the door.

After what feels like an eternity, your parents finally decide that they’re ready for a change in scenery. The drive to the restaurant is blessedly short, much to the relief of your grumbling stomach, and you are more than grateful for the brief reprieve from Jungkook and his knowing smirk. It doesn’t last long, however, and you mentally brace yourself when you spot the Jeons’ car in the parking lot of the restaurant. Upon entering, you are quickly ushered to your reserved table where the Jeons are already waiting, and somehow in the shuffle you end up right between Jungkook and Junghyun, the former’s face dissolving into a satisfied grin as he watches you sit down.

Then he turns to Jimin, who’s seated on his other side. “Hey, man.”

You bristle at the blatant way he’s ignoring you. But two can play at that game, so you turn to Junghyun with a winning smile, laying a hand on his shoulder for good measure. The older Jeon brother is four years your senior, but despite the age difference, you’ve always gotten along well.

“Junghyun, I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been?”

The elder Jeon grins and leans in to give you a hug. “Good, good—work’s insane, but that’s old news. What about you? How’s school going so far?”

You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, hot and heavy. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle under the weight of it, and you resist the urge to shiver. Instead, you give Junghyun’s bicep a final squeeze before pulling away, steadfastly ignoring the way Jungkook lets out a disgruntled hiss from between his teeth.

“School is good,” you tell Junghyun. “I’m trying to get all my general requirements out of the way early, so my first semester wasn’t very interesting. I took some more focused classes in the second, though, which made things infinitely better.”

The elder Jeon laughs. “Guess that means you’re on the right track then, huh?”

“Guess so,” you reply, laughing right along with him.

The server stops by to take drink orders, and your parents take it upon themselves to order food for the table as well. You continue chatting amicably with Junghyun as the server returns with a tray of water, sodas, and soju; beside you, Jungkook does the same with Jimin. The only break in conversation comes when the server—a pretty girl with a chirpy voice and a nametag that reads ‘Mina’—leans over to set a glass of Coke down in front of Jungkook. He thanks her with a crooked smirk and a low purr of gratitude that has her cheeks flushing pink, and it’s all you can do not to gape at him like a fish. The flirtatious quirk of his lips, the seductive tone—it all comes far too naturally to him, and you wonder for a moment just where the old Jungkook has gone. The Jungkook you used to know stammered every time he had to talk to an unfamiliar girl, and had trouble looking even you in the eye despite having known you since grade school.

But now, he’s nowhere to be found. The young man sitting beside you remains as calm as can be, shifting his body toward Mina so that he can request a straw.

“Of course, here you go!” Mina’s gaze lingers on his hand as he accepts the proffered straw, eyes widening when his fingers brush against hers lightly.

“Fast service,” Jungkook remarks, his voice dipping into a low, indolent drawl. “I like that.”

Mina giggles and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’s clearly about to respond to him—flirt right back, undoubtedly—but your father stands up and taps his glass with a spoon before she can open her mouth. “I want to make a toast,” he says, and you send him a silent, heartfelt thank you when Mina wisely chooses to make herself scarce. “Congratulations to Jungkook and Jimin, our two rad grads!”

An audible groan rises up from your side of the table, where Jimin has buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god, Dad.”

“What?” your father asks innocently. “I really think you’re rad, grad!”

Jimin groans again, muffled by the sleeves of his jacket. “I want the earth to swallow me whole.”

Laughter all around. More toasts are given, and the bottles of soju scattered around the table slowly dwindle down to their last dregs. Junghyun picks up the one closest to him and fills up your glass for the fourth time, drawing a protesting whine from your lips as you try to cut him off. “Wait, that’s not fair! Pour some for yourself too!”

“Relax, we can always order more,” Junghyun says with a laugh, topping off your glass before glancing around to find Mina. Much to your irritation, she’s already headed your way, bearing loaded platters of meat and vegetables and wearing a bright smile that seems to only be directed to Jungkook.

“I hope you’re all hungry!” she chirps, coming to a stop between you and the subject of her affections. You swear she shoots you a dirty look over her shoulder before turning back to the table, her cheerful facade back in place as she smiles at Jungkook. “Where did you want me to put the meat?”

“Anywhere it’ll fit,” Jungkook tells her with a suggestive smirk, keeping his voice soft enough so that only you and she can hear.

Mina cannot hide her answering smile. Likewise, you cannot hide the way your nostrils flare, throat bobbing as you swallow down the ugly feelings bubbling up in your chest. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze roving across your skin, but you refuse to look at him, stubbornly facing the front as Mina distributes food around the table. As soon as she’s departed again—her fingers brushing across the back of Jungkook’s chair in the process—you’re up and out of your seat, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit.

“Restroom,” you say shortly by way of explanation. It’s thankfully empty when you arrive, and you immediately make a beeline toward the sink to splash some cold water on your cheeks.

It’s absurd—this snaking jealousy coiling in your belly and winding up between the slats of your ribcage. Straightening up, you give your reflection in the mirror a stern look, silently willing the feelings in your chest to abate. Gradually, your heartbeat slows into a regular rhythm, your cheeks cooling, and after waiting another two minutes, you decide that it’s been long enough. Drying off your hands, you exit the restroom and wind your way back to the table, keeping your pace leisurely even when Jungkook looks up and catches your eye. His expression is unreadable, and you valiantly ignore his burning gaze as you take a seat.

“How is everything?” you ask Junghyun, picking up a spoon and piling your plate with food from the nearest platter.

Junghyun pauses mid-bite to answer. His mouth opens, but you don’t catch his answer because there is a sudden, heavy weight on your knee. A warm palm caresses the skin exposed by the hem of your dress, slow and sensual and deliberate. Your eyes widen and your lips part, but no sound escapes. The rest of the table’s occupants fade away into the background, conversations and laughter dulling into a low drone. Beside you, Junghyun is still talking, but all you can hear is blood rushing through your ears.

And on your other side, Jungkook is smirking.

The bastard.

Gentle fingertips skim along your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your entire body stiffens, but Jungkook refuses to relent. He’s still chatting with Jimin, chuckling at a joke you didn’t hear, and you wonder how he can remain so calm when you are anything but. Your heart takes off in a sprint, clattering wildly against your ribcage, and for a few moments you are absolutely positive that everyone at the table can hear. Any moment, one of your parents will look over and see how wide your eyes are and how warm your cheeks feel. Any moment, Jimin will look down and see his best friend’s arm snaking beneath the table and realize what’s happening.

And then Jungkook squeezes your thigh, and all thought flies out of your head, dissipating like fog in the sunlight. He’s growing increasingly bold, his fingers trailing up until he can trace the hem of your dress, teasing at the soft material. Your breath hitches in your throat, and Jungkook’s smirk widens. You can see him out of the corner of your eye, trying to hide his smugness behind his soju glass, and for a moment you’re tempted to throw his drink in his face.

But more than that—more than anything else right now—you want him to continue touching you.

He’s sliding beneath your dress now, inching down to the delicate skin of your inner thigh and tracing nonsensical patterns there. You grip the edge of the table as he trails closer and closer to the lace of your panties, knuckles turning white against the dark wood. It’s a wonder no one has noticed your flustered state yet, and you cast concerned glances at Junghyun and Jimin before Jungkook notices your inattention. Punishingly, he slides a single finger into your panties, snapping the lace against your skin and covering the sound with a cough that he buries in his elbow. He can’t hide the way you jolt in your seat though, your knee thudding against the table. Junghyun gives you a worried look, laying a hand on your shoulder as he asks if you’re okay, and you hurriedly nod. And underneath the table, Jungkook resumes his ministrations, languorous and soft and deliberately avoiding the place you need him most, as if he has all the time in the world.

There’s a growing damp spot between your legs. You can feel it seeping through the cottony material of your panties, sticking uncomfortably to your folds. Jungkook’s touch is whisper-soft, caressing along your thigh until your skin is tingling, and it’s all you can do to swallow down the whimper that’s bubbling up in your throat. He’s thoroughly enjoying this—you can tell—and you’re certain he can feel the way you tense up when he suddenly drags a single finger up your clothed slit. A low hiss escapes your parted lips, and in an instant, all eyes are on you.

“Noona?” Jimin asks curiously. “Something wrong?”

“I—” Your mind whirs, searching for an excuse. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. The, uh, sauce was just spicier than I was expecting it to be.”

You haven’t touched a single thing on your plate in minutes, but no one seems to notice your obvious lie. Conversation resumes, and you determinedly pick up your spoon again, intent on getting something more substantial in your belly than the fluttering butterflies that have taken up residence there.

“You sure you want to eat that, Noona?” Jungkook’s voice reaches your ears—a low, dulcet purr that sends electricity shooting down your spine. “You should probably drink some water to cool down.”

And before you can answer—before you even manage to reach for your water glass—he’s slipped his hand into your panties, the warm pad of his thumb pressing experimentally against your clit. The slight pressure has you gasping, your heart pounding hard enough to leap out of your chest as you drop your spoon. Your hands drop down to your lap—one gripping the edge of your chair while the other finds its way around Jungkook’s wrist, and you aren’t sure whether you’re trying to stop him or spur him on. His arm muscles flex underneath your fingertips, and that’s all the warning you get before he angles his hand, a lone finger sinking inside your drenched entrance.

“Oh, fuck.” You can’t stop the strangled curse that escapes your lips, an airy hiss from behind clenched teeth. Your grip on Jungkook’s wrist tightens, but it doesn’t seem to dissuade him at all as he begins a leisurely pace, sinking deeper into your cunt with each thrust.

Luckily, no one hears your whimper. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you bite back the sounds threatening to spill out and instead focus on maintaining as neutral an expression as you can muster. Beneath the table, Jungkook remains relentless. Even when your mother looks over and addresses him directly, he doesn’t cease his ministrations, keeping both his tone and his pace even as he responds.

“Jungkookie, you’ve barely touched your pork belly. Are you full already?”

“Stuffed,” Jungkook replies smoothly. He punctuates the word by adding a second finger, and you almost bang your knee on the table again, your eyes going wide at his audacity.

Your mother pushes the platter of meat closer to him anyway. “No need to be polite, honey. Here, eat up.”

Obligingly, Jungkook picks out a few pieces with his free hand and piles them on his plate. “Thanks, Mrs. Park,” he says as he brings some to his mouth. “It’s delicious.”

Satisfied, your mother turns her attention elsewhere. Jungkook returns his to you, and you almost groan aloud when his thumb brushes against your clit again, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bud before he sheathes both fingers inside you once more. There’s a growing heat coiling in the pit of your stomach by this point, lighting every single one of your nerves on fire. Your body is screaming for release, and Jungkook seems more than eager to give it to you. He’s freed his wrist from your grip, leaving you to clutch helplessly at the table as he angles his fingers upward. No doubt he’s searching for the spot that will have you seeing stars, and you know he’s found it when a sudden burst of pleasure spikes through you. Your mouth falls lax, and Jungkook grins, thoroughly satisfied.

There’s something building inside you, something that has your tummy tensing and your toes curling in your shoes. Jungkook’s fingers dig deep, his palm rubbing against your clit with every thrust, and it takes every remaining ounce of your self-control to resist the urge to rock your hips into his hand. A bit more of that delicious friction, and you’ll be falling over the edge. You know it, and so does Jungkook if the smirk on his face is anything to go by.

And then a voice is pulling you back to reality, a warm hand settling on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact, your startled gaze flying up to Junghyun’s, and balk when you see him staring at you with equal parts amusement and concern.

“I—what?” you stammer. “Did… did you say something?”

Beneath the table, you feel Jungkook’s fingers retreat, leaving you empty and aching for release. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook wipe his glistening hand on his napkin, a frown that can only be described as petulant settling onto his face.

“Whoa, relax!” Junghyun drags your attention back to him, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to say goodbye. I have to be up early for work tomorrow, so I’m driving back into the city tonight.”

“Oh!” It takes you a few seconds to process his words. “Right, yeah. Have a safe drive back. It was good to see you.”

“Ditto,” he replies, flashing you a warm grin. “But hey, are you all right? You’ve been a little weird the whole night. Was it the food?”

Gratefully, you seize upon the excuse. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. I think maybe something isn’t sitting quite right in my stomach, but I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it.”

He nods and leans in for a hug. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“You too. Bye, Junghyun.”

With the elder Jeon brother’s departure, everyone else quickly decides that it’s time to disperse as well. You adamantly refuse to look in Jungkook’s direction as your parents fight over the bill, focusing your goodbyes on Mr. and Mrs. Jeon even when he glances your way with a knowing little smirk and a soft murmur of, “Bye, Noona.”

You can’t look at him. Not when every movement reminds you just how damp your panties are, your core begging for relief. Not when he’s waggling his fingers in farewell—the gesture anything but innocent. “Bye,” you warble weakly, before fleeing to the car.

The memory of his fingers burns fresh in your mind later that night as you lie in bed, your hand stuffed down your panties and working furiously to find that sweet, sweet relief.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook scenarios #bts scenarios #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #kpop scenarios #brother's best friend!au #brother's best friend au #lia writes

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owlheartt · 3 years ago

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I told myself I have until noon today to keep writing this. Then I have to do my homework. Anyways, have chapter 2!!!

Inspired by @calcium-cat's fanfic OSD, chapter 1, chapter 3, and @limeshiper wanted to be tagged but Tumblr won't let me tag you????

Horror was fine. Well, not fine, but he didn’t need Cross just sitting here. Cross had found a bouncy ball that he was now throwing against the wall, waiting for news on Dream. He was betting it would be a bit, and was beginning to wonder what all Nightmare was planning when the skeleton of the hour appeared in a disheveled rage.

“You’re back soo-”

“Where did you get that?” Nightmare growled.

“Uhhh.” Cross glanced at the clear, glittery bouncy ball in his hand. “I dunno, just found it on the shelf.” He jerked his head to a small bookshelf on the wall. “...Is it not going well?”

“It is going perfectly fine.” Nightmare glanced at Horror, who was napping on the couch. “Change of plans. Go downstairs and get Dream, there’s been some complications. Do not mention my name at all, refer to me solely as Boss. Keep him in one place, preferably not the dungeons, and avoid answering awkward questions. Feel free to decide what the awkward questions are yourself.”

Nightmare raised an eyebrow at Cross, only for the skeleton to jump a little.

“Uh, yes sir! Er, yes Boss! Uh, why-?” As soon as Cross gave his confirmation, Nightmare opened up a portal to Sci’s lab, charging past the befuddled skeleton. That was… bizarre, to say the least. Why not keep Dream in the dungeons? Why call Nightmare Boss? What awkward questions? Why not say dangerous questions? Cross threw a glance at Horror before taking a shortcut to the basement. Was that… crying? He dashed into the cell and. Huh.

Cross stared at the bawling child. This… this couldn’t be Dream. Dream was big and tough and on the offensive. This was just a kid. And unfortunately, Cross didn’t have experience with kids. He glanced around before quickly scooping up the kid. Oh jeez, oh heck. Little hands grabbed his jacket and scarf. The kids eyes were squeezed shut, and it looked like he had tapped out of the surrounding world. Ok. Ok. Cross could deal with this. Maybe.

“It’s uh, it’s going to be ok…?” Cross tried. He adjusted a hand to pat Dreams back, but Dream jerked away. His eyes flung open and he stared at Cross with startling awareness.

“Y-you-” Dream paused, thinking in a way a frightened kid just didn’t. Maybe Dream and Nightmare were smarter when they were kids? Or was Dream just smaller and hadn’t lost his memories and Cross had just screwed up big time? “Who are you?!” The kid finally squeaked. Cross relaxed a little. Dream didn’t remember him. Memories gone.

“I’m Cross, what’s your name?” Was he supposed to know Dream’s name? How much did Dream know? What did Nightmare mean with “awkward questions?!?”

“My name is Dream,” Dream said carefully. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m… I was given orders to take care of you!” Cross said, faking a cheery attitude. What is he going to do with a kid?!?!?!

“Oh, ok.” Dream sniveled, swiping at his nose with a sleeve. He started crying again, softer this time. More hiccupy than world breaking. Cross hesitantly rubbed his back before taking a quick shortcut to his room. This ought to be suitable. He set Dream down on his bed, where the kid quickly curled up on his side. Searching around the room for tissues (and debating if he wanted to part with some chocolate) Cross tugged out his phone.

Crisscross-applesauce: guys hepl

It would probably be a bit till-

FeelingStabby: I’m busy, make it fast

Crisscross-applesauce: howd o youtaek acre ofa kdi

Cross only realized how that must sound after he sent it. That is, if Killer could even manage to read it.

Dynamite: What.

FeelingStabby: i thought you were going to ask something about Horror

Dynamite: Hey aren’t you supposed to be making dinner?

Crisscross-applesauce: buys pleas hlep

Dynamite: Only if you can fix those typos.

Crisscross-applesauce: I MBEGIGN YUO

FeelingStabby: Why do you have a kid with you anyways where did it come from

Cross sighed and shoved his phone back into his pocket. This wasn’t going to be worth it. His friends would either give obscure answers or would devolve into teasing. It was worth a try. He finally located the tissues and with a bit of reluctance snagged a chocolate bar before sitting on the bed with Dream.

“W-what were you doing?” Dream eyed Cross’s pocket wearily, though he looked too worn out to do anything about it.

“Just texting some friends. Would you like a tissue?” Cross held the box out to him. A trembling hand reached out to it, delicately holding onto a tissue. Dream’s hands were so small. Actually, the whole way he was acting was weirdly small. Almost like he was doing it on purpose, shriveling up on himself so that he’s less noticeable, less of a threat.

“Texting friends?” Dream looked vaguely confused. Had he never seen a phone before? Nightmare did say he was old…

“Uh, yea. It’s like writing a mini letter and then your phone sends it for you,” Cross said. Dream still looked confused, but he didn’t ask further. “Would you like some chocolate..?” Cross held the bar out to Dream, setting down the tissue box between them. Dream eyed it wearily, glancing back at his pocket. Cross had assumed that kid Dream would be more trusting, (from what little Nightmare told them, and how hard Dream tried to convince them to stop fighting) but this kid seemed to be worried that Cross would try and kill him. Maybe Nightmare had told him some scary things.

“It’s perfectly safe to eat, here.” Cross opened the bar and broke off two bits, eating one himself and holding out the other to Dream. Dream stared at Cross’s phone a bit more, then took the chocolate.

“Thank you,” Dream said, though it was a bit muffled by the chocolate in his mouth. After he swallowed, he asked Cross another question. “Who are your friends?”

“Well, there’s Horror, Dust, and Killer. Oh, and Boss, but I don’t think he’s in a good mood right now.” Cross shifted a bit, hearing how threatening his friend’s names were.

“...Boss?” Dream asked. Cross handed him the rest of the chocolate bar (the kid was staring at it pretty intently) before responding.

“Yea, Boss. He found us and brought us here, so we volunteered to work for him,” Cross said. He got the sense that Nightmare wouldn’t want him sharing all of this, but he did say that Cross could deem what questions shouldn’t be answered.

“Just like me…” Dream replied absently.

“Huh?”

“Uhm, the uh, big goopy skeleton said that he found me and brought me here too.” Dream turned away, shoving chocolate into his mouth as if to avoid further questioning.

“Yea, that’s Boss. He finds lost things.” And it was true. They had all been lost, and Nightmare had found them. Nightmare had a tendency to brush it off, “you’re useful to me” or whatever, but he had saved them when he didn’t need to.

“Oh.”

“Yea,” Cross felt pretty awkward.

“...Do you have any games?” Dream turned back to him.

“Uh, maybe, let me look around. I don’t think Boss would like it if I left you alone, so we’ll have to make do with whatever is in here.”

#owl's writing #osd fanfic #fanfic #dream sans #cross sans #nightmare sans #nightmare's gang #horror sans #killer sans #fuck it I don't feel like tagging everyone every single time I'm just gonna put in nightmare's gang

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soulmate-game · 4 years ago

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Okay, I’m not sure if what I was trying to say in my last post was said very well.

I completely understand the tagging situation from the First Wave with the DC fans. That’s discourse that is mostly solved and we can’t do anything about those who are forever gonna be bitter or lazy. I’m not talking about that stuff.

The stuff I want to prevent/limit is the hate that comes after our fandom deliberately. And yes, I know I can’t stop it. None of us can stop bitter, antagonistic people from being bitter and antagonistic. None of us can stop people who just want to be angry.

I’m not talking about stopping them, though.

I’m talking about what we can do to protect ourselves as creators and consumers in this fandom. As people who love and appreciate what the creations and people in this fandom have to offer. In simplistic form, I’m saying we need to learn how to shield ourselves from bullies. And there are methods we can use to make ourselves less of a target to the people who go after us, and methods to cut their attacks off short. None of these methods are fool-proof, but they will work to filter out a good majority of the shit we would otherwise be showered by, like a big umbrella against Assholery. Sure, the wind might still blow some in our face and we might splash in a puddle or two by accident, but at least we aren’t soaked.

So let me list the various things that can help you shield yourself from hate/harassment/antis who might just be out to get you.

1) leave the fandom.

The most effective, but least attractive method possible. This is limited to being a last ditch effort, if things have just gotten too hard to handle. I’m covering it first though, because we have to acknowledge that it is a viable method. If you feel trapped, hated, bullied, I’m sure all of us in this fandom would prefer you take a break and leave us for a while in the sake of your own health and safety then stay where you are miserable. This is less of a problem for us though, because mostly this option is gonna be for fandoms where the discourse and attacks are internal. Maribat is largely a peaceful and supportive/healthy environment once you’re inside our little bubble, the main discourse comes from outside in. So let’s focus on the main point of this post— how to keep our bubble from popping.

2) Make it apparent right away that you are Unapologetic.

Whenever you post content or are approached by someone about the topic of your fandom, don’t you DARE ever apologize for liking what you like or posting unproblematic content. You need to make it clear right off the bat that you are not gonna be swayed, bullied, or shamed out of your fandom. Stand with pride and make it clear, but don’t be verbose about it. A simple “Don’t like, don’t read” is classic but sometimes if you’re posting/talking during a more confrontational period of the fandom, you need to up your game to reflect that. The funny thing is, people can easily be intimidated by swearing if it isn’t directed at them or clearly antagonistic. If you’re swearing in a joking, casual or even in a manner that shows you’re not taking yourself too seriously, people will usually avoid picking fights with you. For this, my favorite lines to use on my work include;

“Don’t like, I don’t fucking care. I fell down the rabbit hole.”

“Don’t bother reading if you’re not into this, this shit bitch-slapped me and dragged me along on it’s adventure.”

“I’m addicted to this fandom, don’t bother trying to save me. If it bothers you, I don’t give a fuck. Save yourselves.”

3) Don’t approach or interact

Unless someone comes at you first, never try to persuade someone away from hating us. That just makes you a target in an empty field, for the vultures to surround and gang up on. If someone approaches you with provocative but not overly insulting or intelligent language— I.e; trying to start a fight, vague insults not always relating to the fandom itself, trying to insult your character/judgement— do not respond. Delete the message, block the account, and surround yourself with fluffy good stuff to forget the wanna-be harasser. These people are often not brave enough to outright start a fight, and want you to get defensive first so they know the weak points in your armor to exploit. Defensive statements declare your own insecurities, don’t get defensive. It gives them a way to win without having to defend themselves or feel vulnerable— it’s like exploiting type differences in Pokémon. You wait for an unfamiliar Pokémon to expose it’s type, then snipe it with the moves it’s weak to. Then, you have a near sure-fire win even with under leveled Pokémon on your team.

Don’t be a proud Infernape that gets sniped by a weak-ass level 5 Piplup. We’re strong, don’t show them the chinks in our armor.

4) Have a support network. Even if they don’t know they are your support network.

The fandom as a whole serves this purpose, and this is mostly gonna be a tactic you use when the discourse is inside the fandom, but there can be uses for this in discourse from outside the fandom as well. If someone tries to act like they like your story/art “but...” they passive aggressively state things they “would prefer” or they try to make it sound like you made stupid mistakes (a tactic to make you insecure about yourself) instead of kindly pointing out errors or offering constructive criticism (ex: “you know you put your trigger list somewhere where it’s useless right? Love your story though.)—THESE ARE ALL PROVOCATIONS. They are trying to make you insecure so that you change things about yourself, your work, or jump through hoops to try to “make it up” to them when you did nothing wrong and there are no problems to fix. Do not fall for it! Instead, politely as possible, bring the issue into a public space where you feel safe/trust the people in that space to keep the bullshit from escalating. For me, I straight up explain my reasoning for the placement of my trigger list as if I’m advertising a particularly boring but important product that I’m selling, then offer places for them to bring the issue into a discussion with others. I send them to a discoed group or right here to my tumblr, and I immediately make the issue into a big discussion (do YOU think there is anything to change? Let’s ALL talk about it) so that I am no longer isolated and easy for them to harass. They might refuse to join the discussion and further try to pressure you, but do not cave. Merely say that a public discussion has been started, and if they are actually, legitimately concerned about the way you do things then they can debate it in a public setting. This way, you have back up. 9/10 people who try to target you this way will back off and never enter the conversation you started.

5) Do not fight back.

This sounds counterintuitive, but a lot of the time once discourse gets this bad, arguing/defending/ trying to prove your point only fuels their rage more. I have found that people hate very little in this world more than they hate being wrong. And people who hate being wrong will fight to the bitter death about their opinions, no matter how invalid or hurtful they are, in the favor of their blissful ignorance. Remove yourself from harmful discussions or those that seem to be going in circles as soon as possible, and try to surround yourself in your support group. Never let people make you feel stupid, your opinions illegitimate, or your likes/dislikes invalid or evil.

6) Try to learn how to recognize bullies in disguise

It’s too much for me to try to cover here, but you need to PLEASE look into how to spot gaslighting. Tactics of gaslighting are often used to attack others and try to make them feel like their own opinions are invalid or their mindset untrustworthy. People will often approach you in the guise of friendship/support/ “I am not into this, but...” and while this is not always a red flag, we have to keep our eyes open for any signs of this person or their approach being rooted in anything other than legitimate curiosity or kindness. Not all suggestions that say they are out of concern actually ARE. Keep an eye out for warning signs, and cut off interaction once things seem like they may lead to an argument or you being in a vulnerable position if you continue interacting.

(Brief mention of s**cide and threats in the section below)

7) If all else fails, BLOCK THEM.

No hesitation, we don’t need this shit. They make a second account? Block that too. Don’t respond, only take screenshots or reblog if it is directly harmful information that can/should be documented (words that encourage suicide, threats, insults that seem a little too specific for comfort) and give the evidence to someone you trust to look out for you. A therapist, a family member, or even the authorities if you deem that necessary. Just don’t handle it alone.

We are not responsible for other people’s actions, opinions, or anger. Take the steps to protect yourself instead of trying to reconcile. Sometimes, reconciliation isn’t an option. Both parties have to be willing to reconcile, and it is clear they have nothing in mind but hurting us. So raise your shields and protect yourself and your friends, we’re not gonna lose a war to petty jerks.

#tw: harassment #bully prevention #bullying prevention #steps to protect yourself #maribat #ml x dc #mlb x dc

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lunapwrites · 3 years ago

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Ch 16.5 - Moon-flu

This scene was part of the original opening to Ch 17, which I cut for being in some respects eerily similar to Ch 15's opening. However, I was really pleased with the way that Remus was portrayed in this scene (and the moment itself is still mentioned in the chapter) so I am instead sharing this with my Tumblr followers as a wee little bonus.

May I present: Remus Lupin, being The Most Pathetic and feeling safe enough to be dramatic about it.

content warnings: Please take the use of the word flu in the title very literally. He is quite ill. :(

The sky was painted in scarlet and gold when Remus woke, frost leaving intricate patterns on the window panes. It was bright and crisp, the perfect morning to nip down to the coffee shop down the road and pick up one of those fancy little flavoured drinks Sirius loved so much.

Unfortunately, his body had other plans.

The covers rustled as Sirius shifted behind him, no doubt sitting up to check on him. Remus dearly wanted to sink into the carpet – only it was currently covered in sick, so perhaps not.

“Remus, what are you doing – Ah.”

The bed shook and creaked, followed by bare feet padding against the floor. Round the end of the bed, moving closer.

“Don’t,” Remus groaned, and the footsteps stopped.

“Head?”

“Na.”

“Remus.”

He sighed; it was never a good sign when Sirius didn’t laugh at a dick joke.

“Dunno… five?”

“So a nine, you bloody martyr.” A drawer opened, pill bottles rattling about. “Reckon you could get this down?”

“Sure,” Remus said without any confidence. “Is my wand over by there? I need to clean this up.”

“You need to lay down.”

“I am laying down.”

“No you’re not, you’re hanging half off the bed.”

“...I was waylaid.”

“Right. Well, I can take care of it–”

“I’ve got it,” Remus ground out.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was only trying to help. Here.”

The familiar length of cypress pressed into his outstretched hand, handle first. He gripped it, giving it a vague wave as he blearily opened his eyes and focused on cleaning the mess he’d made. The curtains turned a rather putrid green colour, the mess on the floor untouched. Remus grunted, jabbing his wand at it more forcefully.

Half of the sick disappeared, the remainder stubbornly clinging to existence. Mocking him.

“Remus, can I just–”

“Oh for fuck's sake, Sirius, I can clean a bloody carpet!” he snarled, and fired off another attempt that vanished the entire rug instead.

(He’d never been much good at cleaning charms, which they were both perfectly well aware of. It was the principle of the thing.)

Remus kicked himself loose from the sheets, falling to the newly bare floor in an undignified heap as he swore viciously under his breath. Sirius hovered at the end of the bed with a bemused expression that Remus knew translated roughly to whenever you're finished being a twat.

(Which he was, a little.)

“It's fine," said Sirius airily, "I hated that rug anyway.”

“Oh, don’t,” Remus moaned as he staggered to his feet, all but dragging himself to the window to slam the curtains shut with great prejudice. Even that amount of physical exertion was a mistake; his muscles ached and burned, his migraine worsening and rendering him near-blind. He slumped against the wall miserably.

Sirius approached and pressed a capsule against Remus' lips; he swallowed it dutifully. Paracetamol wasn't going to touch the headache most likely, but it certainly couldn't hurt with everything else.

And anyway, it was his own damn fault he couldn't take anything heavier.

“Can I at least help you back to bed, or are you going to bite my hand off?”

“M’not an invalid.”

The effect was rather ruined by his head flopping onto Sirius’ shoulder. It was difficult to be intimidating when one could scarcely move.

“Of course you’re not.”

“Can’t go back to bed. V'got things to do.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, love, but I don’t think you’re going to be much use today.”

Remus growled; Sirius laughed, wrapping his arm around him as he led him carefully off to what Remus could only assume was the bath.

Suppose I’ll allow it… sounds nice.

“What do you think you’re getting done anyway, hm?”

"I want to check the thing I put on the, erm…." Remus trailed off, miming running his free hand over a flat surface as the word eluded him. "The fuckin'... yr silf bin tân, but that's not the word, innit? It's, erm–"

"The mantlepiece?" Sirius supplied, and Remus simply snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "What's up there?"

"Monitoring charm… thing."

"Ah. Still on about that poltergeist theory?"

"Mmm."

“It’s nothing that can’t keep til tomorrow,” Sirius assured him, but Remus groaned.

“Guard duty tomorrow.”

“No you haven’t; Arthur's traded with you.” There was a squeak of knobs turning, the hiss of water. “You’ll be taking his shift later this month before you start whinging about charity.”

“Wasn’t going to whinge,” lied Remus, pulling his shirt over his head and getting stuck in it.

“Were. I know you, Lupin."

Remus pretended not to hear him as he worked on extricating himself – with no small amount of difficulty, which Sirius gamely pretended not to notice. Once freed, there was nothing left for him to do but wait.

Well, Remus thought, picking up his toothbrush, almost nothing.

(after that part, this section got kinda squidgy so we're gonna leave it there.)

The mention of the poltergeist was repurposed for use in the actual chapter, and therefore changed.

#ltl #deleted scene #remus lupin #sirius black #sick fic #technically #sirius is such a pro at this #and remus knows it #even if he's also being a big baby rn #he's allowed #in this chapter remus is baby #hp #writing #my writing #outtake

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boxdyeblonde · 4 years ago

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Safety

A/N: this is the first fic ive posted on tumblr.... so we’ll see how this goes, lol. i wrote this to cope with some stuff and was honestly thinking about how i need soft but protective Din in my life

Warnings: TW for mentions and vague descriptions of sexual assault, plus consensual nsfw moments

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader (i think i kept this gender neutral until the last little bit)

Word count: Just under 2.9k

---

You sat alone in the back of the Razor Crest, blanket draped around your shoulders. It was one of those days again. You couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened, how even though you said no, and pushed away, no one ever listened. All of your past lovers had been greedy. Greedy for you, or at least the physical side of you. It made you sick to even think about.

The ship touched down and you heard some shuffling from the cockpit, along with the child’s babbling and murmur from Din in response. Din walked back towards you, the child in his arms. You held yourself, still feeling uncomfortable and somewhat nauseous from your thoughts.

“Hey,” Din says, looking at you, “Are you alright? You’re not looking too well.” You could hear the concern in his voice, and could picture it written across his face, the face that you had seen only once before. You look up at him, slowly pulling yourself out of your own head.

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” you mutter out, “Yeah, I’m not feeling the best today.” You looked at him nervously as he tilted his head.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go into town with the kid. If you’re up for it you can come with,” he said, the concern in his voice mixed with a hopeful tone. While you didn’t necessarily want to be alone, you weren’t sure that you had the energy or focus to go out with them. You didn’t want to be a burden if a fight broke out, you typically could hold your own, even in a sparring match against Din, but you were too distracted today to be of any help.

You shook your head, “I think I’ll stay here,” you say, offering Din a weak smile, “I’m going to go lie down for a while.” You stand up, walking towards the cot in the back of the ship. As you near him he gently grabs your arm. You glance up at him.

“We won’t be gone long,” he says looking down at you. “If you need anything you know how to reach me.” You nod, placing your hand on the breastplate of his beskar.

“Thank you,” you say, “Be safe out there.” You reach over to the child’s head and give it a soft pat. Din nods, and opens the ship’s hatch. You walk over to the cot and sit down, watching him leave.

After Din has left you lay down staring at the wall, your thoughts slowly consuming you again. Most days you were fine, repressing the feelings for long periods of time, but when they resurfaced, they came all at once, and more intense than before. You felt hopeless at times, at others you dirty or unclean, and sometimes you felt as if you wouldn’t be able to have a successful relationship with anyone ever again. Even in the few times a relationship between you and someone else had started to bud, the minute anything more than just “romantic” happened, you immediately went on edge, and would end things immediately after.

You felt extremely relaxed around Din, though. The two of you had expressed the way you felt to each other a few months ago, and he knew all too well about your past. Din had helped you out of a night out that had gone bad. He wasn’t typically one to get involved in other’s problems but he couldn’t just walk away when he heard your cries for help from around the corner of the cantina.

—

He wouldn’t let go of you, no matter how much you struggled. You managed to get a solid right hook in but he was a lot stronger than you, and you hadn’t had a lot of fighting experience yet.

But then Din appeared, shrouded in beskar and accompanied by a small green child, coming to your rescue with a swift sucker punch. He and your attacker continued to throw punches until the Mandalorian had landed a hard uppercut, knocking the man out cold.

By now you were seated on the ground, having slowly slid down the outside wall of the cantina still in shock from everything that had happened. The Mandalorian walked over to you, offering his hand.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice was smooth despite the raspy edge that his helmet’s modulator created. You were taken aback, but reached for his hand anyway. As he pulled you up to your feet you could see the child’s face peak over the pram he was in. Nodding slowly you muttered out a confirmation.

“Do you have somewhere safe to go?” The Mandalorian asked, looking down at you. He had a gut feeling that you were someone he could trust, as did you. You shook your head no and looked down. “I have a space on my ship where you can stay for the night.”

You nodded, “Okay… Thank you,” you murmured out.

He led you back to his ship, where he set you up with his cot and a blanket or two.

“There’s only one bed here?” You said, your anxiety beginning to spike.

“I know,” he said, “I’ll sleep in the cockpit, don't worry. The bed is yours for the night. Get some rest.” You sighed in relief shoulders beginning to relax.

As the Mandalorian put the kid down for bed, you stayed on alert until he was on his way to the cockpit.

“Hey…,” You say quietly, feeling nervous as he turns his head to look at you. “Um.. Thanks…”

“Din,” he says, “you can call me Din.”

“Thank you, Din.” He nods back at you before heading up into the cockpit.

—

You were glad that the one night you were supposed to stay turned into a week, which soon turned into a month, and so on. You truly felt the safest with him, even when you were shooting up stormtroopers, tracking down bounties, and settling fights outside of cantinas.

A few tears slipped down your face as you thought about what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been there that night. The thought causing your stomach to drop.

The door to the ship slowly hissed, lowering itself, your anxiety spiked until you heard the little laugh of the child. The time had flown by, you were too lost in your memories to notice.

After Din had entered the ship, he set the child down in its pram, and walked back over to you. Leaning one arm against the door frame he spoke up, “How are you feeling?”

You wiped you face and sat up, sniffing slightly. “Better,” you said, voice cracking.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, a pang of sadness and concern running though him. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, taking your hand.

You shook your head, “It’s just the usual… can’t shake the memories.” He nodded.

“Come here,” he says, extending out his arms. As you slowly meld against his body you can’t hold back the tears.

"I just want to be okay again,” you say in between sobs. His heart aches, hearing you sob into the crook of his neck, feeling your body shake in his arms. He desperately wanted to make all of your pain and suffering go away, and he was willing to do anything it would take.

“Hey,” he cooed, “It’s okay, cyar’ika. I’m here, and I will always protect you.” He shifted you onto his lap as he cradled you against his body. You sat there in his arms, crying until you ran out of tears.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss against your temple.

—

Two weeks had passed, and you were finally feeling better. You were onto another planet with Din and the child, a less busy planet, where the three of you could lay low for a week or two.

Din peeled off his beskar, leaving only his underclothes and his helmet. He stretched his arms over his head, unaware of your staring as his shirt slowly rose above his waistband. You desperately wanted to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. You came out of your trance when he winced slightly, lowering his arms, and rubbing his neck and shoulder letting out a sigh.

“Come over here,” you say, seated in the middle of the bed, patting the space in front of you. He walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed, looking back at you. “Turn around,” you coo, shifting behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. If it were anyone else he wouldn’t have complied but he trusted you. As you knelt behind him you began to rub small circles into his shoulders, kneading at the tight muscles. He let out a groan that caught you by surprise.

“You’re so tense, love… When is the last time you stretched?”

He chuckled slightly, “Not for a while.”

“Din…,” you sigh, shaking your head. This man needed to take better care of himself, you thought to yourself.

As you worked your way around his shoulders and neck, diffusing each knot you found, he let out small moans of relief.

It started to get to you. You started to wonder if those were the very same sounds he would make if you kissed him, if you ran your hands over the rest of his body.

You kissed his shoulder, signaling that you were done massaging, as you snaked around to the front of his body, straddling him and hanging your arms around his neck. He looked up at you, shocked. He figured that it would take you a long time to get truly comfortable with him and with your past before you would do something this intimate with him.

“Cyar’ika…” He says, trailing off, his hands gravitating to your hips. You took a deep breath, knowing those were his hands on your body and no one else’s, knowing that he only ever held you with kindness and love.

Your hands moved up to his helmet. “Can I?” You asked. You never asked, not once over the year you had spent with him, never forcing or begging him to show his face.

—

The first time you had seen his face, you had been shot. During a long fight with some Imperial troops, one of the sharpshooters had grazed your side with a blaster shot. You managed to keep shooting from your cover, but you couldn’t go anywhere.

After Din had finally taken care of the rest, he came running back to you. The fear coursing though his body as he saw you holding your side in pain.

Kneeling down next to you he pulled your hand away from the wound. Thankfully it wasn’t too bad.

“This is gonna be uncomfortable,” he said. Not wanting to put you in any more pain, but needing to get you back to the ship, he slipped his arms under you and picked you up. You groaned in discomfort.

When he got you back to the ship he treated your wound. Taking off his gloves he kneeled at your side and applied bacta, bandaging you up after.

“Don’t do that again,” he said, still kneeling next to you.

“What? Take out half the platoon for you?” You asked, somewhat defensive, while wincing in pain.

“No, get hurt…” he says.

“This lifestyle can’t support that promise,” you say, chuckling slightly and holding your side.

“I just— I can’t—” he starts, looking down and searching for the words to say. He reaches up to his helmet, slowly pulling it off. Your eyes widen with shock, you had never seen Din without his helmet.

“Din…” You say, involuntarily reaching a hand up to caress his face.

“I love you,” he states abruptly. His eyes were somewhat glossy from all of his pent up emotions. Fear, anger, guilt, concern, and love. “I just want you to be okay.” He looks down, afraid of your reply while simultaneously hiding his emotions so clearly splayed across his face.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back. Guiding his face back up to yours, and looking into his dark brown eyes.

—

Din nodded to you, at a loss for words. How could he ever say no to you? Especially while you sat on top of him, gazing down upon him. You were like an ethereal being looking down upon him from the heavens, and he was blessed by your presence alone.

You slowly lift his helmet off, and set it down on the bed next to you. One hand reaching up to caress his cheek, the other moving to tangle into his hair.

“I love you,” you say, stroking your fingers though his soft curls. Feeling your body pressed up against his, you yearned for more. The desire you felt inside hadn’t been around for years, but somehow it was roaring back to life in this moment. You pushed your hips down against him slightly, leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips.

He sighed against your lips, running one of his hands up your back, pulling your bodies closer. One of your hands slowly slid down to land firmly on his chest, while the other cupped the back of his neck. You could feel the firm muscles of his chest, and the warmth of his body radiating through his shirt. You began a trail of smaller kisses down his neck, wanting to explore more of his body, taking more of his shirt into your fists.

His hands moved the the hem of your shirt, “Is this okay?” He asked, wanting to make sure that you were comfortable with the pace of things. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he were to make you feel unsafe like those before him.

After you nod in response he pulls your shirt over your head, removing his immediately after. You sat back for a moment, taking in his body. You had never seen this much of him, the most you ever saw of him was when you were bandaging up his body after some quarrel.

Finger skimming along his chest, you notice every scar, leaving soft kisses amongst a few. Din reaches over, setting his helmet on the ground before scooping you up and laying you down on the bed.

He hovers over you. Nervousness, love, concern, and desire were all visible in his face. You reached up and stroked his cheek.

“The moment you feel uncomfortable please tell me,” he said, love and concern washing over his features. You nodded.

“I will.”

He slowly planted a kiss on your lips, stroking your hair out of your face simultaneously. Your hands explored the muscles of his torso. He was fit. And while you weren't exactly surprised, it was different experiencing his body rather than simply imagining how it looked under all that beskar. Your hands moved to his back, pulling him closer to your own body, as he slides one of his hands down your side. He looks into your eyes as he slowly pulls back, grabbing the waistband of your pants. He shimmies them off of you, reading your face for any signals that he might be overstepping.

Placing a few kisses along your chest and stomach, he works his way down to the mess that you’ve become in your desire for him. He plants a few more kisses along your hips and inner thigh.

“Are you sure about this?” He inquires, double checking that this is what you wanted.

“Please Din,” you ask, running a hand through his hair.

And before you know it, his tongue is moving in magical ways that you hadn’t felt before. You couldn’t help from running his soft curls between your fingers and intermittently tugging when he would pass over your clit.

You moaned out his name and desire surged through his body, pulling you down closer to him, his shoulders resting underneath your thighs. He was relentless. And all you could do is tremble beneath him, letting out breathy moans that he so desperately wanted to hear.

He pulled back, replacing where his mouth had been with his hand, slowly working over your clit. He shifted back up to kiss you and you could taste yourself on his lips.

“I’m close,” you whisper, cupping his cheek and looking into his eyes. You couldn’t help it but tears were welling up in your eyes, you were so overwhelmed. He brushed his thumb over your cheek.

“Let go, cyar’ika,” he says, voice dripping like honey. Planting a kiss below your ear he nips at the skin, and you can’t hold back any longer. The expertise of his hands had sent hot shock waves through your body and your entire body tensed until the waves slowly resided.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. A few tears spilled down your face, concern racking his body. “What’s wrong?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Nothing is wrong, my love,” you say, taking his face in your hands. “I am just so grateful for you.” His body immediately relaxed.

He pulled you up against his chest, the warmth of his body comforting you as you pressed a kiss beneath his collar bone. You really did feel the safest with him. And that’s all he wanted; For you to be safe and loved.

#please tell me im not the only one who craves soft din djarin #all i can think ab is din treating me like a goddess and asking for consent all the time #din djarin #mandalorian #mando #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #mandalorian fanfic #soft din

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simplyshelbs16xoxo · 3 years ago

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Falling Through the Cracks Chapter 1: Secret Door

Prologue (Tumblr) | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

Tucked away in a dark alcove beneath some ragged blankets, Molly Hooper took great care to quiet the sound of her breathing. Her stomach rumbled low, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything proper in hours. Footsteps sounded at the end of the alley, coming in close. She could hear the hushed voices, one with a sinister Irish lilt that chilled her to the bone. Not him, she prayed. Anyone but him.

“Ohh, look what we have here, Seb,” Moriarty’s voice rang out with glee. “Just a pile of old linens you suppose?”

Seb laughed with a low voice, flicking open a switchblade. He reached out slowly, his fingers grazing the tattered material, and snatched it right off her. Molly took him by surprise when she kicked her leg up, knocking the knife from his hand. He bent to retrieve it whilst she ran, but Moriarty had caught up to her, locking his arms around her to keep her in place. Seb approached just as she wriggled her way out, and he reached out with the hand that held the blade, cutting her arm in the process.

Molly gave a shout, running as far as she could until she hit a dead-end, nothing but brick at the other end of the alley. She could hear Moriarty, furious as could be, demanding that Seb take her down. The latter was burly whilst Moriarty was a head and a half shorter and a bit on the thin side, not much muscle mass to him. Her strength was wavering as she turned back to see the pair advance towards her. Turning her head back to the wall, she placed a hand against it, breathing hard. Her stomach ached with hunger and her throat was parched. Her arm throbbed with the sting of the slice made into her fair flesh.

She thought of safety, of warmth, of finding one person with a good heart. If only she could find somewhere or someone to be her safe haven. And as she attempted to speak it into existence, Molly could feel the familiar falling sensation coming over her just as the men reached her. Just in time, she had slipped beyond their reach, everything going black. She would be safe soon, if only for a little while.

Sherlock happily popped in a warm, fresh chip in his mouth as he walked away from the cart. He weaved his way through the few people on the streets who seemed to be in too much a hurry for such a lovely evening. The crowd of people began to thicken the further he went, and he soon turned sharp into an empty back alley to avoid them, taking a shortcut around. It had only been a couple of weeks since Mrs. Hudson read his tea leaves, and though the entire ordeal was useless drivel, somewhere deep inside, he felt there may have been some truth to it. Perhaps it was only hope. What she ‘predicted’ would be much more exciting than the lackluster cases Lestrade had him working.

He glanced towards the end of the alley straight ahead, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Seemingly appearing out of thin air, a petite woman, not much younger than himself, fell to the pavement, blood trickling down her arm. Sherlock dropped what was left of his chips, more out of disbelief than anything, and approached her with caution, kneeling down beside her. “Are you alright? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

The woman shook her head. “No, no, they’ll find me there if they figure out how to follow.”

He furrowed his brows. “They? Who are they?”

She remained silent on the subject. “Is there somewhere I can hide?”

The desperation in her voice tugged at his heart. It was a strange sensation as he didn’t typically get emotional when it came to cases. That’s exactly what this was too: a case. Something about the small woman intrigued him. “Can you walk?”

“I need somewhere I can be safe,” she reminded him urgently, looking up at him for the first time. Her breath, ragged from breathing heavily, caught in her throat. His cerulean eyes pierced her soul, lighting up with curiosity. Reaching inside his coat, he untucked his dress shirt and tore a piece off, tying it around the cut on her arm. His eyes softened considerably from the stoicism she had witnessed a moment ago.

“Not to worry,” he told her, carefully lifting her into his arms. “I have just the place.” Sherlock was thankful that his flat wasn’t too far from where he found her. Once inside the front room, he rushed up the stairs and into 221B, settling her on his bed, figuring he could change out the sheets later. She was thoroughly exhausted and most likely hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours, possibly longer. Her choice of clothing was peculiar for someone on the run. Draping quite nicely over her small frame was a simple light pink gown of satin, grimy and torn just above the knees. The colour, despite the dirt, contrasted well with her complexion and short, choppy dark hair. Her feet were only covered in black flats, the soles coming apart. Something about her seemed familiar, but he waved the silly thought away.

She watched as he left the room, coming back with first aid supplies in his hands. His long callused fingers untied the scrap of his ruined shirt and he began to clean her cut. Molly bit her lip anxiously. “Thank you for helping me—you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” he replied as he began wrapping the bandage around her arm. “Who are you running from?”

The smile on her face was apologetic. “It’s best if I don’t say. You’ve already done so much. I’d hate to drag you further into my mess.” She noted the fiery look in his eyes, the frustration clear by the tight line of his full lips. This time, she bit her lower lip for a much different reason. He was a gorgeous man, a beautiful stranger who saved her from bleeding out on the street in the cold. Yet there was something familiar about him. She had trouble placing it. “Whose dominion is this? Am I in London Above?”

He pulled away as he finished up, a mixed expression of amusement and confusion on his face. “It’s…just London, Miss—?”

“Hooper,” she replied. “Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock repeated her name softly, savoring the way it sounded on his tongue. He decided he liked it, not that it should be of real particular interest to him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he offered. “You may stay as long as you need. I don’t sleep much, so you may have the bed.”

She swallowed hard, his surname sounding vaguely familiar. “Oh,” she shook her head, “I couldn’t possibly—“

“I insist,” he told her. “You can use the shower to get clean. I have a shirt you can wear for after. Then get some rest; you’ll need it.”

She nodded and it appeared to bring him some relief, some peace of mind. Molly had to admit, it felt nice to be clean for once. Her last decent wash was—well, she couldn’t quite remember. When she stepped out from the steaming shower stall, she sighed dejectedly at the barely-there scrap of her gown. There would be no salvaging it. Her eyes glanced to the sink counter where an aubergine button-up dress shirt sat. He was much taller than her, so it would be a decent length. She reached to grab it, noting the expensive material just from the feel of it in her hands, and slipped it on, buttoning it up.

The sweetest music wafted through the air, and she opened the door, peering out down the hall. She stepped out, tugging at the hem of the shirt which only fell just mid-thigh. The smell of fresh food hit her like a train and her eyes found the source. There was food kept in a plastic container on the coffee table. As for the music, she found it was Sherlock, his talented fingers moving along the strings of the violin as he slid the bow across. She stood there mesmerised by the melody. Her eyes, full of admiration, never strayed from him. When he noticed her presence in the room, he brought the song to a close and set the instrument aside.

“That was lovely,” she told him, a soft smile on her face.

Sherlock felt all sense leave him as he took in the sight of her. He could hear his brother’s haughty voice in his head, warning him not to get attached—and for good reason. This woman was on the run from God knows who. She was in danger, and though it was his job to help those in seemingly impossible situations, it would be stupid to think of her as anything other than a client, especially if her death was unstoppable. “Thank you. I took the liberty and picked up some food from the café below. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but—“ He stopped short as she dug right in to the meal, supposing that anyone as hungry as she was would most likely eat anything.

He left her to it, going off to change into more comfortable clothes. When he returned in his pajamas, a blue dressing gown thrown on top, he found she had finished most of the food. She yawned, her deep brown eyes so sleepy. “I suppose I should get some rest now,” she needlessly pointed out. “I can leave as soon as dawn breaks in the morning.”

With a tilt of his head, he assured her, “That’s not necessary. You may stay until you’re safe. I’m a consulting detective; I can help you.”

Her sad eyes bore into his determined ones. “You’ve no idea what you’re saying. If you help me, you won’t be able to turn back from it. You’ll be lost like so many others.” Molly wanted to say more, but she didn’t want to feed his curiosity any further. It killed the cat, after all, she mused to herself. “Goodnight, Mister Holmes.”

#sherlolly #my fanfiction #falling through the cracks

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dothwrites · 4 years ago

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2020 Writing in Review

Well, it’s been a shitshow of a year, ain’t it? The one bright spot in this year was that it left me a ton of time for writing! With no further ado, here are the fics I worked on the year of our lord, 2020.

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the blood which we drew | Rated: M | Word Count: 7335 | COMPLETE

Castiel bears the Mark. And for a few months, it's fine.

It's fine until it isn't.

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ramble on | Rated: E | Word Count: 26,875 | WIP

A series of Season 15 codas, crossposted to tumblr. Tags, Warnings, and Rating may change, based on source material.

(Technically started this in 2019, but I added to it this year, so I’m counting it)

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protect and serve | Rated: E | Word Count: 49,953 | COMPLETE

Police officer Dean Winchester's next assignment seems easy enough: a protection detail on Assistant District Attorney Castiel Novak, who's been receiving death threats in conjunction with the case that he's prosecuting. Dean's assignment is to keep ADA Novak safe, alive, and in one piece so that he can start his trial against Dick Roman, notorious CEO charged with the death of at least eight people.

With threats that quickly spin out of control, a missing teenage genius, Dean's attraction to Novak, and Novak's mercurial attitude towards Dean--Dean Winchester's next assignment is anything but easy.

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what stays (and what fades away) | Rated: E | Word Count: 64,421 | COMPLETE

Cas Novak’s life is perfect. He has a job that he loves and friends who support him. Most importantly, he has his husband, Dean Winchester, and his two adopted children, Claire and Jack. With them, nothing could ever go wrong.

That is, until he starts having flashes of a life that isn’t his and meets someone who shares his husband’s face but not his personality, someone who insists that he’s someone, something, different altogether. Cas’ life shatters when he’s dragged into a world that he doesn’t belong to and doesn’t understand.

Dean Winchester’s life was already shattered when he lost Castiel.

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thunder road | Rated: E | Word Count: 20,883 | COMPLETE

After Chuck is defeated and the Winchesters settle into life without God, Dean Winchester is bored.

OR: Dean and Cas take a road trip and figure out some stuff along the way.

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alone together | Rated: E | Word Count: 74, 239 | COMPLETE

Like the rest of the world, Dean Winchester’s job sent him home with the supplies necessary to work from home and a vague farewell of “We’ll see you when this all blows over”. Unlike the rest of the world, Dean Winchester is entering into a quarantine with Castiel Novak, his incredibly hot and incredibly uninterested roommate. How is Dean supposed to concentrate on his job while Cas is just a few feet away, being...well, Cas?

Castiel Novak was already working from home, so the news of social distancing doesn’t affect him that much. What does send him into a panic is the knowledge that Dean Winchester, his stunning and straight roommate, will also be working from home for the foreseeable future. After spending so long trying to distance himself from Dean, Castiel now has to face a future where Dean is present. All. The. Time.

They’ve got food, Internet, and all the toilet paper they need, but neither one of them is prepared for quarantine.

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for a sinner released | Rated: E | Word Count: 8,800 | COMPLETE

Testing his theory, he runs his fingers over the soft skin of Dean’s wrist, until his thumb is pressed firmly against Dean’s hammering pulse. Cas pulls, gently but inexorably, until Dean is forced to take a step forward. The shift in positioning pushes the barrel of the gun into his forehead.

Cold metal touches overheated skin, and Cas inhales sharply at the contrasting sensations. The gun is unforgiving, relentless, beautiful.

It’s like Dean.

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and all this devotion | Rated: M | Word Count: 10,572 | COMPLETE

Dean’s not stupid. He’s seen the looks Cas has aimed his way, when Cas thought he wasn’t paying attention. He’s leveled his share of looks back at Cas when the angel’s attention was elsewhere. More than once, he’s been caught in the act. At this point, they’re both dancing around the same elephant, too scared and caught in their ways to make the first move.

OR: Dean gets hurt on a hunt. Cas takes care of him. There's only one bed. Confessions ensue.

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lost in translation | Rated: T | Word Count: 3,720 | COMPLETE

Cas bites at his lower lip, looking uncommonly shy. Worry starts to stir in Dean’s gut, which is only compounded when Cas says something else in soft yet clear Enochian. As the new phrase doesn��t have the word stupid anywhere in it, Dean doesn’t have the slightest idea of what Cas is saying. The guilt squirming in his stomach gets worse when Cas looks at him, with gentle anticipation, as though he’s expecting a reply. Dean does what humans have been doing since the beginning of time when confronted with a language they don’t understand and smiles, wide and sunny, at Cas. Cas’ forehead creases but he returns the gesture. His eyes are still brimming over with emotion and the sight does something to Dean.

Dean begins to suspect that he may have started something which he is not equipped to finish.

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a new song about a new life | Rated: E | Word Count: 21,282 | WIP

There is no happily ever after. Mostly because there is no after. Life is just a series of days and nothing ever really ends. It just continues on, even after the curtain closes, and while the struggles might not be epic, they're no less impressive. Domestic life isn't without its pitfalls and trials, but at the end of the day, Dean and Cas still have each other and in the end, that's enough.

A series of timestamps detailing the small adventures of Dean and Castiel. Will contain teensy amounts of angst and a heap of fluff and domesticity.

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angel in black | Rated: E | Word Count: 95,325 | COMPLETE

Bounty hunter Castiel Novak has simple rules for how he conducts his business. Get in, get out, deliver the fugitive, and do it all with the least amount of effort possible. Never become emotionally involved.

When he takes on the job of hunting down Sam and Dean Winchester in order to bring them to justice, his rules start shifting. Threatened by supernatural forces as well as his attraction to Dean, Castiel soon has to decide what he’s willing to stand for…and what he’s willing to die for.

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ghosts that we knew | Rated: E | Word Count: 89,411 | COMPLETE

Dean can’t help it. Castiel’s laugh is infectious, washing over him and sweeping him up in its tide. His throat and stomach ache with the feel of it, unfamiliar muscles worked past their endurance. He hasn’t laughed like this in weeks, maybe years.

Cas doesn’t stop laughing, and Dean relishes it. It’s such a good sound, deep and throaty. It rumbles over him the same way that Baby’s engine purrs, to where he can almost feel it in his gut. Dean’s giddy, the kind of happy that hunters don’t get to feel, and if it weren’t for the ceiling, he thinks he might float away. Cas’ eyes crinkle when he laughs, and his smile goes wide and gummy. He’s so brilliant, so alive—

But you’re dead, Dean thinks helplessly. But you’re dead.

---

Castiel Novak is one of the best hunters Dean Winchester has ever worked with. He's witty, whip-smart, and has enough knowledge about the supernatural to rival an encyclopedia. He's got humor dry enough to put the Sahara to shame and he's pretty easy on the eyes as well. All in all, he's the best partner Dean could have hoped for.

Too bad he's dead.

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the best of things | Rated: G | Word Count: 2,494 | COMPLETE

There’s something.

This is significant because, for as long as Castiel can remember, there’s been nothing. --- Castiel finds a way out of the Empty.

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freedom | Rated: G | Word Count: 4,804 | COMPLETE

Freedom.

Dean rolls the word around on the tip of his tongue and tastes how it feels. Freedom.

It’s a strange concept, especially since he always assumed that he was. Ever since Apocalypse Version 1.0 was averted, Michael and Lucifer locked in the cage, thanks very much, he’s always assumed that he was the one calling the shots. No matter how badly he fucked up (and he fucked up a lot), he could at least take comfort in the fact that those were his choices. No one’s hand up Dean Winchester’s ass, no siree.

And then Chuck came and ripped that certainty away from him in one quick motion and then...everything was suspect. Sam, Mom, Jack...Cas. Every word, every action, every emotion... He couldn’t trust anything, so he trusted nothing.

--- OR: Dean makes a choice.

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at the end of the world | Rated: G | Word Count: 4,631 | COMPLETE

Rebuilding Heaven is slow work, but time doesn’t really mean anything here. It’s delicate to rebuild the walls separating billions of souls so that nothing collapses. Castiel works alongside Jack, making suggestions as his mind trips along to potential problems.

Though it’s never said aloud, Castiel knows why Jack is working tirelessly. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the knowledge sits that Sam and Dean are going to die. One day, they will pass from the earth, and come to Heaven, and on that day, Castiel wants everything to be perfect for them. He wants to show them a true paradise, a place without walls or barriers, a place where emotion is genuine and not just a manufactured memory. Rebuilding Heaven is his last chore, the last of his penance to be performed.

--- OR: Team Free Will gets the soft epilogue which they deserve.

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let your heart be light | Rated: M | Word Count: 31,651 | WIP

It's Dean and Cas' first official Christmas together as a couple. What could possibly go wrong?

Just Cas' weird family, his own personal hang-ups about Christmas, Dean's persistent belief that the miracle of Christmas can heal all wounds, and meddling friends and family.

Have a Merry Christmas.

#dothwrites #long post #2020 masterlist #i did not realize how long this was #good lord me #i'm a long-winded little SOB

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seijuurouxryuu · 3 years ago

Text

Of Death, Of Time

Title: Of Death, Of Time Author: Shiro (TeitoxAkashi [AO3]/ seijuurouxryuu [tumblr]) Rating: T Pairing: Death/Tsuna; Reborn/Fon Event: @khrrarepairweek Prompts: Necromancer AU | Unknowingly Flirting Tags/Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warning

Day 5: Rain Day

Tsuna was a witch—a necromancer in his first mortal life. He didn’t know how he became one, but one day he became aware that he was one. One who steals from Death, one who forces the souls it reaps to work for him. And that was all he does.

Every life he went through, every reincarnation—he called upon the dead souls, and called upon Death. He was the unrest of the world.

AO3

“P-please,” The boy rasped. “S-save her. Just her, please don’t take her away too.” Death looked down at the boy expressionlessly, face half humane half bone. “It’s her time.” It whispered, ghastly and solemn, time ticking in the background like a countdown, like a reminder. “It’s both of yours.”

The boy sobbed, tears mixed with red as he coughed out blood, head bleeding all the same. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, only whisper. To the reaper of souls, to the one who looked far sadder than he who would soon die. He was unwilling, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Clutching on his sister’s hands, as cold as his, unmoving, pulseless. He could only resign to it—resign to fate.

He was unwilling, but seeing Death’s boney hand clutching against the scythe tightly, he relented.

“W-where will we go next, then?” The boy tried to smile, tried to relief Death’s sadness. Ah, how many has it seen, the pleads of those whose time were up? How many times had Death seen the rage, unwillingness, sorrow, fear? How many times had Death went through such events that even it felt such overwhelming sadness for humans?

The boy could only wonder as he felt his strength slipping, sleepiness and darkness slowly engulfing him. For a moment, he felt as though he was home with his sister beside him, safe.

“… Home,” Death said as it watched the child relented to eternal sleep’s grasp. “You both are going home.” It tilted the tip of the scythe down gently and reaped the souls, watching both the boy and girl, two glowing children, pulses and disappear to where they would reincarnate; to be siblings once more.

‘Thank you.’ They both whispered.

Death watched as they went, and it disappeared into thin air.

Tsuna was once a bird, a tree, a child, a father, a mother, a fish, a dragon. He was once a lot of creatures, and was once nothing. He was once air, and he was once the ground.

He was everything.

Tsuna never knew how he came to be, but he knew he was what he was. He was the universe itself. He remembered of vague changes, shifts, and stutters of the world. He experienced those changes, helped the build up of civilization, watched life came to be and left.

He remembered mostly of Death, at every step he took.

Every life he went through, every reincarnation—he called upon the dead souls, and called upon Death. He was the unrest of the world.

“My lord.” Tsuna opened his eyes, glowing orange as he looked at Death who stood by his bed, looming and blending into the darkness. He saw him all the same, as clear as daylight. He smiled.

“Welcome home.” He reached out and encircled his arms around Death.

The boy and girl had a long dream during their journey home. It was but a blur, but they saw; of their past, present and future. They remembered, of those they forgot. And they yearned, to see their home sooner.

Lambo and I-pin.

They wanted to see Tsuna.

Tsuna woke up again the next day in Death’s embrace. He didn’t mind, he loved it even. He smiled at the half humane half bone face, kissing the white skull and whispered a greeting. Death was never asleep, it remained awake even as Tsuna slumbered. The humane part of its face crinkled in silent delight at that as it let go of Tsuna.

Tsuna stretched, back arching as the blanket that covered his naked upper torso slipped down, letting Death sees every part that it knew oh so well. Tsuna stepped out of their bed and got dressed. He picked up the ring of Time on the desk and slipped it onto his right middle finger, playing with the chains around it.

“They are here.”

Tsuna smiled, relieved. His shoulders relaxed as he felt for the souls of his family, warm and burning in the ring. He could feel the youngest two were restless, all but wanting to see him again. He would, soon. He would get to them soon.

Not just yet.

“You would be the harbinger of blood in next life.” Death piped out from where it was.

Tsuna barked out a laugh. “When am I never, Death?” He teased. “I am your reflection, after all.”

It shook its head, walking over to caress Tsuna’s cheeks, feeling the warm radiating to its bones. “You may be my representation, but you are you. You are yourself; not me.”

Tsuna sighed, nuzzling against its hand. “I know.”

“… And I don’t think you are allowed to summon the dead souls next life.” Tsuna raised an eyebrow at that.

“Why not?”

Death’s lips were pursed, disgruntled yet resigned. “… Life reincarnated.”

Tsuna paused and stare at it.

“… It will be your tutor next life.”

“… Fuck.”

When Tsuna remembered, he was 34 and the Vongola Neo Primo of Vongola Famiglia. That night, he went to sleep drunk from the party of his 34th birthday, and he woke up with a splitting headache from the rum and gin the Varia and Reborn chugged down his throat.

And as he groaned, he remembered everything. Life fucked him up so badly this lifetime.

“Rise and shine, Dame-Tsuna!” Tsuna snapped his fingers and the shadows of undead shot straight towards Reborn. The hitman—Life—merely snorted at the weak attempt and squashed all of them, straight away sending them to reincarnation.

“Fuck you, Life.”

It rolled its eyes at Tsuna, grinning ferally. “Good morning to you too, Time. By the way, stop playing with those dead souls every time you remember. It’s so annoying.”

“My business.” Tsuna hissed. He shook the hangover gone and gathered the rest of the undead souls from every corner of the house. Soon, shadows and silhouettes of those once alive gathered in his room. He looked through each and one of them, pelting a few at Reborn who punt them into reincarnation, and breathed, keeping the rest in his indispensable space for those dead.

The pocket watch in him ticked. And stopped.

Life leaned back and started floating to the air like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. It pouted, black obsidian eyes turning white as it stared right through Tsuna’s space.

“Why keep such untasteful bunch of souls? Why not just let them reincarnate and suffer in the mortal world?”

Tsuna knew that it was trying to make him let the souls go, but he wouldn’t. Not like he needed those souls, but he knew keeping them would piss Life off, which it deserved for throwing Tsuna all over around for almost two decades of his mortal life.

“Whatever that is you're doing, it’s not working.” He huffed as he clenched his right fist. Opening it up, there sat on his palm was the ring of Time, sealed. He smiled and pull off the chain, and it glowed as Tsuna’s sealed powers returned to him.

“Worth a try.” Life muttered, too used to Time’s chaos that rip the balance of life and death apart just to keep Death in its track. “It took you long enough to wake this time.” During last lifetime, it remembered that Tsuna woke up the moment he was nine in mortal world.

Tsuna shrugged. Maybe because he overworked Death this lifetime, with the number of people he had to kill. Or maybe because he was just lazy, who knows. Time did not have such concept as long or short. It just knew when to continue or stop.

Tsuna blinked and his eyes turned bright orange. Standing by his side was Death, still half humane half bone. Tsuna smiled up to it and reached over. Death easily took him into its arm.

“I missed you.” Tsuna hummed, nuzzling.

Death whispered of the same as they kissed.

Life rolled its eyes at the two sappy being of unrest and disappeared off to its own beloved.

Tsuna soon pulled away and blinked cheekily at Death. “Time to start summoning to piss of Life.”

Death’s lips tugged up into a smile. “It is no longer disturbed by such moves.” Tsuna rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. I’m going to make it a bigger event this lifetime. Reborn screwed me inside out for almost two decades, I’m angry.”

Death stroked his fluffy hair and shook its head resignedly, letting Tsuna do as he liked. It didn’t matter anyway, because whatever Tsuna did would mean lessening its workload and it could spend more time with Tsuna.

“Whatever you are happy with, darling.”

Two years later, a zombie apocalypse happened.

Reborn almost shot Tsuna to death if not for Fon stopping him.

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A/N: Death is Death! Tsuna is Time! Reborn is Life!

Yes this is Death/Tsuna + Reborn/Fon fic :3 although Reborn and Fon didn't have much screen time uwu

First part is during their previous life before Vongola; Tsuna and the others left earlier than I-Pin and Lambo, who were last of them to leave the mortal world. Timeline's a bit wonky, but ye. They are always the youngest. ALWAYS.

A bit of lore, which is Tsuna or Time was the first existence of the universe, but remained asleep when Death and Life appeared. Then somehow he woke up when civilization started, and forcefully wedged himself between the balance Death and Life created. He hated how Death has to go through all those sorrow when he reaps humans' soul so he made it a goal to at least screw Life up once every time he reincarnated into a human. Which is a handful of time.

But yeah, Time Tsuna who is also a necromancer since he could just isolate-turn back time of the soul right after Death reap it and before it gets noticed by Life, and make it his minions or something. Always hits up Life's workload :3

Anyways this is a sudden plunny that popped out so have a short impulsive story from me :D

[I apologize for any grammar, spellings, etc. etc. mistakes]

#KHR #Katekyo Hitman Reborn #khrrarepairweek2021 #Sawada Tsunayoshi #Reborn #Death #Life #Fon #My Writings

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heymonty · 3 years ago

Note

I somehow feel like talking about Monty in a straight sense bothers you some, I can’t explain why it’s just a feeling I get. Does it though? If it does I’m really sorry it’s probably because you’re the only active Monty fan fic blogger and people feel comfortable “chatting” to you cause you’re so awesome, You gotta know though that there is TONS of MontyxOc (female oc/reader) fan fiction on tumblr & wattpad and the ladies Love him including me, some of them admittedly me included totally disregard that they made him gay because of all the fan fic stories out there that we’re not gonna stop reading & enjoying I mean have you seen him??!!! 😍. Fan fiction is amazing cause you’re able to picture yourself dating (FWB, blah blah blah), I mean me personally ever since I started reading fan fiction not just 13RW but other stuff too I found it as an escape from my usually shitty life it kept me from popping pills & cutting myself, I find myself getting lost in the character of whatever Oc is present and occasionally draw inspiration from them. Anyway I’ll stop rambling now lol…

Btdubs super sorry for this 10 000 page essay I wrote and for the deep shit I for some reason juts blurted out🤦🏻‍♀️.

Awee! Don't ever apologize if some people feel bothered 'just because' some people take Monty in a 'straight sense.' *hugs* Like I always keep telling most of you here 'You do you, darling.'

And to reassure you, I'm not bothered at all. 😊 I really appreciate you guys feeling safe about talking to me all these stuff you feel. 💙

I only explain and analyze Monty in a gay sense, cause 1) being that's who he is, and knowing only a little background of him, it helps me give more light about his character by analysing him from the show, so given those, it will become prominent to me what kind of boyfriend he is whether he ends up being with a girl or boy or anyone. Is he going to be flirty? A guy who likes fooling around? A cheater? Or is he a loyal one?

Anyway, I feel like the need to say those to avoid any misunderstanding. And I'm sorry if my answer is so vague it feels like I'm disregarding some of your preferences about Monty. I'm not. I was actually hoping it will help give some of you a little understanding who he might be as a boyfriend from my answers, regardless the sexuality I take him as. (well i still hope it does?🙈)

And same here. I once got this message on my other blogs from a different fandom feeling bothered about my shipping preferences, and I have the same answer as yours, telling them, that it's helping me get by my depression. And I'm so sorry that you're going through it. So, let me express, how I'm happy and proud of you continuing finding a little happiness here and there, and one of them -in this case- is our little Monty. ✨(who might be considered monster to some. skhdnsjsb) But those kind of people are the least of our concerns, cause this is our life. We just have to learn to welcome who's really worth our time and energy.

Also, true, I consider fanfiction a blessing cause you can just freely write anything your heart desires, may it contradict canon or not, but at least, for us, it is our canon. lol, and being able to read other people stories and relate, or simply enjoy what they have written in that fandom you're in. (人 •͈ᴗ•͈)

Aww! I don't mind. Thank you again for trusting me. This means a lot. And thank you for your kind words. Sending lots of love and a Monty plushie you can take care of your way! (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ

#answered #anonymous #montgomery de la cruz #and I'm sorry for this long answer 😅

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dudeandduchess · 5 years ago

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Thank you for this, Biz!!!! My heart feels so full. 😂🍉 Also Tumblr was being dumb and not cutting things right, so...

***

Chances: Merman!Kyōjurō x Princess!F!S/O [Part Two] (Mermaid AU, SFW Scenario)

Note: This is still set in the Taishō era.

Days had passed since the last time that Kyōjurō had seen the love of his young life. He had been so reluctant to leave her alone and defenseless on the beach, but he had no choice as the sun had already risen and there had been other people who were trolling the shore at that time.

It was a shame that he couldn’t have stayed long enough to see her awake up close— let alone introduce himself to her— but he couldn’t really shake off the sense of responsibility that fell upon his shoulders.

No matter what he wanted, he still had to keep his peoples’ existence a secret. Lest they be hunted down by humans.

So, compared to matters of the heart, the lives of so many merpeople were much more important than his own wants and needs. And that was how he found himself pensively staring down at the kingdom below him— covertly allowing his gaze to flicker from the merpeople going on about their days, to the bejeweled hair pin that he’d managed to keep for himself.

“Nii-san.” Kyōjurō jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, quickly tucking the glittering hairpiece behind a half-dead, potted kelp plant, and whirled around to face his younger brother.

“Senjurō!” He tried keep his voice chirpy and energetic, like it usually was, but he couldn’t deny that even he could feel how strained his smile was. “Did you want something?”

It was well past lunch time, so the older of the two couldn’t fathom what his younger brother would want from him at the time— especially since he knew that it was usually time for Senjurō’s home classes at that hour.

“What are you doing out of class?”

With a small frown marring his features, Senjurō looked up at Kyōjurō, trying not to cry at the heartbreak and longing that were wafting from his brother. It wasn’t noticeable to anyone else, aside from him who knew him well enough to tell when something was bothering him.

The younger Rengoku couldn’t help but be worried.

“Sensei gave me a break,” He whispered softly, gliding closer to Kyōjurō with a little flick of his beautiful red, yellow, and orange tail— much like the same color as his brother’s was. “Nii-san… I… you seem really sad lately.”

The smile on Kyōjurō’s face faltered a bit, before tapering down into a tight-lipped and extremely sad smile that had Senjurō’s tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. It was the first time that he’d seen his brother so affected by something, that was enough to have him actually look like he was close to crying himself— and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

Everything inside the older Rengoku told him to lie and dismiss Senjurō’s words, but he refused to push him away just like their father had always done; so, he swam over to the half-dead kelp plant and took the hair pin that he’d gotten from his princess a few nights ago.

“You see, I met a girl…”

***

The entire castle had been silent— way too silent for Kyōjurō’s liking— that it afforded him so much serenity to reflect back on how he’d met his princess; remembering how she had felt in his arms, and how beautiful she had been when he’d woken up with the first vestiges of dawn illuminating her features.

He felt his heart skip a beat at the mere memory of having her on his chest— blissfully asleep, and painfully unaware of the fact that a merman had saved her.

A long-suffering sigh left his lips at that, producing air bubbles that the waved away with a big wave of his pillow in the water. There was nothing more that he wanted than to be with her, but his own sense of responsibility held him back from diving into his half-formed idea.

What was even worse for him was that he knew of a way that he could be with her, but he couldn’t fully utilize that means unless he was absolutely sure of what he wanted to give up.

His own happiness for the sake of his father’s kingdom? It was the most selfish thing that he had ever thought of— and it was an idea that was proving to be more and more tempting as the silence dragged on.

Kyōjurō knew that he shouldn’t have, but he still got up from his bed and proceeded to sneak out of the castle.

All so he could meet with the Sea Witch Muzan, and possibly strike up a deal to get him to stay with his princess.

***

For the last few days, (Y/n) had been coming back to the beach where she had washed up on; hoping to see even a glimpse of the man whom she had a vague memory of dragging her up the shore and pulling her to his chest.

She had never been one to believe in otherworldly creatures, as well as beings that were well out of the norm, but she couldn’t help but think that maybe— just maybe— there was a sprinkle of truth in the books that her brother loved to pore over in their library.

It was messing with her head so much that she could barely even eat, and could barely sleep— as those iridescent, and hauntingly captivating, irises plagued her every waking moment; even her dreams.

Still, no matter how much she wanted to dismiss the idea of mermaids and mermen— of things that had solely existed in childish fairy tales— she couldn’t help but feel a little stir crazy at how all of the signs pointed in the direction where they existed.

It was the only logical explanation of how she had survived, while having hazy memories of having lain on a man’s bare chest. Even his voice had sounded otherworldly; melodic and so soothing as he had rubbed away the chill she felt seeping in her bones.

(Y/n) didn’t want to admit it, but her savior had managed to do what most of her suitors could not: captivate her to the point where she was questioning her own sanity.

Because, if she boiled things down, it would come to light that she was slowly becoming fixated on finding that very man. It wasn’t just to thank him for what he’d done, but it was to get to know him better.

To see him smile at her, and to hear him talk about what life was like through his eyes. She wanted, more than anything, to know if he was the one that had been fated for her all along.

And it seemed that fate was smiling down on her at that moment, because she couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw a familiar mane of fiery blond hair poking out from behind a boulder; warranting her to throw all manner of social decorum in the air, so she could run over to the unconscious man.

“Sir, sir,” (Y/n) shook the blond’s shoulder, waiting with baited breath for him to open his eyes— or even just give her any indication that he was alive. And, just as she was about to get up and call for help, he began heaving slightly— trying to breathe and failing miserably, as he vomited some water, as well as what seemed to be a shred of seaweed, onto the sand.

The princess made a face at that— one that was a mix of mild disgust and surprise— but decided to look past that, as she tried to wake the man up again.

Thankfully, the second time she shook him awake, he finally stirred and opened his eyes— lifting his head up slightly and adopting an elated expression on his features when his eyes landed on her.

‘It’s you!’ Kyōjurō tried to yell out, only to have no words pour from his lips; and it was then that he remembered that he had traded his voice for legs. Though, what the Sea Witch would want with his voice, he didn’t know.

Shakily, he got up to sit on his newly acquired legs, taking a moment before he could balance himself on his haunches— much like how his princess was sitting across from him.

“Do you have a name? I’m (L/n) (Y/n),” She introduced herself, not even trying to bite back the smile that had her lips tilting up at the corners. Safe to say that she was as excited as Kyōjurō was, but that excitement was wiped away instantly when her eyes drifted down his body— taking in his chiseled torso, before inevitably flickering down to his lap.

Her face burned crimson with a blush at the sight of him; he was flaccid, and she had never seen a penis in real life before, but even she could tell that he was big.

“Oh my,” (Y/n) exclaimed softly, covering her mouth with her left hand and pointedly looking away from his crotch.

Kyōjurō then looked down at what had caused his princess to react in such a way, and blushed profusely before cupping his own hands over his lap; not even taking very long to figure out that the thing between his legs was his hemipenis… or, it had been, since he didn’t have a tail anymore.

So, deciding that that moment wasn’t the most ideal moment to ask him anything, (Y/n) gestured for him to stay put where he was, uttering a soft, “Stay here, please,” before getting up and calling one of her guards to get some clothes for her unexpected guest to dress into.

***

The ride back to the palace had been eventful, to say the least. (Y/n)’s guest had endlessly picked at his yukata, and had only stopped when they had managed to cross into the town.

He had even pressed his face up against the window of the car, watching everyone with unbridled fascination, and turning to her with so much wonder and amazement in his eyes. And she could only smile, as well as bite down on her bottom lip at how adorable he looked.

“Were you the one who saved me? Back in the sea, on the ship…” The young woman asked out of nowhere, unable to hold back the curious questions that had been hounding her to ask them.

Kyōjurō turned his full attention to her then, tilting his head to the side— as if digesting her words— and opening his mouth to speak, only to snap it shut and nod enthusiastically instead. He then pointed to his throat, shaking his head sadly as he made gestures of having something come out of his mouth.

“Do you feel unwell?” She asked, making Kyōjurō shake his head once more.

“You can’t speak?” (Y/n) was rewarded with a nod at that question, which had her frowning— because she could clearly remember her savior speaking to her.

She was sure that it was the same man from her memories, but her heart still sank at the probability that it wasn’t him who’d saved her— since the man in front of her couldn’t speak. Still, she kept an open mind.

“Can you write?” The princess questioned once more, eyeing the pouch that she had put on the seat beside her, and grabbing it so she could fish out the notebook and pencil that she had thrown in there before leaving the palace.

The blond nodded, more than happy to accept the items, before proceeding to write on the parchment. It felt so different from having to write underwater, and his penmanship looked like chicken scratch at best— not that he had much to work with in the first place— but he handed his answer back to her, a bright grin plastered on his face.

He watched her intently, feeling his heart race at how close they were. Their knees were almost touching, and he was close to passing out with her sweet scent ensnaring his senses.

Only, his smile turned into a confused frown when he saw her brows furrow in confusion; watching as she tilted the notebook at an angle.

And it was only then that it sank in, the more he took in the signages that were dotted along the shops that they passed by: he had a completely different writing system from her.

“Is this a foreign language?” His princess asked— making him helplessly nod— as he didn’t even bother to hold back the disappointed expression that crossed his handsome features.

Maybe, he thought, his plan to get a kiss from his princess— all so he could get his voice back— would be more difficult than he thought.

***

It had been six days since Kyōjurō had started to stay at the palace with (Y/n); being introduced to everyone as one of her friends whom had come over for a visit. And it didn’t take long for gossip to circle around about him being one of her suitors.

He didn’t really mind that rumor, as it was true— in a sense. What he didn’t like was that everyone kept badmouthing him, all because he couldn’t speak. They called him a snob for not wanting to talk to anyone, and all of the courtiers branded him as a nuisance— all because he smiled more at the servants and (Y/n), rather than them.

His conversations with (Y/n) were always one-sided, with her slowly opening up to him with each day that passed. It had started with her giving him a tour of the palace grounds, until she introduced him to horseback riding, and— eventually— to her favorite pastime: napping under the wisteria tree at the very end of the grounds.

It was private enough to not be bothered by anyone, and it was also enclosed enough because of the wisteria flowers that provided a suitable curtain to hide them from prying eyes.

She didn’t even know what his name was, but she felt so at ease with him that that little problem was always pushed to the back of her mind whenever they were together. It was as if, when she was with him, all that mattered was him and her.

Her duties took to the backburner of her mind, as she felt herself getting more and more enamored by the young man who could only nod and grin at her words.

He tried to communicate as much as he could with facial expressions, and they were always hilarious— which surprised even herself when she burst out into such an unladylike laugh the day he had made a disgusted face, when she mentioned one of the courtiers in the palace.

“And you know what she told me? That I needed to lose more weight to look pretty. Can you believe the nerve of that woman? I should kick her out,” (Y/n) ranted, her voice taking on an incredulous tone as she poured her frustrations from that morning onto Kyōjurō.

The blond made a face at her— his eyebrows crinkling together and his upper lip curling upwards in a show of disgust at her story, before he adopted a soft smile on his lips.

His eyes took on a much softer hue, and he sighed as he boldly reached out and tipped her chin up so she would look at him— since she had been picking at a wisteria flower that she’d picked up earlier.

When he was sure that he had her full attention, he let go of her chin and tapped the tip of her nose— making her blush at the blatant playfulness. And, as if that wasn’t enough to make her heart race, Kyōjurō framed his own chin with the backs of his fingers— doing the guesture of tapping her nose and framing his face a couple of times, until a flustered giggle escaped his princess’ lips.

“I… I’m pretty?”

Enthusiastically, the blond nodded. Grinning so wide as he settled back against the tree trunk, about to close his eyes when the breath was knocked out of him— as (Y/n) had pounced on him, boldly cupping his face in her hands before pressing her lips against his.

Fiery eyes widened at the move, and his heart skipped so many beats as seconds ticked by. It felt like an eternity had passed before she shyly pulled away from him; opening her eyes and pressing the tips of her fingers against her tingling lips.

(Y/n) couldn’t even believe that she had done such a thing— yet she felt no regrets in her heart. She even found herself trying to fight a smile, as she took in the dumbstruck expression on her beloved’s face.

Kyōjurō floundered around, feeling his own breath escape his mouth in a quiet exhale, as his expression morphed into disbelief— before eventually settling on a beaming grin. “U… UMAI!”

It was going to take way too long of an explanation to get his story across to (Y/n)— judging by the extremely befuddled look on her face— but he pushed that thought aside as he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back into him; wanting to have more of her, now that he’d finally had a taste.

And they lived happily ever after…

Or did they?

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lovetenya · 4 years ago

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✧ 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲?

pairing: tamaki amajiki x gn! reader

warnings: moderate angst? nothing really bad, but it’s there.

word count: 2.2k

author’s note: this is wayyyyy more than i intended on writing in one sitting. i apologize in advance for the absolute garbage formatting, this is the SIXTH time i’ve tried to post it because tumblr loves trashing my work. honestly? i think i was possessed by my love for tamaki and that’s why we have a 2.2k hc.

welcome to...

✨mutual pining with tamaki amajiki ✨

you’re new this year to UA and really nervous to start in the hero course

how could you possibly achieve greatness when you’re starting later than everyone else?

fortunately, you didn’t have much time to worry, because immediately upon arriving you saw a huge blond man hurdling toward you

it was mirio, who immediately took you under his wing when he was asked to show you around

thank god he didn’t show you his quirk

on the way to class, he told you snippets about his friends nejire and tamaki, who both sounded really nice (he warned you about nejire’s questions)

he assured you that you’d make your own friends soon, but you could sit with them at lunch for as long as you wanted

finally, lunch time rolled around and mirio walked you to the cafeteria.

he brought you to his lunch table and introduced you to nejire, who immediately began rattling off about 78 questions, ranging from ones about your old school to what your favorite food was to what’s your favorite class and on and on and on

nejire damn near asked for your social security number by the time you noticed the pointed-eared boy with rose tinted cheeks who was quietly listening to every word you said

he was staring intently at you with stars in his eyes

and failed to pretend he wasn’t enamored with you when you met his glance

mirio only realized that he forgot to introduce him when he noticed that tamaki didn’t immediately break eye contact with you.

he introduced tamaki, who gave you a small polite wave before averting his eyes and bolting out of the cafeteria

tamaki leaned his back against the outside wall, covering his eyes, thinking about how kind and sweet you looked

just hearing you say “hi, tamaki, nice to meet you” made him blush profusely

and how you looked at him

wow, he was gone

he thought about how he couldn’t seem to breathe the entire time you were there

yOu ToOk HiS bReAtH aWaY

he really hoped he didn’t seem rude to you on your first day, but he might’ve exploded if he stayed there for another moment

confused, you asked mirio, “did i do something???”

he said “he’s just a little shy, that’s all.”

nejire would say “a LITTLE??”

even months into the school year, tamaki would be so nervous around you, not knowing that no amount of awkwardness could drive you away or make you think he was weird

cuz you like him!!! (that’s me teasing you)

the both of you would complain to mirio about each other, not knowing how hard he and nejire were trying to make things work between you two

ultimate wingmen: mirio and nejire 😎

but you’re both helplessly clueless and cannot possibly fathom that the other would ever like you

at first, they would try to not-so-subtly hint to you two about the mutual crush

mirio: “maybe you should take y/n to the movies, i’m sure they’d like to go with you sometime. like now! they’re free tonight!”

tamaki: “ha. ha. very funny.”

tamaki: “wait, why do you know they’re free? that’s so weird mirio”

mirio: 🙂

nejire, a different time: “y/n!!! maybe you should ask tamaki for help on this assignment. he’s really good in this class and i’m sure he’d be more than willing to help you if you asked!!”

you: “no, it’s okay. i don’t want to bother him.

nejire: 🙃

i hope you’re willing to make the first move, because tamaki certainly isn’t gonna do it

gather your courage cuz this one won’t be easy

you didn’t want to freak him out or make him run away again, so you’d try to hint at the fact that you wanted to spend more time with him.

you figured that at least if he didn’t like you, you could hint at the fact that you liked him, possibly starting a chain reaction toward love???

being vague was a mistake

(my heart breaks for you)

you: “tamaki, what’s a good idea for something to do on a first date?”

his first thought was “i’d do anything with you”, but of course he couldn’t say that out loud.

he barely ever said anything to you. you probably didn’t even know his name.

he’s blushing a deep shade of pink by the time he realizes that he still hasn’t responded, but he doesn’t really care.

he’s hurt by your question, as innocent as it may have seemed.

“why on earth would they ask me for dating advice unless they only saw me as a friend?”, he thought. “were they trying to tease me? i’m sure it’s obvious i’ve never dated anyone. they probably think i’m an idiot. god, i’m such an idiot.”

distraught, he went to mirio.

tamaki tried to seem relaxed, pushing down his anxiety for a moment. he said,

“did y/n say anything to you about a crush? a boyfriend? a girlfriend? a significant other? anyone?”

mirio, excited, thinking tamaki’s going to ask you out: “no, why?!”

tamaki, rambling: “because they asked me for dating advice and i haven’t ever heard them say anything about someone they’re thinking about romantically at lunch and irealizedthatireallydontwantthemtodateanyoneelse.”

mirio, who did not understand a word tamaki just said: “so did they ask you out or...?”

tamaki: “that’s not something you should tease me about!! you’re the only one who knows i like y/n!”

mirio: “...oops”

tamaki: “what???”

mirio: “well, i maybe, well actually, i kinda sorta, uh-“

tamaki: “mirio. what did you do?”

mirio: “i accidentally told them that you like them, and-“

tamaki can’t believe this is happening.

he bolts before he can hear the rest of what mirio was trying to say:

“-they like you too.”

he’s so embarrassed that he wouldn’t talk to you for two weeks.

sure, he misses eating lunch with people, but he just wouldn’t be able to face you. he couldn’t. there’s no way.

he’s so upset with mirio, too.

tamaki trusted him.

tamaki trusted him with something so personal, so raw, so special.

what was mirio thinking?

did... mirio want you for himself?

tamaki knows mirio could have anyone he wanted, easy.

would you be happy with mirio?

he didn’t know.

would you choose mirio over him?

“of course they would. why would anyone choose me when they could have someone like him?”, he thought.

he couldn’t go back to lunch because he couldn’t stand to hear you talk about your new significant other, (especially if it was mirio) and it was even worse now that you knew he liked you

(so much that it broke his heart to even think about you with someone else)

he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

so he ate lunch in the library.

alone.

he refused to talk to mirio and nejire just isn’t the confrontational type, so that left you to get him to come back.

unfortunately, you hadn’t spoken to him in two weeks.

and you were convinced he hated you.

and he was convinced you hated him.

the way you saw it, mirio told tamaki you liked him and then tamaki stopped talking to you.

you felt rejected. and cold.

and alone.

no matter how much this sucked, you couldn’t deny the fact that you really, really missed him. you liked being around him. you liked ordering his lunch for him. you liked hearing his small voice let out a “thank you” and feeling his fingertips brush yours when you handed him his food. every time, you’d both look away, avoiding each other’s glances.

and no matter how much this sucked, he couldn’t deny the fact that he didn’t want to be in this library. he wanted to be with you. you made him feel so strong, so secure, so safe.

you gave him a light he never had before and he wanted it back.

tamaki’s light laughter and sweet smiles never ceased to make your day.

until they disappeared.

and tamaki’s light went out.

you had to get him back, even if you would only ever be friends.

he had to get you back, but he didn’t know how.

you had to get him back, even if it would hurt so bad to like him from afar.

even if you already shed so many tears over him, the boy with the rose tinted cheeks.

you just wanted to be friends again.

you’d do anything to get him back.

even if it hurt.

one morning, you left home early so you could swing by tamaki’s favorite tea cafe and bring him his favorite, hoping maybe he’d at least talk to you if you brought him something you knew he liked

you walked into the library and looked around. tamaki was sitting in the corner all alone by the window, seeming incredibly focused on taking notes.

you really didn’t want to screw this up, so you tried walking toward him in a way that wouldn’t startle him. it didn’t work.

he jumped when you set down the cup in front of him. his confused eyes read the shop’s name on the cup and he winced when he looked at you sitting across the table from him.

he hadn’t seen you in forever. it was like the first time all over again.

god, you looked nice. and god, he hated that.

he just wanted this to be over. it hurt too much. quickly wiping the starry look from his face, he said,

“oh. thanks.” it was emotionless.

you replied, “excuse me?”

the sound of your voice brought back all of his emotions at once. you sounded annoyed. he couldn’t do this. he was ready to cry.

“i-i said thanks. for the tea.” he looked back at his notes, but you both knew he didn’t need to study. he couldn’t look at you again, or the tears forming in his eyes would surely fall.

“that’s it?” you said.

he was shocked. he never heard you talk to anyone this way, and you especially never talked to him this way.

what did “that’s it?” even mean? were you teasing him? did you come all the way here just to tease him? you knew he had a hard time with conversations. especially ones with you.

he couldn’t breathe. his lungs burned, screaming for him to just inhale, but he didn’t want to smell you again. you always smelled so good, and he hated himself for noticing. what kind of freak likes how their crush smells?? (everyone, tama)

his mind overflowed with doubt and desperation, the tears threatening to plummet onto the ink of his neat handwriting below. he was desperate for you, and he hated it.

even though they’re right there, they aren’t mine, he reminded himself.

and they never will be.

he swallowed. somehow, he managed to choke out “what? what else d-do you want me to say?”

you looked upset with him, and he figured you were. he figured he deserved it. for what, he didn’t know. probably for being so stupid. probably for liking you when nobody like you would ever like somebody like him.

you started, “well, i figured you’d have more to say to after you ditched everyone for two weeks. i get it. you hate me. whatever. i can live with that. but i can’t live with seeing how sad mirio and nejire are at lunch. they’re so—“

uncharacteristically, he interrupted you.

“what? y/n, i don’t hate you, i could never-“

“then why did you run away? why did you run away when mirio told you i like you?” you asked accusingly, voice cracking midway with the weight of your emotion.

your voice was far too loud for a library, but thankfully, nobody stared.

tamaki froze. for the first time, there were no thoughts racing through his head.

you two were alone right now. nobody else mattered.

he had to know, so he asked.

“y-you.. you like me?”

your shoulders drooped, your face looking back at him incredulously, though there was no malice behind your eyes. they silently begged him for a shred of tenderness.

“yes, tamaki. i like you. i have since i got here, but if that’s what’s keeping you away, please just forget about it. we want you to come back. i want you to come back. we... i miss you, tamaki.”

he didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.

instead, he gently set his hand on top of yours, where it lay face up on the table, pleading with him. you didn’t pull away, not even a little bit, and he noticed.

“okay,” he said, shutting his textbook. “i’ll come back.”

“you will?” your heart was the one racing now. what was he doing? was this even real? after two weeks of missing him, why was he doing this now?

softly, he said, “yes. and y/n?”

“hmm?”

“i like you too.”

i hope you enjoyed! love, tj 🖤

link to my masterlist here

#mha #mha x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha #bnha headcanons #bnha tamaki #tamaki amajiki #mha tamaki #bnha amajiki #tamaki amajiki x reader #tamaki amajiki x you #tamaki amajiki x y/n #gn reader #tamaki amajiki x gn!reader #gn!reader #My writing

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august-anon · 5 years ago

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LERning New Things About Ourselves -- Pineapple’s Fics!

Note From August: With Pineapple taking a break from tumblr until she’s an adult, I will be hosting her fic on my blog for the time being. You can find them under tags like pineapple fics and pineapple writing. Once she is back, they will be deleted from my blog and reposted to her own. Thanks for being understanding to her during this time! Don’t forget to show her your love!

Word Count: 9111 words

Characters: lee!Virgil, ler!Roman

--------------------------------------

Virgil’s heart thudded out of his chest as he stared up at the maliciously coy smile leaning over him. He had never been so excited yet so terrified in his life. “So, darling,” cooed his captor. “Shall we begin your destruction?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It all started on that fateful day when Virgil Anthony decided to post an ad for a new roommate. His previous roommates, Patton and Logan each got married and moved away, leaving Virgil with an empty apartment and no friends.

He was surprisingly content with that reality had it not been for a silly little thing called “rent” that incessantly found itself worming its way into Virgil’s life, and grew impressively large throughout the months. So, deciding he wished to eat this month, he begrudgingly settled on posting a chipper little advertisement on their community college’s website requesting a new roommate, provided they could come up with $450 a month. Weeks passed by and he was starting to lose hope until finally, he got a reply. After a quick online interview, he found himself with a new roommate. Before Virgil knew it, it was moving day.

And that was when he met Roman Prince. Roman was… eccentric.. to say the least, but despite their slightly awkward interview, Virgil knew he was the one. And maybe it helped that he made twice what Virgil made in a week, and brought with him a flatscreen TV and a Switch. Just a little.

“Ahh! Hello!” greeted the man as he set down his suitcase on the steps leading to the apartment. “You must be Virgil!” He stuck out the newly freed hand to shake Virgil’s. Virgil accepted.

“Hey, dude. Yeah, and you must be Roman,” he acknowledged with a smile. “Do you need help with your stuff?”

Roman waved his hand. “Nah, a couple of buddies of mine are coming by later to help me. For now, it’s just me and my suitcase,” he answered, pointing to the suitcase he left by the staircase. Virgil nodded.

“Okay, cool. Well, why don’t you come in, and we can chat.” Virgil wrung his hands slightly as he spoke, his nerves lit up from the social anxiety. He was trying his best to be friendly and not scare this guy off. Fortunately, Roman seemed to do most of the talking for the both of them. Only a couple hours in, the two found themselves seated on the sofa, sipping wine, and getting to know each other. Well, it was mostly Virgil getting to know Roman.

“So, how long have you lived in Cheyenne?” Virgil asked him.

“About three years now! We moved right after I graduated highschool, my parents grew up here, and I decided to go to college here too,” he answered, pointing to the east side of the apartment in the direction of the community college.

Virgil smiled. “That’s nice you all can live in the same area. You get along with your family well, I take it?”

Roman bobbed his head. “Oh yeah. I’m an only child, and it’s safe to say they spoiled me,” he chuckled, and Virgil joined him. Roman shrugged, smiling wryly. “I mean, I’m sure you figured that out considering no sibling should ever feel this confident,” he joked.

Virgil snickered. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Coming from a kid with three older brothers, I know.” He poured some more red wine into both of their glasses. “So, where do you work?” he inquired, ignoring the urge to ask where he makes so much money,

“I work at the bar across the street, Rattlesnake Juice Bar. I’m the manager,” Roman said, bringing the glass up to his lips. Virgil’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Wow, that’s impressive! Normally at twenty-one, employers don't offer management positions at bars,” commented Virgil, sipping his own drink. Roman swallowed his drink and shrugged.

“I guess it was because I had some experience, you know? I’ve been in management since I was seventeen.” Virgil nodded his head with a smile.

“Yeah, that’d do it,” he chuckled. Virgil shifted so he sat on his knees. “So, are you going to do management for a major?” he asked.

Roman shook his head. “No, actually, although it’d probably be a better career plan. Instead, I’m majoring in Journalism with a minor in Creative Writing.” Virgil brought the glass up to his lips, preparing to drink again.

“Oh wow, that’s cool. What do you like to write?”

“Tickle fanfiction.”

Virgil coughed violently, and spit the wine he just had in his mouth onto his shirt. Roman’s eyes widened in panic. “Oh, oh my gosh, are you alright?” he asked, hurriedly grabbing paper towels and handing them to the still sputtering man. Virgil snapped back to reality and finally noticed the spill.

“Oh, for heavens’ sake-“ he muttered, graciously accepting the towels and dabbing at his shirt. Roman furrowed his eyebrows as he helped Virgil clean up.

“Are you alright?” he asked again, his voice laced in genuine concern. Virgil looked up at him for a moment and examined his eyes for any signs of malfeasance. Nothing.

“Um, yeah, I-“ he coughed again, his cheeks turning a light pink. “Yeah, I just, you know, went down the wrong pipe,” he stuttered, gesturing vaguely to his throat. Roman nodded in understanding.

“Yeah, that happens to me all the time. Are you sure you’re good?”

Virgil nodded a bit too earnestly as he got up to go throw away the wine-soaked paper towels. Once safely in the kitchen, he refocused his breathing and tried to calm his beating heart. It was a good thing too, because as soon as he returned, Roman continued the conversation right back up where it had left off.

Virgil barely had time to sit down before Roman began speaking again. “Yeah, so anyways, back to our conversation, I write tickle fanfiction,” he explained with a smile. “It’s super fun. I have quite the following on Tumblr too! Over three hundred followers and they're growing by the minute!” Roman raved. Virgil just started in utter disbelief.

“Oh, well. That’s, uh, cool.”

Roman’s face lit up in excitement. “I take it you know what tickle fanfiction is?” he asked eagerly.

Virgil’s face heated to a thousand degrees. “No! I-I mean, no, not really. I just, I was being supportive. Yeah.” Virgil cringed at how painfully obvious he was being. This guy had to know his slip up. At least he clearly didn’t have to worry about being judged with Roman. But alarmingly, Roman actually appeared to believe him.

“Oh! Well, it’s the coolest thing. Basically-“ he paused for a moment. “Hm, actually, I guess the best way to explain is to start at the very beginning!”

And there Virgil sat, for an entire hour, as he listened to Roman in great explicit detail explain every aspect of the fixation of tickling, the community he was in, and everything he wrote about without a single stutter or slip up. And Virgil listened the whole way through, flinching at the subconscious wiggling of fingers as Roman discussed teases, and thanking whoever the genius inventor of foundation was, for it was the only thing keeping him from blinding his new roommate with the power of his flush as Roman described lees and lers.

Virgil also found out that apparently Roman was a ler. How…interesting.

Finally, mercifully, Roman stopped talking. “Oh goodness,” he laughed. “I’ve been talking for almost an hour, haven’t I!”

Exactly fifty-six minutes, thought Virgil.

“Sorry, I just get really excited and passionate about tickling and writing! Writing is my biggest hobby, and I love it so much. I try to be in touch with all my followers too, you know? I message back to anyone who messages me first, and reply to comments when I can.”

“Um, yeah. Well, I, uh, better throw this shirt in the wash,” Virgil interjected, leaping from the couch and scurrying out of the room.

Roman stared, watching his roommate in confusion, but ultimately shrugged it off and went to go find his new room.

It had been a week since the incident, and frankly, Virgil had not fully recovered yet. He didn’t even know how to begin to process the fact that a proud, confident ler was now living with him. He desperately wanted to know what Roman’s Tumblr account was to see if he could follow him. But discreetly of course, because even though Roman may be secure and confident in his quirk, Virgil was not, and that was just how it was. It would be easy, right? Just ignore him when he talks about it. Virgil was sure Roman was probably used to it.

Later that afternoon, Virgil was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, and was intensely scrolling through Tumblr on his phone trying to find Roman’s blog, when the man in question walked into the room.

Virgil all but threw his phone across the room in a panic when he heard the heavy footsteps behind him. He spun around. “Uh, y-yes?” he asked, closing his eyes in an attempt to slow his pounding heart rate. Roman didn’t seem to notice the odd behavior.

“Hey, Virge! So, you’re an English major, right?” He pulled up a chair at the dining room table and sat down. Virgil nodded, happy for the change of conversation.

“Yep. Whatcha need?”

Roman pulled out his phone and scrolled for a bit before handing it over to Virgil. “Do you mind proofreading this for any grammar or spelling errors?”

Virgil nodded and accepted the phone, squinting to try and read the tiny print. This wasn’t uncommon for Virgil. Many of his acquaintances often asked Virgil to proofread their emails and letters to bosses and businesses. It wasn’t until a few seconds of staring until he noticed.

It was a tickle fic. Virgil’s face blossomed into a bright red, as he glanced up at Roman who was sitting stone faced and calm.

“What-” he cleared his throat, “What is this?” he asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

Roman tilted his head. “One of my fics! I’m not the best with grammar, and I was really hoping you could help me edit. You know, as a writing major I really want to get better,” he responded with a smile. Virgil took a shaky breath. No, this was fine. Completely and totally fine. He was just reading a fic in the direct presence of a ler, and then giving him pointers on how to make it better.

“Well, um, you could, maybe, reword this better,” he finally said after a minute.

“What part?”

Virgil pointed to a sentence on the screen. “That one.”

Roman looked at him and giggled. “Virge, do you really think I can see that? Just read it to me, silly.”

Virgil’s face felt like it was on fire. “Oh, um. Okay. So you w-wrote, ‘He laughed, squirming all over the bed, as Chuni followed him, massaging his r-ribs.’ Yeah?” He glanced up at Roman to see him listening intently. Oh, this was hard. “Um, so, to make it flow better you can reword it slightly by changing, changing the order.” He cleared his throat again. “For example, ‘He laughed and squirmed all over the bed and Chuni followed him, m-massaging his ribs.’ Does that, um, make sense?” he clarified.

Roman smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it does! Thanks! Anything else?” Virgil shut his eyes in an attempt to control his breathing.

“Well you, um, spelt t-tormenting wrong,” he grimaced. Roman leaned over.

“Oh did I?” Virgil nodded, propping his head up on his arm in a weak attempt to hide his face. “Can you go over the rest with me?”

Virgil pinched his arm. “Yep, sure thing,” he squeaked.

That was by the longest afternoon of his young adult life. But if he thought that was bad, nothing compared to what happened a month later.

Virgil had still not yet found Roman’s blog, and he kicked himself for not checking to see what the title of the one fic he proofread was so he could search it up later. Regardless, he was still very closeted in his secret fantasy, and somehow managed to keep his cool throughout the many conversations where Roman brought up his ler moods, and writings, and such.

“Virgil!” exclaimed Roman, bursting into the room. Virgil jumped slightly from his seat on the couch, nearly dropping his phone.

“Um, yes?” He turned to see Roman holding a ukulele. “Why do you have a ukulele?”

Roman smiled excitedly. “Well, so you know how I talk about teases, right? How they’re essential to the wreckage of a lee?” Virgil forcefully shoved the embarrassment panic creeping up down his throat. “Well, I thought how cool it’d be, as a new type of tease, to write song parodies of nursery rhymes, but make them tickle related!”

Virgil’s stomach twisted in a pleasant coil as he sat in complete shock. Surely not. “I, uh-“

“You wanna hear some?” he asked, bouncing up and down excitedly on his toes. Virgil continued to ogle as he begged his

voice to work.

“Um, s-sure,” he stuttered out, his voice cracking at the end.

Roman beamed. “Perfect! Okay, so you know the song Tiny Tim, right?”

Virgil coughed. “T-the turtle song?” Roman nodded.

“Yep! But I changed it.” He did a strum of the ukulele before beginning to play the catchy tune. “I have a little feather,” he sang out, his voice ringing out with the chords of the instrument. “His name is Tiny Tim, I used him on my lee, to see if he would grin!” Virgil blanched at the teasing lilt in his voice. “I drank up all his laughter, it made him buck and squeal, and now he’s nice and flustered, his smile oh so real!”

Roman finished the song and looked at Virgil expectantly. Unfortunately, at that moment Virgil’s voice decided to duck out and leave him. Roman giggled at him. “Are you speechless at my talent or something?”

Virgil, horrified, frantically willed the embarrassment away as he finally found his voice. “Oh, no, sorry. Uh, yeah no. It was good. Good,” he took a breath while rubbing the back of his neck. “Job. Yeah,” he finished lamely.

Roman pumped his fists in excitement. “Yessss! I was super proud of it! You wanna hear another one?” Rather than wait for a response, he strummed the ukulele again. “Oh, so this tease requires a specific name for it. Do you mind if I just use yours?”

Virgil swore he was going to have a stroke.

“Oh I know a little lee,” he sang, this time playing a new tune. “His name is Wiggle Virgey,” he paused his singing to look at him. “Adding y’s at the end of names makes it teasy,” he explained.

Virgil said nothing.

“He is so very nice, but oh he is so giggly, and so goes his arms, and his arms go like so, and his arms are always so-oh-oh!”

Yep. Virgil was going to die.

After two more verses, Roman finally finished his song and Virgil was all but willing to sell both his kidneys to disappear from this conversation.

“So, what did you think? That one isn’t my best, but I liked it!” Roman commented nonchalantly.

Virgil simply stared and nodded. Roman furrowed his eyebrows in concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

Virgil blinked. “YeAh, why?” His voice cracked as he tried to speak. He quickly coughed to cover it up.

“I don’t know, you just seem sick or something. You’ve been coughing an awful lot. Your face is like bright red and you’ve been oddly quiet,” said Roman. That only made Virgil blush even more.

“No, yeah, no I’m fine,” he answered, waving him off. “Yeah, but I really gotta go work on, um that thing, for school, see ya around.” And with that, Virgil darted out of the room for the second time, leaving Roman standing alone in utter bewilderment.

Virgil had done his very best to avoid Roman after the whole tease incident, which was difficult considering they lived under the same roof. And even worse considering Roman was the most oblivious guy on the planet.

Virgil was in bed, scrolling through Tumblr on his phone, when he saw another post from his favorite writer, TheLeringPrince. He felt his lee mood spike as he saw it was a new tease post. Eagerly, he tapped the post and began to read. Slowly as he read though, something seemed off. The tease post was various nursery rhymes all modified to fit into the theme of tickling. And Tiny Tim was one of them.

Virgil’s heart began to race and his mind started spinning as he hurriedly tried to calm himself down. “No, Virgil,” he breathed out. “No, it’s just a coincidence. Roman probably stole it from this guy or maybe just thought of the same idea.” Ironically, he found himself wishing his roommate was a thief who stole credit from his favorite Tumblr user’s work, rather than admit that Roman was said favorite Tumblr user.

But right at the bottom of the post, there was a little bold sentence that truly made Virgil’s heart stop.

‘And many of you have been wondering about my sudden improvement in my grammar and spelling. Well, you can thank my brand new roommate for helping me proofread all my new fics and teases!’

What was Virgil’s luck? Of all the people on this planet of seven billion, he gets a roommate who, not only is a confident and charismatic ler who happily reads his teases and fics to Virgil, but is also the specific ler that Virgil had been daydreaming about being destroyed by for years.

Virgil wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug whoever ordained this or punch them.

Virgil contemplated it for a while before finally deciding to tell his anxiety to hit the road, and take this glorious opportunity by the horns. So with a deep breath, he clicked on TheLeringPrince’s profile, then DM’s, then opened his keypad.

Immenslee_Ticklish: Hey, just wanted to say that I really like your stuff, and that you seem like a pretty cool dude. Would you want to chat sometime?’

Immediately, he received a reply.

TheLeringPrince: Why thank you, Immenslee. And yes, I would love to chat ;)

Days went by, and Roman and Virgil were talking through their blogs constantly. Roman had taken to teasing Virgil quite thoroughly on the platform, and Virgil obviously ate it up. Roman even mentioned wanting to meet up sometime. Virgil would be lying if he said he didn't nearly pass out at that.

Of course they still talked in real life, only Roman didn’t know who Virgil was. Oddly enough, Virgil almost felt safer talking to his Tumblr handle rather than to him in real life. He had to laugh at that. Six months ago, Virgil would have fainted at the idea of living with his favorite ler. And now, here he was, finally having something to satiate his ever present, insatiable lee mood! And he was hiding.

He just wasn’t sure how to tell him! Leave his Tumblr open? Text him? Tell him through Tumblr DMs? For goodness’ sake, what was he so afraid of? This guy was clearly accepting and non judgmental about the whole thing. Most people would kill to be in this position. Well, most lees anyways.

Little did Virgil know, but Roman was already pretty suspicious. He didn’t have any evidence of the fact, but he was pretty certain that Virgil had to have some lee in him somewhere. His blush and stutters were getting increasingly obvious and even though Roman could be an idiot, he wasn’t stupid. It took him a while to figure it out, but once he did, there was nothing stopping him. Except of course, if Virgil for some reason just didn’t want to be tickled. That was fine too. But there was something in him that made Roman sincerely doubt that was the case.

Roman had never had a problem about being open with his fixation. He figured that if people were going to judge him based on a silly little liking, then they weren’t worth being in his life. He could understand why some people hid it, sure. It was scary to be so open about something other people found weird. But Roman just never had that fear.

But one day, Roman got a message. It was from a follower named Immenslee_Ticklish. Now Roman recognized this user, as they often commented, liked, and reblogged alot of his works. They were great fans, and apparently very much lee themselves. And all of a sudden, after two whole years of following Roman, they decide to message him.

Interesting.

But Roman ultimately decided to keep quiet about his suspicions because if Virgil wasn’t saying anything, then he didn’t want Roman to know. And Roman respected that. Even if he really wanted to tickle him.

Turns out he didn’t have to wait much longer.

Virgil had practiced it for weeks. He knew exactly what to say, and how he was going to say it. But that all flew out the window as he stared at Roman.

“Virgil, buddy, you’ve been staring at me for three minutes now,” commented Roman, raising an eyebrow at the man in question. “You came to tell me something.” Virgil inhaled deeply and tried to speak, but the words got caught in his throat. Roman gave him a sympathetic look. “Hey, it’s okay. No need to be scared.” Virgil just stared at him. Roman’s heart broke for this kid, who was obviously scared out of his mind. “I promise I’m not going to be upset, or judge you, or do whatever your pretty little head is thinking might happen.

“I’mImenseleeTicklish!” he spat out suddenly. Roman jumped in surprise, but as soon as it hit him, he grinned.

“Oh, are you now?” he hummed, a sly smile watching the flustered boy with great amusement.

“Wait, no, I meant like the username. I’m the user Immenslee_Ticklish. I didn’t mean it like I’m immensely ticklish, well, I might be, but-“

Roman’s amused look caused him to stop talking. “So, yes?”

Virgil nodded. “I’m, uh, I’m a lee. Yeah.” The two of them stared at each other, neither one breaking the deafening silence or the intense eye contact.

“Well that’s very valuable information,” Roman stated calmly, being the first to speak, and before walking away and into the kitchen.

Wait?! Before walking away?!

Virgil’s mouth dropped open as he watched Roman walk off. “Wait!” he called indignantly. Roman paused, smirking away from Virgil.

“Yes?”

Virgil just stared for a minute, waving his arms dramatically as if it would help him speak. “Aren’t you going to, um, do something?”

Roman turned around to face him, as Virgil paled at seeing Roman smile darkly at him. “Like what?”

Realization hit him like a truck, and Virgil gaped in absolute horror. He was going to make him ask, wasn’t he? Oh, this was mean. So, so, so mean.

But at this point the lee mood was so bad that his dignity was going to have to leave him.

“I- were you, um,” he covered his face with his hands. “Were you gonna tickle me?”

He could hear Roman’s evil grin. “Do you want me to?”

“Um, yes. Please.” He swallowed harshly.

Roman clapped. “Why look at those manners!” he praised, gleaming at the whining boy in the living room. “I would love to. But to be clear, what exactly do you want to happen?”

“W-What do you mean?” Virgil asked, peeking from behind his hands.

“Tell me exactly what you want for me to do. In explicit detail, or I won’t do any of it,” cooed Roman.

“You’re so mean,” Virgil whined into his hands again. Roman laughed at his expense.

“I’m waiting~”

Virgil glared at him through his hands. “I want you to wreck me and tease me and destroy my resolve, and I want you to do it now! Please.” He added, lest he be made to repeat his request in a more polite manner. Roman reeled back, a tad surprised at the direct request.

“Well, good for you. I’d be happy to,” he nodded, impressed. “Very well. Meet me in your room in ten minutes~” he teased with a wink.

After he left, Virgil let it sink in. He was about to be ruthlessly teased and broken by his ler idol in ten minutes.

Oh he was going to die.

Virgil’s heart thudded out of his chest as he stared up at the malicious coy smile leaning over him. He had never been so excited yet so terrified in his life. “So, darling,” cooed his captor. “Shall we begin your destruction?” Roman’s voice lowered significantly into a husky tone that sent shivers down Virgil’s spine. He tugged on his restraints, waves of excitement and panic flooding his body, and feeding his lee mood from before. He had waited years. Years and years and years for this day. To be in this position, and about to get wrecked into oblivion. He had no idea what Roman was going to do, but he was excitedly terrified.

Roman took a single finger and began aimlessly swirling around Virgil’s belly, going in zigzag patterns, curlicues, and idle shapes while he rested his head on Virgil’s chest. Virgil’s breath hitched, the gentle touches not quite tickling, but was setting an amazing precedent for what was about to take place. Roman let out a deep breath, purposely aiming it for Virgil’s neck, rewarding him with a satisfying squeal as the man scrunched up his shoulders as much as he could.

“I have a dilemma, Virgil,” sighed Roman melodramatically. “I feel like, since you’ve waited all this time for some expert ler to completely wreck you, destroy you, and undo your very resolve, that you ought to have a good experience, hm?” he commented, glancing up to look at Virgil’s wobbly smile. “I mean you’ve been so patient! It’d feel criminal to deprive you of the best possible experience. Don’t you agree?” He paused, waiting for a reply while still mindlessly twisting his finger on the pale expanse of skin, but all Virgil did was squeak softly in embarrassment.

Suddenly, Roman snapped his fingers, causing Virgil to flinch slightly. “I’ve got it!” he announced, smiling darkly. “Let’s let you choose.”

Virgil’s eyes widened in pure horror. “What?”

“Why choose your own teases, of course! Who better knows exactly how to tease and fluster you, and turn you into a giggling blushy pile of goo then yourself?” Roman enunciated his point with a few teasing pokes to his chest. Virgil squirmed in an attempt to get the pokes to hit his stomach but he had no such luck. “So, Giggles, you want to try it?”

Virgil bit his lip and bounced his legs anxiously. “No!” he whined, his wobbly smile growing by the minute.

Roman grinned. “No? But it’s like a choose your own adventure! You choose your own teases and tools! Won’t that be fun?” Virgil shook his head violently. Roman mock pouted. “But I think it will be fun!”

Virgil made a strangled guttural sound in reply. “I-“

“Yes, dear,” he urged, resting his chin on Virgil’s chest once again.

Virgil sighed and closed his eyes in frustration. “I-I can’t tease,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I can’t tease!” he repeated, only slightly louder this time. Fortunately, Roman heard him.

“Oh well, that’s not a problem, silly. You aren’t saying the teases. I am!” he replied with a smirk. Virgil peaked one eye open.

“But I thought you said-“

“Oh, I know what I said,” he answered, cutting Virgil off. “No, I already know what teases you chose. You don’t have to say a word.” To Virgil's confusion, he pulled out his phone. It wasn’t until Roman started scrolling and grinning that Virgil’s eyes widened in panicked realization.

“No, no, no, NO!” Virgil called out, bouncing in anticipation. He tried lunging for the phone but his bonds held him back.

Roman pretended not to hear him. “Hm, let’s see. Posts, then notes, then-“ Roman grinned up at Virgil. “Ah yes, reblogged by Immenselee_ticklish! Oh, look there’s a comment too!”

“No! No, don’t read the comment!”

“It says, ‘Ahhhh!! Oh gosh, I’m blushing so hard!!’ Hold up.” Roman turned to look up at Virgil who was fire engine red. He smirked. “Would you look at that. Anyway, it continues to say, ‘I would die if anyone said this to me!’ And then there’s a blushing face.”

He smirked again as he faced Virgil. “So, would you say you’ve died?” Virgil whined longingly. Roman nodded while looking back at his phone. “I’d say yes.”

Roman continued to scroll only for his eyes to light up in delight. “Oh looky here!” Virgil slammed his eyes shut, not daring to.

“No, no, no, no.”

“Virgil look! It’s a gif! Oh wow.”

Oh yeah. Virgil definitely wasn’t going to look. He was strong, he was resilient, and nothing could break him!

“Aww and they’re getting their bellybutton tickled! Isn’t that your most favorite spot in the whole wide world?”

Um, yeah. It was easy, mind over matter. He wouldn’t look. Easy.

“Hey! And it’s your best friend! Mr. Toothbrush!”

Yeah, he... What was he saying?

“Roman, please,” he begged, eyes still clamped shut. The endless teases were killing him. His ever present lee mood had grown into a ravenous monster that he thought would never be satiated. His body screamed for tickles. It was more than a want, or even a craving. It was a need at this point. And Roman knew that and it only fueled his evil ler facade all the more.

“Aw, poor baby. Don’t worry, we’ll start soon,” he cooed.

Roman made Virgil lie there, flustered and helpless, and oh so terribly lee, and wait as he read out tease after tease that Virgil reblogged from his Tumblr, and even read the comments from the lee himself. Virgil wished with every second of every minute spent lying on that bed he had never made that Tumblr account.

After ten or so teases, Roman finally, mercifully, put the phone away. Virgil sighed in relief. Finally! He was going to be tickled to his limits, then past them, then have them pushed even further. He didn’t just want to be broken. He didn’t just want to be destroyed. No, he wanted so much more.

Roman marched up to the table and placed both hands on Virgil’s thighs. “So, a little birdie told me you like baby talk,” he teased. Virgil blushed, which Roman took for a yes. “So would a, oh I don’t know, little kitchy, kitchy, coo would get you all flustered, hm? A little-“ his voice dropped an octave. “Tickle, tickle, tickle~” his face morphed to a maniacal grin.

Virgil's face turned crimson as he wiggled around on the table. “Noho!” He barked out a laugh. Roman raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“No? Hmm. What about nursery rhymes, huh? You sure liked the ones I sang to you earlier this month! Do you want to hear some of those? ‘Cause I got some good ones~” Roman whipped out a feather seemingly out of nowhere and waved it teasingly in front of Virgil’s nose. Virgil yelped at the sensation.

“I have a little feather,” sang out Roman, his voice rising and falling with the feather. “His name is Tiny Tim. I used him on my lee, to see if he would grin.” He winked at Virgil who just blushed deeper. “I drank up all the laughter, it made him buck and squeal, and now he’s nice and flustered,” Another wink. “His smile is so real.”

Virgil was already softly giggling at the song, and it only encouraged Roman to keep going. “You got a little giggle button, right? I have another fun song, just. for. him!” he cheered, punctuating each word with a poke to his bellybutton, making Virgil squeal each time.

He took the feather and ran it in a large teasy circle all around the vast expanse of vulnerable tummy. “Ring around the belly, a button full of jelly,” he heard Virgil snort when the feathers hit a particular spot on his waistline. “-tickle, tickle, they all fall down!” Roman ended the verse with several flicks of the fluffy feather to Virgil’s bellybutton, causing him to buck and laugh, but it was still technically soft tickles. Virgil didn’t want soft tickles right now.

“Rohohoho,” he whined through the giggles. Roman ignored him.

“Let’s see. Oh, here’s another favorite of mine!” He cleared his throat and lifted the feather again. “Oh head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes! Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes~” He ran the feather all over the respective places, and it didn’t tickle much, but Roman’s plan was working. Virgil was getting more and more flustered, and more and more ticklish.

“Oh feet, tummies, arms and chins, arms and chins. Feet, tummies, arms and chins, arms and chins~” Roman watched in glee as Virgil’s face turned darker and darker with each song, and how even though the tickling was so light, his giggles were still sharp.

All of a sudden, with zero warning, Roman ditched the feather and attacked Virgil’s tummy with all ten fingers. “Oh, she’ll be tickling Virgil senseless when she comes! She’ll be tickling Virgil senseless when she comes-“ Virgil fell into deep belly laughter as he thrashed and pulled desperately. “She’ll be tickling Virgil senseless, she’ll be tickling Virgil senseless, she’ll be tickling Virgil senseless when she comes!”

Virgil had never felt more embarrassed in his life, but that made the tickling so much more fun. After two more verses, Roman stopped. Virgil whined again at the loss of contact.

Roman chuckled. “You really are a hopeless lee, aren’t you?”

Virgil scrunched his nose. “Shut up.”

Roman’s eyebrows raised in an accusatory way. “Do you want to say that again?”

“What? Shut up?” snarked Virgil, trying to wind him up to get wrecked and forced to apologize, but unfortunately, Roman saw right through his plan.

“Wow. You really are desperate. Stooping so low as to provoke me to lash out and wreck you right this minute?” Roman tisked lightly. “Imagine! You honestly think that I’m going to fall for the oldest trick in the book? I hate to break it to you, Stormcloud, but I’m far more experienced than you think I am,” he added, shaking his head in disapproval. “I ought to make you wait longer just for that.”

Virgil gasped and shook his head desperately. “No, no, please no! I’m sorry!”

Roman shook his head again. “Poor little lee. So desperate you’ve lost your dignity. Here you are, begging like this for me to so horribly wreck you until you can’t even remember your own name.” Despite his words of disapproval, he smiled. “Oh course, I don’t blame you. I am very talented so I understand your eagerness. For that reason, I will grant mercy and not punish you for your lousy attempts at brattiness.”

Virgil let out the biggest sigh of relief imaginable. At last! He was going to be wrecked!

“But I still have one more game before we start.”

Virgil threw his head back onto the bed with such a force it almost hurt. “Oh my gosh, Roman please,” he begged, whining at a new frequency.

Roman sighed. “One more! You can do it. I have to make sure your ticklish little body is at optimal sensitivity! So, here’s an easy game to finish you off.” He walked around to the side of the bed. “Just gotta warm you up,” he winked before wiggling his fingers menacingly above Virgil. Virgil asked, and sucked in his stomach, but Roman simply drew in closer. The fingers were so tantalizingly close to the tickle spot, and Virgil swore he felt them already. And in his mind, he pleaded and begged with Roman to hurry up and get on with it already, but on the outside he was completely stunned into silence.

Until Roman did a fake out.

Roman launched his wiggling fingers at Virgil full speed without any sort of warning, and Virgil lost it. He laughed, he snorted, he cackled, and he squealed. He jerked and thrashed all over his limited free space for a whole minute until he realized. Roman’s hands were behind his back, as he watched Virgil with the most evil look you could imagine.

“You're awful!” screeched Virgil, both mortified by his own reaction, and furious at Roman’s trick. Roman laughed out loud.

“Hmm, okay, okay. I’ll wreck you now. Besides, I can’t just keep you here, endlessly teasing and torturing you forever?” He paused with a smirk. “Actually-“

“Roman!” Virgil cried out, laughing in both frustration at his lee mood, and anticipation from what was coming.

Roman laughed at his panic. “I’m just kidding, jeez. You poor lee. Alright, I’ll wreck you, on the one condition you tell me your worst spots.”

Virgil’s eyes turned to saucers. “I-what?”

“You heard me! Give me those death spots or else no tickles~” he sang, thinking the nerves were from his tease.

But strangely, Virgil turned more bashful, rather than flustered. It was almost a sheepish look on his face that replaced the embarrassment. That certainly got Roman’s attention.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing in slight concern. Virgil scrunched his face up and looked down.

“I-I well, I don’t know what my worst spots are,” he replied with a shy smile.

Roman was confused for about two seconds before it dawned on him. “You-“ he stared in utter wonderment. “You‘ve never tickled before, have you?”

Virgil’s face flushed under the attention. “Well, yeah, no not really,” he mumbled sheepishly.

Oh, this was a game changer. Roman beamed. “You mean to tell me, I’m your first time?” Virgil smiled again, and nodded hesitantly. Roman had never been so excited in his life. “Well then, I guess we have work to do!” he commented, a wicked grin and a twinkle shining in his eye.

Roman turned and walked down to the end of the bed, clicking his tongue as he examined the body in front of him. “I suppose the best thing to do would be to either go bottom to top, or top to bottom.” He tilted his head up at Virgil while smiling. “Would you by any chance have a preference?”

Virgil huffed. “I guess, I don’t know. Bottom to top?” he suggested, more or so not caring as he really just wanted to be wrecked already. Roman clapped.

“Perfect! That means I get to play with your cute little feet!” he cheered. Virgil blushed. Roman held tight of the right foot’s ankle and took the same pointer finger and carefully slid it from the tippy top of the toes all the way down to the heel. Virgil immediately started his giggles anew, wiggling his upper body at the light touches. “Oh good! It seems you’re ticklish here! What else can we try?”

Roman soon added the other four fingers into the fray and began ruthlessly scratching up and down and all around the soft tender arches, making Virgil snort and fall into deeper laughter at the feeling. He tickled all around the foot, being very thorough and detailed in his methods, making sure not one inch of ticklish skin was left unscathed. Then, without warning, he moved up to the toes. He wiggled each little toe and scolded them if they curled up. Eventually, he pulled them back and gave them a good scratching underneath as punishment for their misbehavior. Virgil thrashed like nobody’s business, finally getting exactly what he wanted, and it was so much better then he had ever thought. And he certainly didn’t complain when Roman informed him that his other foot was getting left out, and needed the same tickly treatment.

After both feet were thoroughly assaulted (Roman may have had to go back to the right foot again, it seemed to be getting lonely), he spidered his fingers all the way up to Virgil’s knees. Virgil smiled in anticipation, bouncing his leg as he waited.

“Ah yes, the knees. Such an underrated tickle spot! Very few people think about the knees being so terribly ticklish, but they can be! It all starts with this little pressure point, riiiight here.” Roman began rapidly wheezing the muscle right above Virgil knee, making him fall into deep laughter. “Oh wonderful!” shouted Roman above the loud laughter. “It seems as if your knees are just as horridly sensitive as I thought!” His squeezing fingers quickly switched to spidering ones, and darted right on the underneath of his knees, sending Virgil snorting.

Roman awed at the adorable sounds. “Aww, aren’t you just the cutest little thing? Are my tickly, tickly tickles making you giggle, hm?” he cooed, relishing in the deep red color that was Virgil’s face and the tiny snorts mixed in with the hysterical giggles.

“Nohohohoho!” Virgil giggled out, trying to kick his legs but the restraints keeping every inch of ticklish skin in place.

“No?” questioned Roman. “Well, that’s a shame! Why don’t we try something else then,” he pondered and immediately grabbed the young man’s thighs, squeezing sporadically and rapidly every area of muscle. Virgil’s eyes bulged out as he flung himself to sit up right and cackle.

Roman’s eyes lit up with mischief at the extremity of Virgil’s reaction. “Oh, what's this? Does this tickle? Are you ticklish here?” he asked, the teasing lilt in his voice making the ruthless squeezing at his thighs all the worse. Virgil fell back on to the bed to wheeze with laughter when Roman moved up closer to his hips. “Virgil!” scolded Roman. “Hello! I’m talking to you! Does this tickle?” he asked again, not for one second stopping the wretched attack on the loathsomely sensitive muscle.

When Virgil still didn’t reply, Roman felt a spike of worry, and slowed his squeezing fingers just a little. Virgil’s wheezy laughter died down, until it was more or less hysterical giggles.

“Yes!” Virgil called out. Roman was confused for a minute until he remembered the question he had asked a few minutes earlier. He took his hands off his legs, leaving Virgil limp and giggly.

“Oh good! See I guessed it did, but I was just checking,” he winked. “Congratulations, Virgil. I think you might have your first death spot.”

Virgil weakly held up a thumbs up, his giddy smile bright enough to blind someone. Roman smiled at him softly. “How about we take a break?” So he sat next to Virgil on the bed, gently rubbing his shin comfortingly, waiting for Virgil to regain all the breath he’d lost until finally-

“Um, I think I’m ready to go again,” piped up the younger man. Roman grinned.

“You sure?” Virgil nodded eagerly. Roman leaned next to Virgil’s ear, making him squeak. Oh he’d have to remember that.

“Well then,” he purred, his voice sending shivers down Virgil’s spine. “Allow me to continue your destruction.” He peered down the bed where Virgil was stretched out, and examined it carefully like a puzzle. He walked down the side to the right of his hips. “Now if my memory serves me, correct me-” Roman began, but Virgil barked out a laugh. Roman glared at him. “What?”

“Dude, what did you say?” he asked, laughing again. Roman crossed his arms.

“If my memory serves me, correct me. It’s a saying!” Virgil burst out laughing again. “What?!”

“The saying is, ‘If my memory serves me, correctly,’ not correct me,” he teased, still laughing at Roman’s miss interpretation.

“Okay, yeah, laugh it up, Virgil,” he retorted, immediately squeezing his right thigh again. Promptly the teasing man burst into laughter at the feeling, and proceeded to howl on the bed. “Don’t correct me again!” he playfully scolded before ceasing the tickling.

Roman crawled up on the bed in between Virgil legs in hopes of being able to navigate better. “Now, I say we try hips next. Some people overlook it, but they look wonderfully ticklish to me~” he sang, already the tone giving Virgil the giggles. Roman grinned at the pink color once again rising to his cheeks. “Aww, does mentioning the tickly tickles making you a little neeeervous?” he sang again, whilst skimming the skin of his waist and pant line. Virgil’s giggles greatly increased from both the tickling and the teasing alike, as he began wiggling around in the bed.

Roman’s scratching fingers followed the wiggly hips with great ease, smiling in adoration as he listened to the sweet soft giggles come from his captive. “You’re adorable,” he commented without really thinking.

“Nuhnuhnuhuhu uhuhuhuh!” the giggling man protested, yet his denial only further proved Roman’s point.

“Yeah huh!” argued Roman. “Alright enough softness, I want to watch you scream.” He put on his best evil ler face as he watched Virgil turn a bright crimson at the threat.

Roman crawled up further until he was practically sitting on Virgil’s hips. “So, let’s test the waters for what are the vast expanse that is Virgil’s tickle spots, shall we?” Virgil pulled up his legs out of reflex, but they were blocked by Roman’s back. He whined.

“Oh, whatever is the matter, dear?” he cooed, leaning in so close Virgil could feel his breath on his neck and ear. The man made a strangled noise in reply. “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t speak lee. Would you mind rephrasing your statement?”

Virgil just shut his eyes, trying to smother the wobbly grin that was slowly creeping up onto his face. Roman took that as a sign to continue.

He spidered his fingers up to Virgil’s sides, and kept them there, smiling as Virgil shuffled all over the bed in anticipation. “Gohohoho ohohohon, alreheheady!” he giggled out.

“Is that anyway to ask for something?” Roman playfully scolded moments before digging into the boy’s sides. Virgil bucked and burst into giggles, thrashing and pulling. Roman didn’t stop for even a second, mercilessly tickling, squeezing and scratching all over the sides and even migrating to the soft skin of the belly. Virgil was in proper hysterics and was loving every minute of it.

“Aww, aren’t you just the cutest thing! What? What’s the matter? Are you ticklish?” Roman teased, digging into the lower belly. Virgil squealed, and fell into even deeper laughter as Roman took to blowing raspberry after raspberry onto Virgil’s poor ticklish tummy. Virgil was in tickly heaven, for sure, but he still hadn’t been broken yet. And that was fine, but his growing hunger still hadn’t been filled, and he couldn’t help but wish deep down that there was somewhere to truly make him scream. He contemplated asking Roman to go for his thighs again.

But then.

As Roman paused the tickling on his sides and began to feel around, something happened.

Virgil could only possibly describe it as maybe a jolt of euphoric electricity that shocked him into the pit of his stomach. Something that found the roaring lion that was his lee mood and slapped it in the face. Something that sent shivers to his spine and butterflies to his stomach. Something that made him shriek at the mere feeling of Roman’s presence. If Roman’s dastardly laughter upon finding the spot was any indication, Virgil was screwed.

“Well, looky here,” he noted, looking up at Virgil with a gleam in his eye, further confirming the reality that Virgil was about to experience. “It seems we’ve found something.”

Roman tested the spot again: a rib, nestled warmly in between a tiny layer of fat, and the beginning of his armpit. He sharply poked the rib, eliciting a similar shriek as before. Virgil’s eyes grew like saucers as he fought with his own mind on how he felt. Was he terrified? Was the overwhelming amount of ticklish sensations about to course through his body like an electric current terrifying? Or was he excited? That after all these years of begging and pleading for someone to come into his life and do this very thing to him?

Virgil didn’t have time to decide, as Roman promptly dug in.

Virgil said he wanted to scream, and scream he did. His body was too overwhelmed to even thrash at this point, no, it merely fell limp and took every bit of torture Roman was giving to it. Roman took his pointer finger and thumb, making them into a claw motion, and pinching all over the bone. He pinched up and down, left to right, and repeated the sequence, soaking in every plea and beg and cry from Virgil. He wiggled in between the bone, and even took to scratching the armpits as well. Virgil was happily losing his mind. But it wasn’t over.

No, because out of nowhere, Roman pulled from under the bed a bottle of oil, and immediately began pouring it into his hands. Virgil greedily sucked in the oxygen as he waited for Roman to start again. His eyes followed him, watching Roman complete his moves with an eagerness about him. He was ready.

Virgil only had to wait a minute longer before Roman took his sweet time, slowly covering every inch of both armpits in the slippery liquid, purposely sliding his fingers and nails in such a way to make Virgil start to laugh. And then with both hands, he dug in again.

Oh, if he thought it was bad before, no, this was true torture. The oil made the fingers glide pristinely on the sensitive skin, and thereby ticking seemingly everywhere at once. Roman still concentrated on squeezing both top rib bones on either side at the same time, while allowing the nails to scratch along the armpits and other ribs as he did it.

And Virgil screamed. He screamed and screamed louder than he had ever before. He couldn’t even be concerned at the fact they were living in an apartment, and if they neighbors would be worried. Virgil screeched at the top of his lungs, his voice no longer even saying words or please at this point, just pure unshackled ecstasy in waves unmeasurable. He screamed and laughed his voice hoarse, kicking and tugging in desperation to escape the torture he was being subjected to.

“So,” commented Roman nonchalantly, yet very loudly to be heard over the booming laughter. “I was wondering if you could give me a quick performance review. You know, it is my first time and all.”

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-“

“Okay, so that’s not too bad. Anything else?”

Virgil silently screamed as he felt Roman vibrate his fingers into both bones once more.

“Oh good! Well, I appreciate your input, thank you.”

Virgil was loving every solitary second of this, after all, this is what he had wanted. He wanted exactly this. But, unfortunately, he needed to breathe. So he called out.

“YEL-“ he stopped mid screech, his own laughter cutting him off. Roman stopped immediately.

“Was that yellow?” he asked, face contorting with worry. Virgil didn’t answer at first, only focused on taking in as much oxygen as he could get.

“Yeheheah,” he replied, the leftover giggles still dying out.

Roman’s evil ler face melted as a fond one replaced it. “Wow, I’m impressed. That’s definitely your death spot, and you only called out yellow. I could never last as long as you did,” he marveled.

Even with as winded as Virgil was, he was still trying to tease back. “Oho, so you have a death spot, then?” he teased with a smirk. Roman blushed.

“Oh shut up. Just so you know, you still technically haven’t called red yet,” he retorted cockily. Virgil nodded before laying his head down for a minute to rest. “Do you want water?” Roman asked him.

Virgil shook his head. “No, I’m almost done. I’d rather not get up then get back down.” His insatiable lee mood was shrinking drastically. But, there was one more thing he wanted. “So, um,” he looked up at Roman sheepishly. “Can I do a request?”

Roman smiled fondly. “Of course. This is your session after all.”

Virgil fidgeted as much as he could despite his hands being tied. “So, I kind of have a favorite spot. Like, after you tickled me. I realized I might have a favorite.”

Roman’s heart practically burst on the spot. “Oh yeah? Let me hear it.”

Virgil wrinkled his nose in embarrassment, and stayed quiet for a minute. Roman chuckled. “Come on little lee, I can’t help you out if you don’t ask,” he cooed, gently spidering his fingers on the tops of his feet, making him let out a quick giggle at the touch.

“Ohohokay, okay. Um,” he looked away bashfully. “Can you go back to, back to my stomach? You, you can tease. Too. If you want, or whatever,” he added quickly, still refusing to look Roman in the eye. Roman beamed.

“Why, I would love to.”

Roman sat down next to Virgil, and actually undid his cuffs, much to Virgil’s surprise. “Alright, now keep your arms up,” he whispered, sending a pink flush to his cheeks.

“W-what?” he giggled shyly. Roman poked his tummy.

“You heard me. You gotta keep them up aaaaall by yourself.”

Virgil giggled again, and cautiously raised his arms above his head and gripped the headboard. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Roman nodded with a smile and began lightly skittering his fingernails all over Virgil’s quivering tummy. Virgil immediately burst into soft, sweet giggles, the ones he could probably stop if he tried, but definitely didn’t want to, and rocked back and forth onto the bed. Roman kept the fingers teasing his sides gently, then lifted up his shirt slightly and started peppering cute little kisses all over the pale skin. Virgil squealed lightly and giggled slightly harder at the wonderfully maddening feeling, drinking in every bit of feeling he could.

Finally after about ten minutes, Virgil slowly lowered his arms from the headboard and Roman stopped. Overwhelming exhausted overcame him like an ocean and he yawned. “Thank you, Roman. This was the best day of my life.” Roman smiled at the compliment.

“Why I’m so happy it was, Virgil. We will certainly do it again.” He stood up to leave, but Virgil grabbed his arm.

“Stay with me?” he asked, pulling on his arm like a child. Roman chuckled.

“Of course.”

And the two of them napped together, each so peaceful and happy in that they found each other, and waking up wondering if it was all just a dream.

#tickle fic #pineapple anon #pineapple writing #pineapple fics #sanders sides tickling #lee!virgil #ler!roman #ticklish!virgil #sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders #prinxiety #platonic prinxiety

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