#or rather he grunts like this through it the whole time while he tries to talk you through it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solarmorrigan · 1 year ago

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“You know, you’d probably be more comfortable in bed.”

Steve groans. Quietly.

“I’m gonna take that noise to mean, ‘Yes, Eddie, you’re so right, I should take my sick ass to bed!’, to which I am going to say, ‘Thank you, Steve for acknowledging how right I am.’”

If Eddie’s plan is to irritate Steve until he manages to get up off the couch and shamble himself to their bedroom, he’s on the right track.

But the thing is, Eddie is right (unfortunately) – Steve knows he’d be more comfortable in bed. The couch is too short and the cushions are too worn and the seats are just a little too narrow for him to really relax. But at the same time, the flu is trying to murder him, and he’s got a fever, and everything aches, and he doesn’t want to move.

Rather than explaining any of this to Eddie through his sore throat, Steve instead grumbles, “Your impression of me sucks.”

“Well, I’ll work on that while you’re resting,” Eddie drawls.

Steve manages a faintly agreeable-sounding noise and then pulls a throw pillow over his face.

“Steve,” Eddie says.

Steve doesn’t move.

“Steve,” Eddie tries again.

Steve is still not compelled to move.

“Steeeve. Come on.” Eddie reaches out to poke Steve in the side, who belatedly raises a hand to swat him away.

“Don’t wanna move,” Steve mumbles.

“You’re never allowed to call me dramatic again,” Eddie says.

“Mph,” Steve replies.

He hates being sick – really sick, the kind that his body just won’t tolerate pushing through. If he can’t pretend to be well, he feels he has no other recourse but to be dramatic.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Eddie offers. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

Steve snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Eddie declares, and Steve has just enough time to pull the pillow off his face and look up before Eddie is scooping him up off the couch.

“What the fuck!” Steve shouts, arms locking almost instinctively around Eddie’s neck as Eddie gets one arm settled beneath the crook of his knees and the other around his back.

“Relax, we’ll have you in bed in no time,” Eddie says, swinging around to face the living room door with a grunt and trundling forward.

“You’re gonna drop me,” Steve says, winding his arms more tightly around Eddie’s neck; he’s pretty sure no one has picked him up or carried him anywhere since he was maybe eight years old.

“Ye of little faith,” Eddie replies, only slightly strained.

“Me of exactly the right amount of faith, which isn’t a whole damn lot, no,” Steve insists, ducking forward when Eddie lists a little too close to one of the hallway walls.

“You’ll be fine,” Eddie says. “I’m not gonna drop you.”

They reach the bedroom door and, as he’d promised, Eddie doesn’t drop Steve.

He does, however, whack Steve’s head on the doorjamb.

And then he drops Steve.

It doesn’t end up being much of a fall; Eddie only loses his hold on Steve’s legs, and with Steve’s death grip around Eddie’s neck, he mostly just lands awkwardly on his feet before tumbling down onto his ass with a thud and a quiet, “Ow.”

Eddie is on his knees beside him in an instant. “Holy shit, I hit your head.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. My head was the one part of me that didn’t hurt,” Steve grumbles, rubbing behind his ear, where his skull had connected with the doorframe.

“Oh my god, I hit your head,” Eddie says again.

Steve blinks at him. “Yeah, we established that. Did you hit your head, too, or–”

“Shit, shit, are you dizzy? Is your vision blurry? Wait, fuck, you’re not wearing your contacts – are things blurrier than normal?” Eddie places his hands on either side of Steve’s face and stares into his eyes, as if he’ll be able to tell that way if Steve’s brain has finally been knocked loose. “Do you feel anything, like, swelling? Bleeding? Leaking?”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t feel that sort of thing happening,” Steve says, and Eddie’s face crumples.

“Shit, you’re right, I should take you to the doctor,” Eddie declares, moving to stand up.

Steve grabs him by the arm and pulls him back down. “Eddie, I’m fine.”

“No, your brain could be leaking or some shit, and you’re gonna have, like, an aneurism, and you’re gonna die, and it’s going to be all my fault because I hit your head and I killed you,” Eddie rambles, shaking his own head.

Steve isn’t sure if any of that is even correct, but he’s willing to bet Robin has been sharing her worries about Steve’s head trauma with Eddie. “That’s not–”

“Your head is the one part of you we really can’t afford to hit!”

“As opposed to the rest of me?” Steve asks, one eyebrow raised.

“If it comes down to it, yeah!” Eddie bursts out. “Do you even know how many times you’ve hit your head?”

“Are you asking because you don’t know, or because you’re afraid I don’t remember?” Steve asks drily. “Because you weren’t even there for most of those times, man.”

“It’s not funny,” Eddie says, and he’s definitely trying to sound stern, but he’s verging a little bit on whiny; he seems like he’s starting to calm down, since Steve has so far failed to collapse and die.

“Okay, then, seriously, Eddie – I’m fine,” Steve promises. “You didn’t even hit me that hard, it barely hurts.”

“Steve, I love you, but you have a severely skewed sense of pain and should not be trusted to rate it on your own,” Eddie says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine. Here,” he grabs one of Eddie’s hands and pulls it around to where his head had hit the jamb, “feel. Are there any bumps? Cuts? Anything seem out of place?”

With a frown of deep concentration, Eddie runs his fingers gently from the top of Steve’s skull to the base, occasionally pressing a little harder, but never hard enough to hurt.

“Good?” Steve asks, once Eddie’s had a minute to feel for himself.

Eddie’s shoulders slump. “I guess.”

“Ah, don’t be disappointed. Maybe it’ll be a concussion next time,” Steve offers.

Eddie shoots him a wildly unimpressed glare. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Steve decides, but he takes Eddie’s hand from his head and brings it around to press a kiss to the back of it.

There’s definitely a smile ticking at the corners of Eddie’s mouth, but Steve doesn’t point it out.

“Do you want some ice, or something?” Eddie asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“What I want is to walk over to the bed and lie down, and I want you to come with me,” Steve says. “And in an hour, I want you to bring me more Tylenol and some of that really good tea that Joyce sent over. Deal?”

This time, Eddie does smile. “I think I can handle that.”

Steve smiles back. “Good.”

They get themselves situated, Eddie at Steve’s back with an arm slung over him, a single blanket pulled up to their waists (“Pretty sure you still have a fever, sweetheart,” Eddie had insisted. “You’re gonna cook yourself to death if you cover up.”), and in the dim, sleepy light filtering through their curtains, Steve presses back further into Eddie’s chest.

“I like that you care so much,” he says quietly, and Eddie squeezes him a little more tightly.

He shifts enough that he can press his lips to the spot where Steve had bumped his head. “Always will,” he murmurs, and hell if Steve doesn’t believe him.

[Prompt: Bridal carries]

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #eddiesteve #pretty sure steve's method is not medically approved for testing for head trauma but he's fine #solar wrote

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theanimeroom · 7 months ago

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NSFW UNDER THE CUT

BRAINROTTING OVER…

💎 men who miss you so much when you’re away. so much so, that they resort to stealing your belongings in order to satiate their urges. it was only supposed to be a week, maybe even sooner, that’s what you told him. your business trip would be a walk in the park for you, and once you finished closing out the deal your company made, you would be on your way back home.

so why? why is it that you still weren’t home? he’d spent the last few days dealing with the empty house you’d left him in, a pout on his face every time he walked into a room and you weren’t there to greet him happily. he settled for the takeout that he got everyday since he was a menace in the kitchen, you not trusting him within an inch of his life to cook a meal. he’d even managed to work with the blood filled appendage between his legs that never seemed to go away. but as the days grew longer and so did your trip, the man just couldn’t seem to take it anymore.

his hips rotated desperately as he clenched his fist around his cock, a look of anguish painting his face as he tried to force the orgasm that’d been building in him for the past week and a half. his teeth clenched around the material of his shirt that was stuffed into his mouth, pitiful whines and grunts muffling themselves into the cloth. he pictured you in his head, your teasing expression staring down at him while you stroked him, soft hands dragging him closer and closer to the edge of that narrow cliff.

the slick sound of the lube slicking his shaft blended into his cries, body jerking as his thumb grazed the tip lightly. every touch left his body on fire, the thought and image of you pushing him over the edge left him so close that he could taste it, just a small nudge and he’d be tumbling head first into bliss. yet, time and time again, the moment he felt like the leash would snap, he’d come back to his senses just long enough to remind him that you weren’t home, orgasm quickly fading away at the revelation.

it wasn’t enough, it wouldn’t be enough.

more, more, more.

his eyes were blurry as he peeled them open, a result of how hard he was squeezing them shut moments prior. when he was able to focus he looked around the room for something that could help, gaze falling onto the bedside dresser where his phone sat atop of it. he contemplated for a moment whether he wanted to risk waking you up at this late hour, before his attention was directed elsewhere, onto the top drawer where some of your belongings resided.

as the idea crossed his mind he mentally asked himself if he was really this down bad, but with another throb of his cock he cursed lowly before quickly reaching for the dresser.

his hands found their way inside rather quickly, hands rummaging through the undergarments until he felt the familiar waistband of his particular favorite pair of underwear. he was quick to snatch the material out of its confines eyes lighting up when his eyes landed on the pretty red cloth.

there was no room for embarrassment as he brought the thin panties to his nose, a deep sigh escaping him as he inhaled your lingering scent.

this.

the man’s hips shot into the air, searching for friction as he nearly became high off the action. you would be disgusted in him if you saw how lowly of a human he was, but when you were this much of a drug for him, what else was he supposed to do? his hand quickly wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing tightly as he felt heat course through his body.

with another whiff he was fucking into his fist like his life depended on it, cries of pleasure masked by the pair of underwear he’d stolen for himself.

“ahh~” his red and angry tip leaked with every stroke, incoherent pleas begging for you to let him come. his back lurched from the bed in a disasterous arch, your scent flooding his nose as he felt like his whole body would explode. “want it, want it, please fuckkkk–!!!”

it hit him all at once, every muscle contracting and squeezing so tightly it left his knuckles white and teeth clenching. his hips bucked rapidly into his fist, riding out the blissful high that he couldn’t seem to grasp. his breathing was scattered and shallow, mind blanking as he only saw a white sheet enveloping his body. he relaxed, maniacal smile stretching across his face as he relished in his afterglow.

he shuttered when he released himself, his now soft cock slapping against his sweaty stomach. he could barely move by the time he was able to open his eyes, fingers twitching around the red panties held in his grasp. when he looked down at himself he let out a small chuckle at the picture he’d painted all over his stomach, laying the underwear to the side as he reminded himself to put them back where he found them later.

his breathing started to recover as he shut his eyes once more, shielding his gaze from the world until he felt his mind starting to wander, thoughts of you and your pretty smile being the last thing he thought of before slipping into a content slumber, wondering momentarily;

you wouldn’t have to know about this right?

kazutora, takemichi, hanma, peh-yan | bachira, nagi, kunigami, hiori | uryuu, yumichika, kira, urahara | kise, izuki, midorima, wakamatsu + your faves!

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judasgot-it · 10 months ago

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String Me By My Sins, So I Can Be Clean

Scenario: You found out. Yandere!Fyodor x Reader. Part 1 Word count: 1.2 K @ceramic-raven because you encouraged me to write a part 2. I hope you don't mind being tagged <3

Sitting in your small bathroom, you stared at a small patch that stared back at you.

21 mg. Nicotine. A beige-colored patch.

Just a minute ago, it had been adhered to your skin while you were sleeping, as if you had put it on yourself.

You don't smoke. You never smoked.

The only person you knew to smoke was Nikolai or Fukuchi, but you didn't know them to use patches. They only smoked socially, on good days when they could people watch or when Nikolai could show off vape tricks.

Fyodor had never dared to touch a cigarette, always claiming it as a hazard to his health. His lungs were probably as weak as the rest of his constitution, so you believed it.

So why the hell was it on your skin?

You wanted to ask him yourself, but he was sleeping.

Was it a good idea to wake him up?

You looked out into the darkness of your shared bed with Fyodor, looking at his sleeping form. His small frame was curled in a pile of blankets, curled against a feather pillow - like the princess and the pea, as you could see that he never looked truly comfortable.

The patch could be left for the morning.

He was smart. It must have had some sort of reasoning, shouldn't it?

Fyodor always found things out with almost no context needed. He could figure out the reason. You trusted him.

You had gone back to the bathroom. The patch was missing.

The trash, for once, taken out. In fact, it seemed the whole apartment had been meticulously cleaned.

You remembered that patch stared at you. The pain of removing it from your skin. How hard you had to pull it from your skin.

So where did it fucking go?

"Hey babe!"

You called for Fyodor, knowing that he was most likely working on the same projects that he always was. Whatever it was, he would be able to answer you, right?

There was no response from him this time though. You called again, but you were left with silence.

Padding towards his 'office space' you found that he had his headphones on. Was he busy today and hadn't bothered to tell you beforehand? Usually, he was rather meticulous about that.

Gently, you poked his shoulder, hoping to get his attention.

Fyodor only grunted, giving a sign of recognition. You tried again, hoping he would respond.

"Are you busy? I wanted to talk to you about something that happened last night."

Fyodor turned only slightly, his eyes still facing his screen - absorbed on whatever 'work' was on his screen. Code that you never bothered to learn to understand, that became a source of frustration as it seemed more important now.

"Yeah, what is it?"

Complete disinterest.

"I found like. A nicotine patch, last night. On me. Fyodor, that's weird, right?"

His eyes finally looked at you, although they were only glancing, at best.

"It is. You don't smoke, do you?"

"What?"

You took a moment to look at him. What the hell was he implying by that? He knew you never did. You always rejected them, since he was so sensitive to smells.

"If you do, you can tell me. I won't judge you."

His voice was soft, unjudgemental at the implication of you even having an addiction. You tried to keep calm through you frustration.

"I don't smoke. You know I don't, asshole! It's really weird that it showed up on my body like that, isn't it?"

You hoped he would help you. But he didn't even seem to care about your predicament so far, instead lazily moving typing commands on his keyboard like a sort of wizard.

"It is weird. If neither of us smoke, then how did it get there, hm? Maybe someone is playing a prank on you. Do you have the patch? We can figure out more about it from there."

He had leaned back, as calm about this conversation as anyone could possibly be. You wanted to kill him.

"It was on the bathroom counter when I took it off last night. I can't find it though!"

You couldn't help raising your voice at the end. For some reason, your frustration was building up so easily it was nearly boiling over.

It wasn't fair to take it out on Fyodor. He gave you a look as well, because well, you knew that you were being emotional about this.

It was just weird. Why was this upsetting you so much? You weren't usually upset so quickly like this.

"Sorry. But I'm being serious Fyo."

Trying your best to calm down, you took a deep inhale. Your lungs filled with air, clearing your head, if only a little.

There was still a frustration coursing through your veins, making you want to pull at Fyodor's hair for being so...well, him. Just being himself, right now.

Is he doing it on fucking purpose? Is he trying to piss you off as much as possible?

He's the smartest man you know, this isn't any real detective work. Fyodor knows why you're feeling the way you are. He can clearly tell that this actually happened - that you aren't fucking crazy.

So why is he acting like you are?

"Of course you are. I believe you, sweetheart. But what's the real problem here?"

His tired eyes slowly blinked at you. There was an emotion lurking in there, but you really didn't know how to describe it.

It was gentle, but not kind.

"Well. It was put on me. That means someone is drugging me. It's violating."

"I can see why you feel that way, yes. But maybe it was just an accident? People on the street these days are rather crazy-looney."

Fyodor had the gall to laugh as he said that, finding humor in his own words as he didn't find your plight worth crying over. There was no fret - being drugged was an everyday occurance.

Tomorrow you could be stabbed with heroin and it would just be an everyday occurrence, right? Worse things could happen to you. Maybe you would accidentally inhale deadly amounts of cocaine since this was just normal.

"Oh I can't believe you."

You left the room. At that moment you just wanted to punch Fyodor.

Did he always look that punchable? With his stupid smirk and pale, dead-looking skin. His eyes seemed so dead, with no read smile attached to them.

It was hard to look at him without feeling enraged.

"And where do you think you're going, sunshine?"

"Anywhere! If I have to see you again, I would probably. Oh!"

You made a noise as you kicked the door, rushing to just get out and get away from the source of your anxiety.

It felt natural, running outside and walking - letting the adrenaline in your body take you as far as it would let you.

Where were you going?

A hand on your arm stopped you. You turned around, the calm face that matched the pale skin - his dead purple eyes were smiling, although it made you stop dead in your tracks.

Where were you going?

You didn't have anything besides Fyodor.

"Please. Just leave me alone."

"You're being irrational, my dear. It's embarrassing."

The hold he had on your arm was tight, some hidden strength he carried that you never knew existed. Pulled did nothing, and there were tears pushing against your face as you felt the feeling again -

Trapped.

"Please. Fucking just. Let me go."

Shaking his head, Fyodor pulled you in - his face rested against your forehead, but the pull his hand had on his scalp was anything but gentle.

He was mad. About what?

Why did it always end up this way?

Honestly this can be stand alone, but YAY i finally finished this !!!! To the people who wanted this, I hope you enjoy this cuz this was kinda lot for me idk why.

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x y/n #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor bsd x reader #yandere bsd #yandere fyodor #yandere x reader #hey fellas ignore the fact this took forever to write btw

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quitealotofsodapop · 1 month ago

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"Uh, Monkey King?" MK asked, ducking as a rather expensive pensive looking cloth flew ive this head, "What are you doing?"

"Packing." Sun Wukong grunted, eyeing what appeared to be a ceremonial robe of sorts with a critical eye. MK felt apprehension build in him, remembering what happened the last time he found his master packing.

"Are you... going somewhere?" MK swallowed his anxiety, hoping beyond all hope the answer was no. The gods, however, did not grant his wish.

"Yeah." Wukong sighed, running his hand through his fur, "I got some business that requires me to be gone for about a week. I'll try to keep you updated."

"A week!?" MK parrots back in horror, "But what about my training!?"

Wukong paused, tail flicking, before turning back to MK as if shocked he'd even ask that.

"MK, after everything that happened, do you really think a short break in training would be that big of an impact!?" Wukong asked, legitimately confused by MK's worry, "'Sides, you knot definitely are far enough in your training some self-guided study would be a benefit. If you want i can give you some tasks to do while I'm gone, too."

"But where are you going!?" MK asked, "And don't lie about going on vacation like you did with the whole Lady Bone Demon thing! Wait... is this like the lady Bone Demon? Are you having me behind again!?"

"Uh, no." Wukong grunted, pushing MK out of his face. "I just have some kingly duties to fulfill that require me to take a trip. I'm not going to be gone more than a week, maybe two at most. And Macaque is keeping an eye on the island so if anything happens, he can send a message to me."

MK froze at that, confusion written in his face. He tilted his head as he looked at the other monkey,

"Kingly duties? I thought being the Monkey King meant fighting bad guys and taking naps whenever you want!"

"No." Wukong chuckles, choosing to be amused by his apprentice' backwards comment than offended, "Being the Monkey Kid means fighting bad guys and saving the world. Being the Monkey King is a biiiit more complicated than that."

"...Say what now?"

"Alright, let's just say... I've been kinda keeping a lot of what goes into being my successor a secret." Wukong's paw came up to rub the back of his neck, "With so many major threats popping up all over the place, I'd focused entirely on your training as a warrior, but there's a side I haven't even began to touch. I wanted to make sure you were the best warrior you could be before either tried to add the ksot political and administrative side of being my heir into the fold."

"Politics!?" MK spat out incredulously, staring straight his mentor in disbelief.

"I am the Monkey King, MK. That means I have a whole kingdom to run." Wukong continued, "Any and all of the free time i get is dedicated to training you on top of that! The Counsel of the Great Demon Kings happens every hundred years or so. I hadn't gone to the last four, but since I've made a public reappearance, and with an apprentice at that, I'm expected to go and can't wiggle out of it this time! Believe me, I've tried."

"So like... Are you just up and leaving without me?" MK now looked heartbroken, putting all the puppy dog eyes on full blast, "You promised not to leave me again though!"

Wukong groaned, catching on to what MK was trying to do.

"Kid... you don't want to come with me. It's not going to be fun or exciting at all. You'll be forced to wear uncomfortable ceremonial robes that weigh a ton and have to be quiet and well-behaved." Wukong explained, trying to dissuade MK from his train of thought, "And everyone there is mean! They are dying to sniff out a scandal or two to take advantage of!"

"So? You said yourself you neglected to teach me how to handle politics. This is the perfect opportunity to start!" MK grinned, "I'm sure Tang can lend me one of his robes too."

"First of all, you will NEVER go to one of these events with a stuffy old scholar's robe. I'd lend you one of mine if that EVER happened." Wukong pointed out, eye twitching, "Second, NO! This is a final test sort of deal, NOT a tutorial type of thing!"

hehe! We discussed in the dms about poor Wukong having to attend a political summit for demon kings, and MK getting "homework" for the week.

Pigsy is approving of the homework idea. He's raised MK long enough to know his son needs goals to fulfil or he starts getting into trouble.

#sun wukong #lmk mk #qi xiaotian #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid #others writings #im a little sick rn so this was nice to read

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catiuskaa · 6 months ago

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COACH OR PLAYER?

SUMMARY: there’s always a time when one just has to know, but is the coach able to risk it and play their own game?

WC: 1.43k (omg)

CW: caution! content hot! lol, just suggestive, a sneaky reference to the devil wears prada, some sports/gameplayer terminology.

REQUESTED! by annonie right here. i gotta say, good music taste, pookie. I had fun with this one, I really hope you do too! <3

[⛓️☆ 🎀 ☆⛓️]

Bet.

“Do I look that cold?”

You hesitated, smiling after he lend you his jacket.

“Maybe.” He shrugged playfully, scrunching his face in a funny way, which made his glasses fall a bit further down the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I’m just that hot.”

You rolled your eyes, biting your lip.

Sometimes you wished you could just forget about it.

“He said that?” Your roomate Jeongin scoffed. “Man figured a way to lower a standard that was already non-existent for his category.”

You blinked, deadpanning at him before sighting and merely continuing making a simple grilled cheese for dinner.

“Now’s when you ask, Innie, what category?”

The olive oil teased you, its sound almost threatening as you pulled your sleeves as far as they could reach, trying to cover your hands.

“What if I’m not interested?”

He scoffed with a smirk, already munching what had been meant as a dessert, his eyes never leaving the sliced pieces of fruit.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Andrea, everybody wants this.”

You laughed, sitting down on the sofa next to him, and he lowered the TV’s volume, going as far as to sit propperly —criss-cross is propper, and that’s on period, he’d say— and facing towards you, clearing his throat and leaving the plate on the coffee table.

The crisp feeling of toast was better than you imagined, considering you’d thought you weren’t even that hungry at first. You chewed gingerly, unbothered by what was starting to feel like a piercing stare to your forehead.

“Jeongin-a.” It was funny how hard he tried to play it as if he hadn’t been startled by your tone. You blinked again, merely meeting your eyes with his. “I’d rather you speak than drill holes on my head.”

He groaned, throwing his legs over the sofa’s armrest, passing his hands through his face. You ate quietly, waiting for him.

“It’s just that…” he sighed. “I never know when you’re going straight ahead for someone. I don’t think I know now either.”

You frowned, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, still eating. “The fuck you mean, pal?”

He stood up faster than you expected, which almost threatened your grilled cheese sandwich to end up facing the floor.

“I know you like him. Shit like that is your whole modus operandi. But ever since our bet, I just don’t know.”

It’s probably a famous last word. At the rate it’s said, it’s gotta be. It’s easygoing, slipping off one’s tongue quickly, as if ripping off a band-aid.

“Bet on it.”

“That just scrambles my eggs, dude.” You had winced a while back, playing half-annoyed, suddenly focused on the contents inside the can in your hand. “I don’t think I’m interested.”

He had chuckled, opening another can of beer.

“Why?” He said, smirking teasingly. “Even coach leaves the fucking bench if the rest of the players suck,” his face was serious, his pink-tinted cheeks obvious, considering his weak alcohol tolerance.

“That’s not even funny.”

He had dissmissed your denial, grunting a bit, approaching you further, and laying a hand on your shoulder.

“You’re normally blind to this type of things, but with this guy, you can’t even say if he’s just playing.”

Alas, your can had been empty. But now, a small idea had blossomed and filled a part of your mind.

“I bet that if I flirt back, he’ll back off. That’s my bet.” You had slammed the can against the table, your expression that of a winner.

Silly little thing.

No one can win if no one wants to stop playing.

[⛓️☆ 🎀 ☆⛓️]

“Hey,” you grinned, watching him smile at you as he took his big headphones off and left them hanging on his neck.

You closed the door of the studio behind you, taking a seat on the chair next to him.

“Pity. I had a better seat saved for you, doll.” Jisung teased, tapping on his thighs playfully.

You chuckled, biting your lip.

Every player knows that rules exist for a reason. The issue in the gameplay is the rules. They limit one’s extent to keep the game going. Rules are there to make sure the result is fair.

But what if any fairness can get out of this?

Your eyes didn’t leave his when you smirked.

“Sure thing, jagi.”

The chair threatened to move backwards with the added weight, but Han planted his shoes on the ground with more firmness, his arms traveling to your waist, making sure that even if the chair gave up, you wouldn’t end up on the floor.

Your back was facing him, and you knew you were using that to your advantage when you stoond up just enough to sit a little further, just a tiny bit, now able to lie your head on his shoulder comfortably.

It’s no surprise that this match’s winner could have been already decided, considering your current position in less than ten minutes together. A good player knows when not even the VAR can rule these points out if they wanted to.

Han knew he wouldn’t.

You don’t, however, so it could start to look like the gameplay may take a turn. He could get the upper hand, seeing as his arms cheekily traveled around your waist and he sighed, his breath hot against the skin of your neck, and your head could figure out you had lost, judging by how hard it was to fight off the shivers that ran through your spine because of him.

You were blushing, sitting on his lap. You weren’t sure you could remember what you were supposed to be doing in the studio anyways.

After all, rules are followed because everyone knows them. But what happens when none of the players can decide where to draw the line?

“What do we have here?” Your tone sounded cheeky, yet neither of you will comment on it as you point at the big screen slightly above you.

“A beat I was working on.” His voice too felt slightly lower, its sneaky undertone able to hit you like a truck if spotted, hunting you like a sweet you couldn’t help but crave.

Your hands traveled to his neck, and you fidgeted with the golden chain there, teasing as you purposefully graced your fingers against his skin, tickling, tantalizing.

“Can I listen to it?” You snickered while putting on his chain.

Sometimes, one of the players may not be really acquainted with the rules. And at the end, in this gameplay, at least, no winners can achive said golden medal when you’re not able to ignore how his fingers never once stopped playing with the light-coloured threads that decorated the end of your high-waisted shorts.

The drums and beats and bass all filled up the sound-proofed room once Jisung pressed play.

You giggled, returning the chain to its rightful owner, letting it dangle, following its patter from his nape, to his collarbone, and down to his chest.

He shivered, almost unnoticeable, and you smiled.

“It’s a fire beat.” I’m winning. “Have you planned what to add to it?” Turn it against me.

He smirked, nodding, his hands pressing you even more against him, as if that could make you able to read his mind, then make him able to take your breath away as he’d finally let the bomb inside him explode, take you from your thighs and sit you on the table before him, not bothering to move anything an inch as his fingers unbutton your blouse and how you would hastedly discard his sweatter off him.

But that won’t happen as of now, so he just grinned, taking your hands, always a little colder than his, and used the sleeves of his sweater to cover them, warming them up with the fabric. Which was as intended. Not merely holding hands as he kept at bay all of the thoughts that flooded him whenever your studio sessions came around.

Of course not.

“Oh, yeah.” He replied, a faint blush not noticeable thanks to the coloured lights. Its direct if you’re thinking the same as him, but that, he won’t know, so still, he replied cheekily.

“There’s still things to do.”

His eyes found yours, and he smirked.

“I don’t think I’ll be done soon.”

It’s ridiculous how he bit his lip, almost threatening you to follow along and bite him too.

“It’s just a little too good. Don’t you think, doll?” The way he paused after every sentece started to drive you wild, and you fidgeted with his rings again, both of your hands hidden in the holes of his sweater.

It’s also sweet how you didn’t know he was not wearing anything else underneath it.

At least, not yet.

Rules says you’ll have to wait a bit longer.

And Han Jisung is and has always been a thorough player.

[⛓️☆ 🎀 ☆⛓️]

~Kats, who thinks has been exposed to lots of euro matches to end up writing this. lol

catiuskaa, july 2024 ©

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konigbabe · 1 year ago

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LUCKY PICK

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x fem!reader Word count: 3.1k Tags/warnings: no y/n; gambling; smut; public sex; pure filth; getting caught; p-in-v; unprotected sex; Toji's a little bit of a meanie; blowjob; pussy slapping (like once) Summary: Toji's frequent presence at the boat races doesn’t go unnoticed by your observant gaze. Every time you see him, however, luck seems to elude him, leaving him on the losing end; until you offer the man assistance in selecting a boat–lucky you, he wins. So he finds a way to thank you properly.

masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

Amidst the kaleidoscope of social strata, one thing that sticks out for you: his shoes.

While some attendees adorn themselves in lavish, bespoke suits, busy with their own affairs while the events before them serve as a mere backdrop, others, those less fortunate, come in more casual in hopes to earn some quick money.

He, on the other hand, is rather glaring with his choice of clothing. Too casual. Insouciant. Black tracksuit, something more fitting for a morning jog or a workout at the gym. The fabric seems slightly worn, a faint stain on the sleeve. His shoes, however, are the most intriguing part of his ensemble. They stand out. Like a flash of lightning on a stormy night.

In a sea of polished leather and high-end dress shoes, he wears a pair of scuffed, worn flip-flops. It's not just the stark contrast between his flip-flops and the elegant footwear of others that piques your interest. Rather the aura of confidence and a nonchalant demeanor that could easily be mistaken for arrogance.

Even for the outfit, he’s rather handsome. Raven hair tumbling down just to his ears, framing the chiseled planes of his face. The faint scar on the corner of his right lip only adds to the air of mystery surrounding him.

In contrast to the meticulously groomed individuals around him, his appearance carries an air of authenticity. As if he doesn't conform to societal norms but carves his own path instead.

He’s here often. Twice a week. A clockwork of unwavering routine. A regular fixture. Each time, he places his bet on the same number. It’s always three. No regard for any other possibilities. He’s staying the whole day, watches all the races and loses his money. Each and every time.

You stand on the stairs leading to the ticket vending machines, overlooking the racers warm up around the buoy. People passing by until he’s here again. In the same outfit, with the same aura of disregard, detachment.

He passes you as well. A solid wall, going straight, no disregard whether you move out of the way or not. Makes you take a step aside. You know he’s here to lose again. Letting out a grunt, an annoyed huff of air, your voice carries through the loud environment when his bicep brushes your shoulder.

"Here to lose again?"

It makes him stop. Look you dead in the eyes. You can feel the steel behind his eyes as he studies you. Tries to understand why someone like him – a man who’d been losing every race for months – is being confronted by someone like you, someone with nothing more than a passing interest in the track and its races.

For a moment, time seems to slow down as his gaze locks with yours. His eyes, like storm-touched steel, easily likened to polished basalt, peer out from under strong, dark eyebrows. Hooded. Locked onto yours. A thunderous downpour.

He stays silent for solid few seconds. Possibly aiming to intimidate you into leaving him alone. Yet, he fails as you stand tall next to him; not backing down or wilting away under his scrutiny.

"Who says I’m here to lose," he retorts, a touch of defiance in his voice. The hint of a smirk plays on his lips as he studies you, perhaps trying to gauge your intentions.

As you arch an eyebrow, you remark, "I haven’t seen you win yet. You've been betting on the same number, sir, every time I've seen you here. And from what I've observed, you haven't had much luck."

His brows furrow momentarily before he responds with a knowing smirk, matching your aura with his own brand of dry wit.

"Luck has nothing to do with it. Besides, one day, that number will hit."

His confidence is almost infectious, and despite the peculiar choice of his attire and betting strategy, there's an air of genuineness in his words.

"Then why don’t you bet for other numbers," your body pivots to face him, arms crossed over your chest, "try it," you hold your chin high, " buy a place-show, numbers four and six."

To your suggestion of trying other numbers, the man chuckles softly, seemingly amused by the idea, "and why would I do that?"

"You have better odds with the place-show ticket rather than the win ticket," you explain with a shrug, "and if you lose, you’ll have someone else to aim your anger at."

He smirks, nodding thoughtfully as if considering your proposition. "Ah, you're one of those logical types, ain’t ya? Always calculating the odds an’ playing it safe."

You chuckle at the characterization, appreciating his keen observation. "I haven’t lost in a long time. Plus," you blatantly look him up and down, "I have a feeling you could use some luck, and maybe a touch of charm wouldn't hurt either."

He raises an eyebrow, the faint scar on his lip accentuating the mischievous glint in his eye. "Charm, huh? What's in it for you?"

Flashing a grin at his question (it's a valid one, after all), you meet the playful spark in his laden eyes.

"Oh, nothing much," you reply, feigning nonchalance, a familiar mask that you wear to try to stifle the faint tremor of fear, "let’s just say if you win, you’ll owe me a favor."

One moment, you were sitting a few seats next to the man, a winning ticket grasped between your fingers; both watching the race unfold before your eyes.

Next, a subtle, self-assured grin spreads over his face as the winning numbers are announced.

("Would ya’ look a’that.."

"Who would’ve thought…")

And then, flicker in time. You find yourself in an alleyway, still at the stadium and next to a dumpster. Away from the fanfare of the racetrack. A putrid stench of decaying food still in the air overpowered by the potent, heady musk of Toji’s body as the concrete scrapes against your naked knees. Uncomfortable and rough.

Pants lowered down only enough for his cock to spring free; the tip glistening with pearls, a byproduct of his pleasure. Lifting your head slightly, you dip down to kiss the dew away as your hand, wet with precum and spit, moves over his length, pads tracing every curve and ridge.

Lips swollen. Jaw hurting from the tight fit, Toji’s fingers grip the top of your head; urging you to take him in deeper, feel him heave in your mouth. Careless to the fact you should need air. But at this moment, looking up and seeing his eyes already boring into yours, oxygen’s the last thing on your mind.

"That’s it," his husky froan reverberates in your ears as his thumb traces the arch of your eyebrow before his hand cups your cheek, cradles your face, "atta girl."

His words cause heat flooding into your core. A warmth to blossom from deep within. Feeling your heart thudding between your legs, you press your thighs together more. Fingers moving along the exposed, wet slit before pushing one in—

It’s barely a stretch. Disappointing.

—then two.

Letting his cock from your mouth, the sweetness lingering on your tongue as you move the top of your tongue along the underside of his head. Glistening, painfully swollen and painfully red. Hand gliding over the length, thumb pressing onto the sensitive slit, causing a stream of Fuck, Goddamn and your name stream from his bruised lips.

Spit-covered lips trace the underside of his cock, leaving a glossy trail behind. With a trembling breath, he taps your temple.

"Up."

You don’t even register his command before a hand encloses your arm, effortlessly lifting you on your feet.

"Wait," you squeal, a mixture of surprise and trepidation when he crunches down. Putting a hand instinctively on his shoulder to steady yourself, you feel the taut muscle, finely sculpted and responsive to his movements. Fingers gripping your ankle with determined strength; in one deft motion, he liberates your leg from the confines of the pant leg (and carelessly leaves the other be).

For a moment, you feel like a child again – pushed around, a small puppet, being dressed and undressed by another's hands.

It’s all happening too fast yet not swiftly enough.

His lips brush over your dripping core. Gives it a lick. A taste of your sweetness, humming in appreciation when your juices coat his tongue, lips, chin. And when you push your hips into his face, shamelessly chasing the feeling of his tongue – he stands back up. Palm making a benign impact with your swollen core, leaving you gasping from the sudden jolt of pain.

"Maybe ‘nother time," he speaks up. Hand grasping your ankle, resting it against his shoulder, heel digging into his collarbone, foot beside his face. Teeth grace your ankle, the wet tip of his tongue darting to lick a stripe over the fibula. All while his fingers spread the wetness leaking out of you, fingertips tracing your opening, teasing the entrance with his pads.

"Someone’s a lil’ eager."

You feel the blunt press. Too thick for his fingers.

The head of his cock spreads you open. You fight the urge to close your eyes, lean onto the brick wall barely touching your back. Instead, you force your gaze to remain on Toji’s face; his eyes hooded, barely open but piercing through you as he pushes forward. Slowly.

His hips push forward, fighting the resistance as you welcome the feeling. Heart racing, a groan leaves your lips when Toji grips your waist and pulls you onto him. Cock grazing your sensitive walls, you watch his eyes close in a blissful moment momentarily.

A feeling of triumph washes over you – you managed to capture the beast itself in its most vulnerable state.

Then he snaps. Gets impatient. And if it wasn’t for the hand on your waist, you’d certainly lose balance with the raw, almost inhuman strength with which he thrusts into you.

"Ugh—fuck, oh God," eyes closed, you succumb to the feeling; shallow, deep thrusts slowly speeding up, turning into something more resembling a pounding. Savage.

His lips brush the shell of your ear, fingers digging into the fat of your hips before moving upwards, cupping your clothed breast, thumb flicking your erect nipple, "told ya it’s Toji."

It goes like this. You try to steady yourself on one foot, clinging onto Toji’s arms as if he’s your beacon. Mouth agape, you rest your forehead on his collarbone. The hamstring in your leg feels close to ripping apart when his hand slides onto your thigh, providing a reassurance that makes the ache between your legs flare up with ardent fervor.

Toji pulls and pushes — forcing your body to twist, spinning you around to the point where your hands can rest on the wall. One leg’s still on the ground while the other is held against his broad chest. All while his thrusts remain merciless.

He fills you up, the fat head of his cock pressing against your depths, stretching you wider and deeper than before. Shameless squelching filling your ears whenever he bottoms out. Pulls out only halfway, his cock glistening with your juices and his precum when it almost slips free. Coaxing moan after moan from you.

"Damn," he stops, cock buried to the hilt and you feel the pads of his fingers swipe over your clit. Moving down, to the place you two are connected, "feel that?"

Wetness; his fingers dip between your folds, trace your core.

"Look at that."

And you look — wishing that maybe you didn’t. He scissors his fingers before your face, showing off the sticky substance connecting his fingers, glistening in the daylight. Heat shoots up your whole body when his smug face watches your reaction, a sly grin spreading on his lips when a moan comes out of you.

His thrusts come back without warning. Deep. He pulls you back into his cock.

It’s blissful. Euphoric. But painful.

"Can’t," you breath out, feeling close to cramping, "m’not that flexible."

"Oh really," he remarks. Yet, his grasp loosens on your body.

It feels like hours have passed with the way Toji ruts into you. Truly living up to the expectations one would’ve expected from a man his build and reputation.

Bend over, palms flat against the rough surface of the brick wall, Toji relentlessly pounds into you. The spongy head of his cock feels as if it’s breaching the opening of your cervix, mingling pain and pleasure in a confusing mix.

"Hey," a high-pitched voice startles you, Toji’s pelvis kissing the flesh of your ass as he buries himself to the brim, "What you doin’ there?!"

His hand moves from the arch of your back, fingers burning as they trace onto your hip. Squeezing, locking you against him.

"Takin’ a piss," Toji remains unfazed. Voice laced with a subtle hint of boredom while his cock pulsates inside you.

Taking a hand off the wall, you slap it across your mouth. Gentle fear of even your breaths being heard (and it doesn’t matter that you are good ten meters from the passerby).

"The toilets are right over there," the man shouts, making you question whether he’ll take a step toward you.

You’re aware that for a passerby, your figure is hidden behind the dumpster and unless Toji thrusts into you, it would look as if the man is simply relieving himself in the alley. Still fully clothed, only the front of his pants down enough for his cock to be free, one might think he’s telling the truth.

Silence falls onto you, forcing your head to turn to the side. Neck straining, you look over your shoulder – Toji’s unphased, nonchalant demeanor combined with the overly muscular physique visible even with loose clothes on radiates authority. Brutality. His demeanor serene; a tranquil lake at dawn. It would frighten you as well if you weren’t impaled on his cock.

His head lurches to the left, eyes locking onto the poor man's soul with an intense and penetrating gaze. It might be enough to scare the man away. To leave you alone.

That’s when he pulls back. Only an inch, mere centimeters but still enough to thrust back with rough intent. Body jolting forward, a surprised yelp gets muffled by your hand. Heat ripples through you.

He’s shameful, you realize. Salacious with his indecency.

The corners of his lips turn upward. Not enough for the passersby to see but from your point of view, it only fuels the sadistic image of the man behind you. The man whose cock keeps massaging your walls with shallow, almost non-existent thrusts.

How dare he.

"Whatever."

Loud footsteps echo through the alley before Toji’s fingers curl around your nape and he yanks. Hand pushing against the lower of your back, the other moving to the side of your neck as he twists your body into his own, pliant toy. Into a position he desires.

"Damn–," he breaths against the hairs on the back of your neck, chill breath washing over the shivering area, "does that turn ya’ on? Being watched?"

He pulls back at a leisurely pace. Unhurried. In and out.

"Fucked dumb on my dick–"

In and out.

"–while some loser watches your drippin’ cunt soak me."

Hitting that sweet, sensitive but delicate spot deep inside you; that even your fingers cannot reach. The one that makes you see stars, feel the heat in your core spread.

"Shut up," you basically snarl, pushing your ass into his crotch with fervor, forcing him deeper, causing his breath to hitch with his lips brushing over your burning skin, "shut up."

He chuckles at that. Licks a stripe over your shoulder. Moves to the side of your neck before his teeth sink into the earlobe, tugging.

"Could feel you squeezin’ me back then," the hand on the side of your neck inches forward; now resting firmly against the front of your neck, a silent reminder of the power it wields. The pressure is gentle but firm, a subtle yet unmistakable display of control. All while Toji matches your rhythm, thrusting at a pace that gets you closer to the sweet abyss.

Your hand moves from the wall, slides over the curve of your belly and find its place between your legs.

"Close ‘em," Toji’s thrusts grow in intensity. Forcing your body forward – to prevent falling, his hand on your back moves to rest against the wall, trapping your delicate hand underneath the roughness of his palm, the other holding you close by the neck.

"Ugh–wh–what," you barely breathe out, legs straining to keep the pace as the heat spreads.

"Your legs. Close ‘em."

And you do. Pushing your thighs together, a whole new sensation surges through your body as his cock fills you up. And it seems Toji feels the same by the way your name leaves his lips in a heavy groan, forehead resting against the crown of your head.

"Fuck yeah," he sighs, palm kneading the flesh of your ass. He’s pushing his hips against yours. Pulls you back into him with fingers itching to your aching nub. Finger flicking over it, making you shudder and moans to grow louder.

The coil in your abdomen grows tighter with each flick of his finger, kiss of his cock. Breath catching in your throat, you push back against Toji when the searing bliss washes over you.

He fucks you through it all.

"Gonna cum," you feel him thicken, pulse inside you. Hips stuttering, speeding and growing in intensity as he chases his own high.

"Not inside," you don’t struggle. Let him absolutely destroy you.

And he listens. Gives you few more fucks before he pulls out. Fists his cock, eyes watching your dripping, swollen pussy before you feel the sticky globes land on your core, slide down your clenching thighs.

He groans behind you. Hand resting on top of your ass, thumb caressing the skin there as you try to catch your breath. All while the man seems only slightly fazed by all the fucking. Makes you feel weak, pathetic — looking like you’d done a full workout while he’s standing behind you.

You stand back up. Wipe the cum off with a tissue you dig from your bag before pulling your pants back up, breath still slightly labored.

"Was this what I owed you?"

He fixes his pants, adjusting the waistband to hug the defined muscles of his lower abdomen, fleshing you his happy trail.

You shake your head to which his eyes narrow softly, "I want to hire you, Mr Fushiguro," hands fixing the mess on top of your head, you turn your back to The Sorcerer Killer, "take the win as your upfront payment."

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got-pucks · 2 years ago

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sports betting gone right? || quinn hughes

summary: in which quinn hughes is completely infatuated with you and will do anything just to get more of you

warnings: none! :)

note: to the anon who requested this, i did make a slight change to your request, but i totally hope that you don’t mind :)

Much to his dismay, Quinn had been in New Jersey to help his family with moving Luke into his apartment with Jack. Luke hadn't fully moved into New Jersey during the playoff season, as he wouldn't have been there for very long. The family thought the best option was to move the essentials such as a bed, nightstand, and some clothing at first and then whatever Luke felt he might need later on.

Quinn hadn’t seen the point in needing the whole family, especially with all the different moving companies that could have done all the work instead. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he would rather be anywhere else, frustrated with all the different directions being shouted at everyone. Quinn had always felt that he was pretty easygoing and was chill with most things, but even this was a lot for him.

After a few hours of bickering between the brothers and a couple of stern looks from Ellen, everything that Luke could have possibly needed for the upcoming season was moved into the apartment. The family decided to go to a local street fair to see the different vendors and food stalls that were there.

As the family was walking up and down the street Quinn was looking anywhere but straight ahead. His mind was wandering, thinking about all the things he needed to do in preparation for the upcoming season. Next thing he knew he felt himself knocking into someone, causing him to grunt and fall straight onto his ass.

Quinn could hear his brothers snickering about him being an idiot while heat rose to his face as he quickly tried to stand back up. As soon as he was back on his feet and facing the person he ran into, Quinn swore he almost fell over again, coming face to face with you, one of the most beautiful people he has laid his eyes on. He felt completely enamored by all your features wanting to take everything about you in.

“Don’t mind my brother,” he heard Jack say before he could even mumble out an apology, “he can be more than kind of a dumbass sometimes.”

Quinn turned to give Jack a mouthful when he heard you laugh, “Oh Jack, don’t be so mean to your family. That's your brother you're talking about!”

Quinn watched with his mouth agape as he saw you and Jack hugged each other. He introduced you to his family, explaining how you had met through a mutual friend during his rookie year. You had apparently helped Jack a lot, teaching him how to cook a few basic meals and survive on his own.

Suddenly, Quinn felt himself pushing himself closer to you letting out an apology about how bad he felt for not paying attention and then quite literally running into you. You laughed even more at Quinn, making him think to himself that he could hear that sound forever. Not thinking much, Quinn blurts out an invitation to join his family while they walk around looking at the different vendors. Thankfully, you accepted the offer.

You and Quinn had spent that time hitting it off, which turns out that the two of you had many similar interests. By the end of the night, Quinn felt like he had known you for years. Feeling like he hadn't had enough of you, he had asked if he could take you to dinner sometime.

“You know, hockey players aren’t my type,” Quinn could feel his heart drop as the grin on your face grew, “but maybe I am willing to make an exception because I just think you’re way cute. The next time you’re in town to play a game against your brothers, and you score a goal, I’ll consider going on a date.”

Suddenly, Quinn could feel his heart beating out of his chest. He mumbled quietly, “I mean yeah… I could possibly manage that.”

“Okay well, that sounds perfect!” you exclaimed, then kissing Quinn on the cheek, which caused his face to get hot for one more time that night.

After that night, all Quinn could think about was you and your little proposition. Eventually, that game came around. He made sure that Jack had gotten you tickets, even going as far as suggesting that you should sit with their parents during the game.

He felt like a nervous wreck all before the game, wondering if he would even get the chance to score a goal just so he could get a date with the most beautiful human being he had ever met. However, those nerves were not needed, as he ended up getting a hat trick by the end of the game. Each goal scored he searched for your face in the stands to give you a little wink. Quinn had felt like a king that night, not only bringing in the win for his team but also the prospect of getting to take you on a date.

By the end of the night, you found yourself opening a text from an unknown number.

Hey, I hope you don’t mind that I got your number from Jack. Anyways, about that date? :)

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x reader #vancouver canucks imagine #nhl imagine #mine!

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ghcstao3 · 11 months ago

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Im currently watching brave and it’s given me brain worms hehe

It’s to do with the will o’ the wisp!

Either soaps been seeing them his whole life guiding him to the task force or after a rough mission, totally lost/injured and with no way to contact anyone they guide his way back to ghost :D

Thanks for everything you write it genuinely makes my day to read all your works!!

ooh i really like this. also- apparently will o' the wisps are actually Not good in folklore so i wrote a little twist to fix that ;)

Throughout his life, Soap's nan had always liked to tell him stories about the many malevolent creatures he should hope to never have the misfortune of encountering—kelpies, redcaps, sluaghs; just about everything that existed in his homeland's folklore.

A little cruel in retrospect, Soap thinks, but for a while he'd just understood it as his nan's way of ensuring her grandson was to behave. They were myths, old tales and explanations for the unexplainable, and he can appreciate the determination to share tradition.

But now, as Soap is stranded in thick woods after an operation gone awry, blood sticky on his temple and a bullet stuck in his leg, he's not so sure they were just stories. Not as he's currently staring down an unnatural wisp of light in the darkness, hovering just a few feet away from where he'd collapsed against the thick, gnarled trunk of a tree.

Will o' the wisp, his mind supplies. Omens of death, his nan had told him, like many other creatures and spirits. They appear to the weary and lost like himself, flickers of glowing blue light almost hopeful as they guide one along a seemingly nonsensical path—but instead of leading someone to safety, they lure people to their doom.

The wisp just floats, unmoving, as Soap sits frozen. He tries his radio to no avail, and realizes with a great dread that he only has two options: attempt to find his own way back to his team, to anyone, anywhere, with the great risk of only getting more lost—or follow the wisp in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, it may actually lead him somewhere useful, no matter how bad the destination. Soap could only hope that doom is something he can fend off with a gun.

His decision is made rather easily because... he supposes it doesn't really make a difference, does it?

So he pushes himself away from the tree and toward the light—it vanishes as soon as he steps toward it, but with another step forward, another wisp appears.

Soap limps along, following the wisps. They weave him through trees and take sharp, sudden turns, disappearing and reappearing endlessly as Soap pursues the trail they leave. His head is on a swivel with every sound that isn't the crunch of branches beneath his own boots, with every flash of movement in his periphery.

He feels like he’d been walking forever by the time the forest has grown less dense and the wisps fade away for good—and that's when Soap sees it.

The large, imposing silhouette. The hulking figure cloaked in black. The glimpse of a skull in the sliver of moonlight that had managed to break through the forest's canopy.

Soap swallows a laugh. The will o' the wisps must have led him to Ghost, not realizing doom would have only been certain for Soap had he been the enemy.

Funny.

Ghost spots him and raises his gun, pauses, then after a moment lowers the barrel.

"Johnny?" Ghost grunts. "Where the fuck've you been?"

Soap shrugs a shoulder, wincing as he steps closer. "Lost my way running from the facility. Comms were dead." He flashes a crooked grin. "Worked out though, aye?"

Ghost snorts. "Aye," he echoes. "C'mon, then. Exfil's waiting. Save your explanations 'til then."

Soap gladly follows, relief nearly exalting.

But as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder, Soap can’t help but cast one last glance back at the trees from where he had emerged.

He wonders if the wisps had really made a mistake. He wonders if maybe they hadn't been done leading him, but Ghost had gotten in the way.

Questions he'll likely never find the answers for.

But regardless, now in safe hands—Soap thinks he had better refresh himself on his nan's stories as soon as he gets the chance.

He doesn't know now, whenever they might come in handy.

#ask #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #writing

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creedslove · 1 year ago

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post-outbreak!Joel settled in Jackson with reader and Ellie and finally having time to workout his feelings for reader but still he has difficulty saying “I love you” even though he does and reader also knows he does so she doesn’t force him?👀

Post-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

A/N: I'm not into post outbreak Joel very much but I loved this baby ❤️

Ways Joel says 'I love you' instead of using words:

• that old broken heart of his has faced so much pain he would rather rip it off and pretend he has never cared about anyone or anything in his life

• it worked well for quite a while, but not when he found himself a family in your and Ellie, when he realized he was back into his brother's life and able to lead a seemingly normal life in the middle of the apocalypse

• so he does what he thinks he's best at: he keeps the people he cares about safe

• that means Ellie, Tommy and above all, you

• he's terrified of failing you at that, he knows he would never be able to go through that pain once more; so he makes sure you are always safe no matter where, no matter what

• sometimes it could be a little annoying to be honest; you didn't want to seem ungrateful or anything, that man acted like a guard dog, which was so comforting and reassuring when you were out in the world, but safely tucked in Jackson? Maybe, and just maybe, horses weren't as bad as Joel made them seem to be and you could easily handle them without him having to be with you

• but you appreciated his company nonetheless; you knew it was one way he found to show his feelings

• Joel was an act of service man, which means he would do anything for you, he just takes his old contractor skills and use them in order to help you with improvements around the house, fixing anything you may need or doing it around the neighborhood in exchange for something else he could gift you later

• that man can't cook, but he does make a mean sandwich and he always makes sure to prepare one for you, because he knows you're always hungry after work

• despite being so... Well... Joel, he tries his best to let you in; he actually talks to you, he just doesn't grunt or mumble yes or no like when he's around anyone else and that already says a lot about how he feels

• but what I mean is that, he lets you in as best as he can. Is he an open book? Definitely not and you already know there are things about him you'll never find out and that's alright, you don't pry into it and he appreciates it. But there are parts of his life he likes to talk about, no matter if he shares a memory of his daughter's first birthday party with you, or he just tells you which were his favorite places to eat at the mall before the outbreak

• he expresses his feelings towards you in physical ways too: no matter if a part of him still has a fight or flight response to physical touch and he still gets tense when you place your hand on him unannounced only to remind himself that you are just showing your love through that touch

• there's the sex in which he not only takes his pleasure but he also pleasures you; it doesn't matter if he is being soft or rough, if it's playful or urgent, if it's a full session or a quickie in the stables, he loves to make you cum. His tongue, his fingers, his cock, his thighs, anything that does the job he is glad as long as you are enjoying as well

• he isn't a cuddling type of man; first the heartbreak with Sarah's mom and then the whole outbreak and what mankind became contributed to that; Joel simply isolated himself from human touch, telling himself he didn't care about it and it wasn't necessary

• but he only realized how much he'd really missed it when you offered it to him; and he tried fighting it off, thinking of it as weakness, but he had a low resistance to your touch, that was for sure

• hugging, holding, stroking, massaging, kissing, rubbing, snuggling were things Joel only tried with you, after being sure he would spend the rest of his days in complete loneliness

• and you never made of fun him or pointed out the fact that he once avoided it all that and now he craved it, he loved it and he initiated it too because it showed how much he needed you as well

• so he still had a problem saying all those three words, but he could only sleep if he had you all over him

• he just loved rubbing your back up and down, feeling the softness of your skin under his rough, calloused and bruised hands

• and he isn't afraid of placing your hand on his head, showing he would like some hair playing just like a puppy would ask for pets and you just melt at how relaxed he gets when you run your fingers through his hair

• it's just Joel letting his guard down around you

• he isn't great at PDA, but he will hold hands with you, or he will have his arm wrapped around your waist and he will pull you to dance with him at a party, he prefers dancing with you to some old record in his living room, but he isn't missing the opportunity of showing everyone else how much he loves you, even if he doesn't say it

• he plays you love songs in his guitar, singing along with the lyrics even if it makes him a little shy, but he does it because it makes your eyes light up and your cheeks turn pink

• he still has a hard time saying those words, he knows he needs to improve that, but at the same time, he knows that you know and while you aren't afraid to voice how much you love him, he isn't afraid of showing it

____

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal headcanon #pedro pascal headcanons #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller headcanon #joel miller headcanons

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asmoslverboy · 1 year ago

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To love the devil; Dottore x GN!Reader.

He is who he has always been. Despite the centuries he's had to accept and embrace his darkness, though he claims otherwise, he can't help but try to hide away from you. Neither one of you's a saint, but through his eyes, you're an angel. CW! Angst, immortal × immortal, Dottore is referred to as "Zandik", self sabotage on Dottore's part♡, dottore being emotional (ooc tbh, im self projecting on him)??

932 words

Dottore has many sides to him that he'd rather hide off from you. For someone so egotistical, so full of pride, you'd never expect him to be ashamed of who he is, who he has become. And he's not— shame, embarrassment— those aren't emotions that he's familiar with.

But fear, now that's a whole other conversation. It's not like you don't know what he's done, the things he's guilty of, his list of crimes, and of unethical desires he's tried to fulfill. It's not like you haven't personally seen him drown in sin over the 400 years of knowing him.

"Zandik, did I upset you?" You ask him as you're sitting on top of his desk while he's in his chair, looking up at your figure. He's been quite distant lately, more than usual. You could easily assume that he was having one of his isolative episodes, but he doesn't seem to be avoiding anyone other than you.

"Hm?" That's all you get from him, accompanied by a raise of his right brow, but his focus soon goes back to his notes, going over them, rambling about how he needs his next project to be the embodiment of perfection. Creating an aranara, was it? Some things, it seems, never change. He was so obsessed with the idea of capturing one of those little creatures of nature, back when the two of you were still students.

The next few hours pass by in the same cycle of events. You try talking to him, he shrugs it off and continues digging his head deep into his research files.

Do not expect any more of him for the next days, weeks even. It's like your existence no longer matters to him. All you see is the man that you've been with throughout basically your whole entire lives, acting as if you were a mere accomplice. He has repeated this type of scheme in the past, more than once, but it never lasted as long as it did this time.

Each of your attempts of getting a simple response out of him, one that requires actual words instead of some grunt or hum, has gone to waste.

You're unsure of what to do. Should you be more worried for him or for yourself? Is this the time it all ends between the two of you? Should you really just give up on him at this point?

"Zandik," you called out, but not to him, nor to anyone else. Sitting by a lake, all by yourself, no one to your company, other than the thousand microorganisms that lived and thrived in the waters. "I wish you would just speak to me."

It's not like you lack friends to confide in. But would anyone be as understanding towards him— the one who was labeled a monster, by all who've known him and by himself first and foremost— after you tell them about his present behaviors?

You laid your head on the cold, wet grass. Surrounded by nature, the collective of existence. You could never be alone in this world, not as long as you believe that everything around you is as alive as you are.

But are you truly alive? If, in the past, your definition of the word was to express yourself in every way, to feel and to be felt, would you consider yourself alive at this very moment?

Another day has come— it seems you had fallen asleep on the ground. You awoke, a couple ducks quaking as they poke you with their beaks. They didn't mean to hurt you, though. And if you think about it, your beloved is much like these ducks. He does what he thinks would best help you. Even if it has opposing effects.

"You shouldn't stay," he told you, his tone felt like it could cut through metal. You were back at his office again, figuring you could at least help him out at work, if unable to help his inner world. He was taking off his gloves as he was done inspecting some ancient Khaenri'ahn technology items. "Do you want me to—"

"I've given you every reason to leave. Yet you still cling to me like a bloodthirsty eel." He cut you off. He has never spoken to you like this (not whilst he was sober, nor whilst he was in his right mind). He was calm, but he spoke as if you were an object to be dismissed.

"Do you not love me anymore?" You wanted to ask him so, so desperately. But the potential answers to that question shook you to your very core. So you dared not speak.

Such conflict within you. Shall you leave him be? Shall you listen to his words instead of pursuing him any further? You're painfully aware of his nature; to push you away when he needs your presence most.

But it's been going on for far too long, has it not? If he's not allowing you to help him, then really, what else is there to do, if not fend for yourself?

"You deserve better," he wrote to you, in a letter that'll never reach your sight. "Your love should not be limited to one who can not accept, nor react to it," he wrote again. But who is he trying to fool? He knows that this piece of paper, along with all the other ones he's tried to write, will be crunched up and disposed of.

Not even once, for the sake of the person who's loved him through it all, will he allow himself to be heard.

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chasedbyatlantic · 11 months ago

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puppy love, joel miller

summary: IN WHICH — when joel is upset, you do anything and everything in your power to cheer him up. this means showing him your new guitar skills, while singing one of his favourite songs to him.

warnings: post outbreak!joel, jackson!joel, implied relationship, gender!neutral reader, sub!joel, lovey dovey joel and reader, ellie being a little shit once again, swearing, literally all fluff because i can, brief mention of death/killing (very very brief! shows up like two times), bad descs of guitar playing since i haven't played in like 10 years LOL, lmk if i missed anything!

wordcount: 2.3k

a/n: my second fic!!!!! i sort of love this one?? also tysm for the love on my first! looking for moots too! hmu if you wanna <3 make sure to reblog, like, and comment on this plz and thank u! if u have any requests for a fic lmk (dms r open for it!) more to come soon xoxo

—

God only knew what time it was. You had an infuriating day at work, training all new people on how to successfully patrol Jackson's surrounding areas, and how to not- well, die. This was always your least favourite time of year, to say the least. All the "fresh meat" had been selected to be potential patrolers, and they had to go through extensive training to make sure they were one hundred percent qualified and committed to the role.

Both you and Joel were practically put into this role by Maria (Joel's sister-in-law), not by force, but more of a "you would be doing the entire Jackson community a whole favour if you did this" sort of thing - guilt, most would say. Maria had even tried to get Ellie to help train people, but Joel almost killed Maria by his glare when she brought it up to the two of you.

Even though you hated this role in the community, you think Joel liked it. He had a bit too much fun getting to put kids in check, and humble them big time. At least it was only for a few months, you had kept reminding yourself. The few months were from early June until late September, though - the hottest months of the year. The before dawn wake up calls, and after dusk ends would only last for another month, since it was sometime in the middle of August right now.

After getting home extremely late, around an hour or two ago, you had already taken a shower and changed into more comfortable clothes before you went and sat on your back porch. Even though you didn't want to be outside anymore than you had to right now, Ellie had one of her friends over and wanted privacy. You love the kid, so you gave her the privacy (not much privacy, only hanging out in the living room of your home).

You were able to tell Joel was finished with his shower when you heard high-pitched and muffled screams coming from inside the house behind you. Just as you went to turn your head around to see what exactly the commotion he was causing inside was, the familiar figure of Joel Miller left the glass door, with the door slamming shut behind him. "Everything alright in there, cowboy?" You hummed to him as the nickname rolled off your tongue, scooching over on the step you were seated on to give the man some room to sit.

"Fucking Christ," He started as he took a seat next to you, "they were paintin' their nails, or somethin'. Said I wasn't allowed anywhere near 'em in that room, or they'd be off with me." Joel had grunted once he was completely lowered on this step, his bones weren't as good as they used to he would say.

This earned a snort from you, "No way- Ellie's paintin' her nails? Your girl's really growin' up, Joel." You couldn't believe she was doing this, to be honest. Ellie had stated to both you and Joel that she was not girly whatsoever, and would rather turn into a clicker than wear a dress or do her makeup. After you had said this to Joel, he looked to be upset. He didn't want Ellie growing up, his girl growing up. "Joking, joking."

He took his eyes off of you, and moved them forward. "Nah, you're right," Joel had sighed, "she won't need me soon. Soon she'll-" He had trailed off, quiet now. Fuck- why did you bring this up, you had thought to yourself. You could only place your hand on Joel's thigh. "She'll always need you, Joel. Shit, she'd be death without ya'. Lighten up a bit baby, she ain't going anywhere."

Joel knew it was true, he was just having a really emotional moment right now, it was most likely from being up since five in the morning. "Dunno 'bout that." He had only muttered, placing his hand over yours. You tsked, putting some pressure on his thigh as you got up in an awkward fashion. "Where are ya'-"

"I have an idea, hold on." You had cut him off, making your way back inside. You were engulfed by the sounds of laughter as soon as you stepped foot through the patio door. You were silent about it, not wanting to bother Ellie or her friend. You had silently moved to the house's spare room, where the three of you put anything and everything. You had grabbed what you were looking for almost instantly (it had a distinct shape) and made your way back outside.

Joel turned his head once you had stepped outside again, his eyes moving down to what you had in hand, then gaining eye contact. "Is that my-" he couldn't even finish his sentence. You grinned as you pulled the lawn chair over, placing the case on the floor and unlatching the sides. You had picked up the piece of polished wood and string and placed the curved part on top of your knee.

"Okay so," You had started as Joel turned around to give you his full attention. He looked handsome like this- more than handsome, actually. The way the dull light from inside of your home highlighted his face almost perfectly- ugh, you couldn't get enough of it. "From all of the, sort of, free time I have had in the last few months, I decided to sort of, really badly, learn a few songs?" It came out more of a question than it did a statement, and Joel took notice of this with only a laugh in return.

"Anything ya' play'll be gorgeous, baby." Joel could only look at you in complete awe; if he didn't love you one hundred percent before, he sure as fuck did now. Instead of sitting down, Joel stood up and was now leaning against the wooden beam behind him. He towered over you, only inches away- this got you on even more of an edge.

"Okay, please don't kill me if I don't get the chords right- I don't think I read the notes properly." You awkwardly chuckle as you avoid eye contact with Joel at the current second. Joel knows a guitar from the inside-out, but even if you messed up, he would not care at all. You took the time to learn his favourite instrument, and this only put him in an ecstatic mood.

"Pick a number one through three." You told him as you move your left hand up the neck, and your right arm drooped over the body. "Three." He replied almost too fast, he was just so eager to hear you play.

You brought your fingers through the strings before you started, making sure it was in tune. You glance up towards Joel, "It's in tune, right?" You ask him. A chuckle escapes his lips as he nods, "Don't worry baby, it is."

You (unfortunately) tore your eyes apart from Joel's as you focus on both your left and right hands now. Multitasking was hard for you before this, so you struggled a bit to play. You inhale slowly, placing your fingers on the top three strings on the fingerboard. You strum from both left and right, meeting to the middle string as the first chord.

"And they called it puppy love," your voice was quiet and sounded more hoarse than relaxed, which you mentally slapped yourself for. Before hounding yourself about it even more, you had to focus on changing the chords another four times as you repeated the strumming rhythm.

"Oh, I guess they'll never know," There wasn't any moving, or talking, or breathing (from the sound of it) from Joel. He was just- mesmerized, mesmerized by what you had been doing with your fingers, with your voice, with everything. If the world hadn't gone to shit, you most definitely would've had a big breakout as an up-and-coming music star, he had thought to himself.

"How a young heart, how it really feels, and why I love him so," You had changed the lyrics, and Joel noticed - you changed "her" to "him". Honestly, Joel only noticed because it was you singing it (and he loved you deeply), and that whenever he would spend time with his grandfather when he was little, this song was played a million times. Had he ever told you about his love for this song, or was it just a coincidence?

"And they called it puppy love," You repeated yourself, emotion starting to seep through your voice. "Just because we're seventeen," If you weren't so lost in your train of thought, of remembering where to put your fingers for the next chord, and the correct strumming pattern, and the lyrics, you would've noticed Ellie and her friend silently sneak out onto the porch.

"Tell them all, it isn't fair. To take away my only dream," You had paused strumming for a single second, it sounded like a dramatic pause in Joel's eyes. You had just completely lost your breath from a combination of singing and nerves. After the (painfully long, you thought) second was over, you started once again.

"I cry each night, my tears for you. My tears are all in vain," The chord pattern you had going changed for the last time, and your strums started to sound quiet, your voice dying out while all of this happened. Joel took notice of this, standing up completely now (from leaning against the wooden beam behind). The two girls behind you were still so silent, almost just as mesmerized with you as Joel was.

"Oh, I'll hope and pray, that maybe someday," You inhale as your thumb starts to brush down from the highest string to the lowest string, "You'll be back in my arms once again." A loud exhale falls through your mouth, followed by the two girls bursting out with clapping and compliments. This does nothing short than scaring the absolute fuck out of you, causing the guitar to slip out of your grip.

Luckily, with Joel being completely focused on you, he had came to the rescue and snatched the guitar before it had fell on the ground. You shoot him an apologetic look before turning around to the two girls, he just looks at you with understanding eyes. "You guys almost made me drop the fuckin' thing- how long were you there for?" You question them, eyeing between the two. Their clapping hands were now silent and playing with their thumbs, almost nervous from you.

"Ya' know what, it doesn't matter. Inside- go, it's bedtime." You had scolded the two, as if you were their mother. Ellie's friend had opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by Ellie gripping her hand and yanking her back inside. You start to turn back to face Joel, after snapping. "Fuck, we can never have a minute of fuckin' sile-".

He cut you off by smashing his lips into yours. He was acting as if though he was touch deprived, if he hadn't seen you for years. You two just move in sync for what feels like forever (not that you're complaining, though), before you pull away.

Before you have the chance to say anything, Joel brings you to your feet and sets the guitar down on your previous seat, embracing you in a tight hug. You can feel his rough facial hair on the exposed parts of your neck as he exhales, you definitely don't mind. "I needed that more than anythin', darlin'." He admits to you.

"Anythin' for my favourite person." You remind him, bringing your hand to the back of his head. It was true, you would do anything for this man. You would steal for him, kill for him, anything he wanted.

The sun was threatening to peak through the moonlit skies, you knew you two had to be up and about soon enough, but that didn't stop you. You were laying in bed together, tangled between each other's arms. The covers were kicked off your shared bed, and a small breeze cruising the room every so often from the open windows.

"I think it's true." You had broken the comfortable silence that filled the room. Joel didn't move from his position (half of his body on you), just hummed with his eyes staying shut. "What is, baby?"

"The song- fuck, I don't want to sound cheesy or nothin'." You admit, before continuing, "You just, ya' know, I love you's all." You send a small squeeze through Joel's hand, that vibrates his entire body. This results in him dropping your hand and lifting it to wrap around your chest. "Nothin' cheesy 'bout that." His voice was even more hoarse than when you had lost your fears of singing in front of someone, in front of Joel. You now went silent, just loving his embrace.

"Darlin'?" He now broke the silence after a minute or two, eyes still shut and not moving whatsoever. You gave a hum in response, just like he did earlier. "Ya' said to pick a number between three before ya' played earlier, were the other options real?" This was your favourite, vulnerable Joel.

"It was, and before you ask-" you pause, bringing your hand to the back of his head, just like earlier. You ran your fingers through his restless curls. "-I'll play the rest for ya'. Promise." Joel had obviously liked this answer, as he responded with a sloppy kiss to your collarbone.

You would learn every lyric in the world, every chord in the world, every strum in the world, just for Joel to be happy. You didn't want anything more in this world than for him to be happy. If he was happy, so were you.

puppy love, paul anka

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tiddygame · 4 months ago

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Ghoap god type au part 6!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

hello once again beautiful people! like i said, new chapter much sooner. the next one might be a bit more of a wait as it's not even fully drafted yet, but fuck it we ball :)

there will be 11 chapters on here [10 on ao3 as 1 and 2 are combined over there] so we're just at the halfway mark! I think this chapter might be my favorite so far, i hope you enjoy it as well!

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

[and lmk if you want to be tagged!]

“Any more injured soldiers who need rescuing?” Ghost asked, not looking up from sharpening his hunting knife.

“None that you could help,” Soap answered, ignoring the sarcasm in Ghost’s tone and joining him by the fire. He was somehow completely dry despite having walked in from the downpour outside.

The little overhang he had set up his camp under didn’t offer much protection from the rain. It looked like mother nature decided to give up on making a cave as soon as she began, but it was enough cover that his meek fire and (incredibly ungrateful) horse would have at least some protection from the encroaching storm.

Ghost didn’t respond, instead choosing to focus on keeping the correct angle as he dragged the blade along the whetstone, the grating noise muffled by the rain. Taxes snorted her own greeting but still sounded rather upset that Ghost had the audacity to put her in a situation where she got her coat a little wet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Soap pet Taxes and run his fingers through her mane, walk around his hastily put together camp, look out at the rain, and eventually meander back to sit across from Ghost. Soap’s leg was bouncing; he obviously wanted to talk about something that had him antsy, but Ghost was perfectly fine to let him stew in his anxiety.

Soap managed to sit still for one whole minute before he tried to start a conversation. “You’ve been doing that for a while…?” he prompted, hoping Ghost would want to talk about his current task.

“Yeah,” he answered, still not looking at the god nor for conversation. The edge of his knife had rolled a few days ago and it was not a quick task to grind it back and resharpen it. Lightning crackled and Ghost counted the time between the boom of thunder; As viscous as the rain was, the storm was still a ways away.

Soap nodded slowly and began tapping his fingers on his leg, turning from him to look around at the rain, almost intentionally awkward. “So…” Soap drew out the word, apparently finding a new topic to try, “What are you doing camping in this weather?”

Ghost wasn’t in the mood for whatever the god was trying to pull and grunted dismissively, “Could ask you something similar.”

“Aye, but I asked first,” Soap childishly retorted.

He paused his sharpening and scowled at the god but eventually acquiesced. “Hunting.”

There was a moment of silence, Soap expecting (and hoping) for more information, but Ghost stopped there. He let the silence linger before continuing his sharpening, cutting through the quiet and giving a clear indication that he was done with his answer.

“Well, what were you hunting for?” The god asked, still trying to have a conversation. His effort was admirable, though likely ill-fated.

“Food.”

Soap bit his cheek and tried for the fifth time to prompt him into a chat, “Yes, what kind of food?”

“Edible.”

Soap groaned loudly in frustration, his accent heavier in his annoyance, “Yer a pain in the fucking arse, Ghost.”

“Thank you.”

His gratitude didn’t help and Soap huffed and crossed his arms as he glared at Ghost.

Soap, the god of death, was pouting. Ghost determinedly stared down at his task, trying not to laugh at the display.

Gathering himself, he figured it was about time he got his weekly kindness out of the way and answered, “Stocks were running low — I offered to go hunting and the general agreed, but the rain caught me off guard.”

Soap was disproportionately happy at the fact that Ghost was humoring him, excited that Ghost offered more than a one word answer.

Then again, he was the only one the god could talk to, so maybe it wasn’t disproportionate for someone who’d— No, no. He was not going to be tricked into feeling bad for a fucking god of all things. Even if he did feel oddly compelled to talk to the god after seeing how happy he got at his simple reply.

“Did the general actually agree or…?” Soap asked, knowing Ghost’s tendencies.

“He did. And no, I don’t know why either.” Considering his last “hunting trip” ended in a he-said, she-said shouting match he was just as surprised that the general agreed, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Are you sure it’s not a trap?”

“No.”

His simple answer got a small chuckle, though one tainted by worry. He didn’t care if it was a trap, he got the go ahead to be away from camp for four whole days without a search party going after him. There were very few punishments that could make him regret agreeing to that.

Soap sat in thought before he asked, “You really don’t like him do you?”

Ghost scoffed, “The general? Fuck no. I hate that bastard.”

He could see the question Soap almost asked before he changed his mind and switched to a less intrusive question. “You always call him general—”

Ghost grunted in affirmation, inspecting the freshly sharpened edge on his knife. Still unhappy with it, he added a bit more water to his whetstone and got back to sharpening.

“—Why?”

Ghost was confused for a moment before he remembered that he was talking to Soap and not just obsessing over getting his knife to his impossible standards.

“He never cared to learn my name so I never cared to learn his.” It was unfortunately not a joke. He thinks he might have known it at one point, but his passive aggressive response had gone on for so long that he genuinely did not know his name.

Soap asked, “He doesn’t call you Ghost? What does he call you?”

“He does call me Ghost,” he corrected with a confused glance.

Soap tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Is… that not your name?”

“No?” Ghost more asked than said, confused. “What the hell kind of a name is Ghost?”

Soap began, “Well I dunno—”

Ghost huffed a small, quiet laugh and when he saw the god looked embarrassed he clarified, “It’s just a nickname.”

“So this entire time I’ve been calling you Ghost…” Soap looked more than embarrassed, horrified at the idea that he had been calling Ghost by the wrong name.

Ghost tried not to chuckle but the abject horror from the other over such a simple thing made him snicker. When the god’s face fell further, he did not feel bad for him, but he did decide to throw him a little bit more kindness and clarified further, “I’m being petty towards the general. You didn’t get my name wrong.”

Soap heaved a sigh of relief but still looked put off by the revelation. It was hard to hold onto his fear of the god when he always seemed so… so earnest. For fuck’s sake, it looked like he was going through the worst day of his immortal life over a possible nickname mishap.

“And no,” Ghost added before he could ask, “I’m not telling you my name.”

Soap slumped, even more put out and Ghost certainly did not smile at his apparent disappointment.

He continued his sharpening in silence, or, well, neither of them were talking at least. The rain was still hammering away with occasional lightning and thunder. The wind was harsh, pushing in and making sheets of rain look like curtains billowing in the breeze.

Ghost examined the knife again and was much more pleased this go around. He stood slowly, his joints popping along the way, and held the knife under the rainfall, rinsing it off. He rolled up his sleeve and tested the sharpness by shaving some hair off of his arm, satisfied to find it was able to cut through with ease.

He carefully wiped off the knife and found his holster, safely storing it away. He dropped it by where he had been sitting and grabbed his dagger from his satchel, inspecting the edge on it as well. It wasn’t as bad, but he might as well sharpen it while he has the time.

He turned to go back to the fire but stopped when he saw Soap had scooted over, examining the hunting knife Ghost dropped. It was a basic knife, the only interesting thing about it was the shitty construction of the handle that led to the wood below the last pin chipping off on one side. It seemed to have Soap enraptured nonetheless.

Deciding not to bother with asking, Ghost took his place by the fire once more, making sure to give Soap space, lest he suddenly get any grand ideas with that knife. He rewet the stone and got back to work, keeping the god in sight.

When Soap was done with his inspection, he turned to watching Ghost work, surprisingly content with watching the simple task in silence. Which meant it was time for Ghost to return the favor of disrupting the peace.

“You never said why you decided to grace me with your presence,” he pointed out, sarcasm dripping from the regal phrasing with the raspy noise of the dagger dragging across the stone punctuating his sentence. The god had leaned closer in his curiosity, watching the slow process like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“Hmm?” Soap asked, looking up from where he had hunched, not paying attention but processing the question before Ghost had to repeat it. “Oh, right… I just felt lonely.”

He would have believed it if the god weren’t refusing to even look in his general direction. That was the other thing that made it hard to cling to his fear — the bastard was an awful liar.

Ghost paused his handiwork and stared him down, admonishing, “Soap.” He didn’t add anything else, he didn’t need to. Soap squirmed a bit but cracked quickly.

“You didn’t leave an offering this morning,” the god mumbled, looking down at the ground.

Ghost had to think for a moment, only then realizing that he forwent breakfast that morning to get away from camp as quickly as he could, meaning he also forwent leaving an offering when he ate “with” the god as he normally would have done.

Soap didn’t look angry, but if he came down from the heavens expressly because of a missed offering, then maybe Ghost had misjudged him. Maybe Soap was actually a fantastic liar and just carefully crafted these supposed slip-ups to make Ghost lower his guard. Maybe Soap was—

“I was worried,” Soap said, still refusing to look at him. If part of his preplanned ruse was to look like a kicked puppy, then he nailed it.

Staring him down, Ghost dropped his tools and blindly reached for his bag, searching for one of the apples he brought for Taxes. As soon as his hand wrapped around it, he threw it to the god with a little too much force for how small the distance between them was.

Soap was unprepared and caught it against his chest. Once he realized what it was, he, if anything, looked sadder. Ghost was unsure if Soap was disappointed in the meager offering or disappointed that he lost the potential leverage over him.

Thunder bellowed.

“This… is not what I meant,” Soap sighed, “I thought you had given up on food offerings.”

Ghost shrugged, “You’re not getting my knife or my whetstone.” He punctuated the sentence by dragging the knife across the whetstone slightly faster, making the noise just a bit more audible under the pounding rain.

“That’s not what I meant either.”

“Sucks for you,” Ghost retorted like a petulant child, inspecting the edge. The dagger wasn’t perfect, but it was better than it had been and his hands were starting to cramp, so good enough. “I don’t have anything to offer.”

Ghost let the white lie roll off his tongue with ease. He wanted to see how the god would react to such a blatantly false statement. Everyone always had something that could be taken if it was not given. “Take it or leave it.”

“Leave it,” Soap said, throwing it back with notably less force than Ghost had. He caught it and stared at the god, unimpressed, before dropping it to the floor uncaringly.

Soap stated with conviction, “I didn’t come down here to collect my dues, you don’t owe me anything.” Then he added on as if he were reluctant to admit, “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” Ghost asked simply, busying his nervous hands with cleaning off the dagger.

“You’ve given me offerings every morning. I was worried you got hurt and I didn’t notice or something even worse,” the god replied, managing to dodge answering the one and only question Ghost asked. “I think you’ve spoiled me,” Soap said with an almost sad grin, “One morning without an offering and I’m a mess.”

Ghost did not match the smile as he asked more pointedly, “Why were you worried?”

Soap was lost on how to answer, “Because I… didn’t know if something was wrong? I’m— I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did you—,” Ghost huffed, giving up on pursuing an answer as soon as he began. “Forget it. You’ll get your offering in the morning.” He stood, taking the apple over to Taxes, who was thrilled at the development and ate the rejected offering happily.

He didn’t know what answers he wanted nor which questions to ask to get them. But he did know very well that when ignorance and vulnerability reared its ugly, stupid, unwelcome head, impudence made for a fine replacement.

“I’m sorry? Have I done something to upset you?”

It was said with an air of sincerity; It was far too kind of a reply for the brashness he had undeservedly received.

Ghost needed to be suspicious of Soap, he needed to keep his guard up and always be on the watch for whatever tricks he would try to play. He reminded himself of that fact every time he left an offering or entertained a chat with him but it had yet to stick.

Soap was making it very difficult for him.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong—”

For the first time in his life he was unable to cling on to the mistrust and suspicion that had kept him alive thus far. Anger took up where they failed.

There was a voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like someone he used to know, telling him that directing his anger towards those who didn’t deserve it wouldn’t help anyone. But that someone was dead and had been for a long time.

“I… I know you don’t trust me, but I—”

Something snapped. He seethed at himself for the truth behind his own words as he admitted with too much anger, “No, my problem is that I do trust you and I don’t fucking know why!”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Just shut up.”

And the worst part yet? He did. The god of death abided by his request.

Soap was surprised at the outburst, shock and… and not fear because he’s a god, the god of death, he has no need for survival instincts and time wasters like fear. Yet he held his hands up in surrender like Ghost could hurt him anyway.

Ghost was significantly more human and all of the emotions he had felt bubbling up ever since he first left that apple at the feet of a forgotten shrine were finally spilling over, making the fire within his brain crackle and pop at the unwanted intrusion.

“Why?” Ghost demanded, marching forward slowly as he grabbed his newly sharpened dagger. “Why, why, why do I want to trust you!?”

The god didn’t say anything, just kept his hands up while making a vague shrugging motion. Soap stood carefully like he was being cornered by a wild animal and took a few small, slow steps back.

“Why have you decided to fuck up my life!?”

Soap stayed silent, somehow looking even sadder at his harsh statement. Soap shouldn’t be calm, he should be angry. And yet, he did not fight back. The storm carried on. Ghost was advancing faster than Soap was retreating.

“I cannot kill you, I cannot hurt you, so why do you fall back!?”

Ghost held the length of his dagger up to the god’s throat, threatening to break the skin and reveal whatever was underneath his guise. Soap froze, standing stiff and looking up at Ghost with eyes full of emotions he couldn’t even begin to decipher.

His anger had pushed them both to the edge of the overhang; Soap was fully in the rain yet still dry while Ghost had some cover but was getting soaked. It only made his tempestuous emotions worse, the painfully obvious display of the divine differences between them.

“Why do you act like you’re scared!?”

Even with him raising his voice, Ghost could barely be heard over the rain. Soap looked at him with something that wasn’t patronizing enough to be pity but he didn’t want to risk trying to put another word to whatever it was.

Soap confessed, “I’m scared for you.”

The anger was failing now as well and he could feel that old snake vulnerability slithering up his spine. “Bullshit.”

“Is it?” Soap asked, with concern, tenderness, sympathy— every emotion he needn’t feel for himself written plain across his face.

“Don’t you dare condescend to me. I may just be a stupid, puny mortal in the eyes of ‘Death almighty—’”

“You’re not—”

Ghost pressed the blade closer. On anyone else, any human, blood would have been welling up.

“—But I know a hungry animal when I see one. If I die, you die too, isn’t that right?” Ghost asked, an air of enlightenment in his voice, like he could pretend hard enough that he found the answer he’d been seeking. He felt no such relief or realization.

He laughed humorlessly, “Gods, you’re like a bloody vampire aren’t you? Poor little thing has to keep a mortal alive to get offerings from!”

He felt like he could barely breathe; He wasn’t sure he could lie to himself that it was just anger making him tremble anymore. Soap remained silent. Ghost needed him to say something, anything, he didn’t care what. He could feel the last strings holding him up snap as they sat in silence.

They had yet to break eye contact, Ghost continuing to stare down at him. Soap carefully reached up, wrapped his hand around Ghost’s, and slowly moved the knife away. He didn’t even take the opportunity to disarm him, just played along like Ghost was capable of defending himself against the god of death.

Soap grabbed his arm with his other hand, gently pushing Ghost out of the storm’s wrath like he was something delicate.

Yeah, no shit dumbass. You pulled a knife on him for being nice. Of course he’s treating you like a ticking time bomb.

“Come on,” Soap muttered with that stupid fucking look of not-pity. “You’re gonna get cold.”

Ghost’s brain misfired.

He’s gonna get cold. Says the god. The god of death. Whom he just antagonized. And threatened to stab. In the neck. With a knife.

You’re gonna get cold.

What the fuck is happening?

Ghost doesn’t know if he said that out loud or if he’s just that easy to read, but Soap, the god of death, answered the unasked question, “If you want to slit my throat, that’s fine, but do it by the fire where it’s warm.”

Unable to vocalize his thoughts in any articulate way, Ghost asked in a voice that was as accusatory as it was stupefied, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Soap laughed too kindly for the statement that caused the reaction, “A lot, probably.”

He could do nothing but watch, puzzled, as the god sat him on the ground next to the fire, adding on another log before joining him. Ghost hadn’t even processed that he was cold when Soap draped something over his shoulders, a cloak— his cloak, and scooted just a little closer.

“Can’t have ye’ getting sick, right?” Soap asked with a smile that might have been charming if Ghost didn’t feel like his brain was actively imploding.

“You… are not attacking me,” Ghost pointed out. He couldn’t tell if he was thinking too fast or not at all. Either way he was lost.

“No, I am not,” Soap confirmed, “And I do not plan to.”

Ghost was exhausted. He felt tired and sad, he wanted to pass out, he wanted to slam his head against the rocks, he wanted to make sense of reality again. None of which seemed to be within his wheelhouse.

“I’m sorry I cannae give ye’ the fight you want.”

His last string snapped, and he slumped in on himself, his head hanging low. Perhaps the others at camp were right. Maybe he was the bloodthirsty monster they feared.

They had both been accused of the same, but where Soap actively defied humanity’s accusations, Ghost only ever seemed to validate them. Here was someone, not human but a person all the same, who was trying to show him kindness and he attacked them for it. Ghost tried his best not to be their beast, but maybe his best wasn’t enough. Maybe violence was the only thing he was capable of.

The monster who refused their labeling smacked him in the back of the head. Soap said not unkindly yet still firmly, “Whatever it is you’re thinking, quit it.”

Ghost slowly turned with a scowl that lacked the anger he was clawing at, upset at having his brooding interrupted, and demanded, “Why?”

“Because,” Soap huffed, “I can’t even read minds but I can hear you sulking from here.”

‘From here’ was right next to him, but Ghost wasn’t in the mood to argue pedantics. Mostly. Somewhat. Kind of.

“I’m brooding, not sulking,” Ghost corrected. He was always in the mood to be a pain in the ass.

Ghost shivered slightly, his now wet clothes chilling him through the cloak. Soap put his arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer. It was only then that Ghost realized they’d been sitting that close ever since Soap dragged him over, close enough to be well within arm’s reach.

While the god had plenty of warmth to share, his body heat didn’t. The air always seemed a little bit warmer when Soap was around, the biting cold fading to a comfortable level, but he still was not a living being. Beneath his skin might have been flesh and perhaps a bone or two somewhere in there, but he had no heartbeat, there was nothing within him to provide physical warmth the same way a human would have.

Ghost wondered if it was part of an ages old reflex, pulling someone closer to keep them warm.

“Yer not a damn bird…” Soap corrected back, absentmindedly running his hand up and down Ghost’s arm, assumedly another reflex from a time long since passed.

Ghost didn’t mind; A prideful bastard he may be, but he had never experienced a true cold a day in his life. He knew good and well he should be thankful for the warmth, and considering he was almost soaked to the bone while it was cold as balls, Ghost would let his pride take the hit so long as it kept him hypothermia free.

“You do have a lot wrong with you, don’t you?” Ghost asked as if it wasn’t obvious from the start.

“I already told you tha’ much.” Soap said with that smile that you can only get after an emotional breakthrough, the kind that was genuine yet sad yet hopeful yet tired, all in one small smile.

Thunder roared loud enough that Ghost could feel the reverberations through the ground he was sitting on. Looking outside, the woodland was obscured by a haze of white, rain falling with such speed and vigor that it hid everything beyond their shelter. He watched the way the sky darkened even though it couldn’t have been noon; it would appear that the storm finally arrived.

Wind tried to blow the rain closer and closer but errant raindrops that should have been pelting him and threatening his fire never seemed to land and he knew he had the god to thank for that.

Ghost had to take a moment to appreciate that the god of death, a being capable of unimaginable power that presided over the most prevalent part of life, had been demoted to an umbrella and space heater.

“I think you could kill me if you wanted.”

Soap’s sudden statement pulled him back, turning from the deluge outside to look at the god in confusion, slowly processing his words. Ghost scoffed, genuine in his demand but without the malice that would have been there a few minutes prior, “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not!” Soap defended as if he were stating the obvious, “We both know damn well that if I fucked up and pissed you off, you wouldn’t stop until I was dead.”

A grim statement made in a jovial tone with the manner of someone convinced they were infallibly correct. He acted as if he were offended by the notion that Ghost couldn’t kill him.

“A mortal going against a god is not a battle, it’s a slaughter,” he corrected. It was something he’d been told over and over when he was younger, back when he was still naive enough to have faith (albeit with rather different wording).

Almost every bedtime story he’d grown up with had the same lesson: Do not go against the gods. Story after story and tale after tale about supposedly greedy men that tried to take on the pantheon only to be sentenced to eternal suffering as punishment. Back then, it was worded in a little cutesy, kid friendly way but the lesson stuck. Ghost wasn’t that stupid… mostly… Regardless, he knew his limits, and killing an immortal being was certainly not within them.

“Yes, but for you, it wouldn’t be the mortal getting slaughtered,” Soap argued the point like they were debating over which color was the best, not Ghost’s ability to kill death.

Ghost scoffed, “Sure.” He had no idea what the god was getting at but he knew he wouldn’t be able to convince him otherwise.

“You know it's true, you just don’t want to accept the compliment!” Soap argued, annoyed at the dismissal.

“Is someone telling you that you could kill them a compliment?” Ghost asked, more curious for Soap’s answer than anything else.

“How would it not?”

Yeah, Ghost doesn’t know what else he expected from the god of death, to be honest. He settled back, pulling his cloak closer to himself, slowly drying off, and warm in spite of the freezing thunderstorm mere feet away.

He still had hundreds of questions and half formed worries plaguing him, but well, as he said, he felt exhausted. Not physically, sleep was a long way off but he still felt like he could collapse.

Ghost tried to think but as soon as he grabbed at any thoughts, they slipped away into the mist. It was only after several minutes of silently watching the leaves shake in the storm that one question solidified into something more tangible. He didn’t know how to phrase it, but eventually gave up on finding the right words and hoped to stumble into them along the way.

“Shouldn’t I be…” Ghost regretted his plan immediately but it was too late to go back. “…Spreading the word? Singing your praises? Getting people to ‘worship’ you?” He felt weird even as he said it but he tried to keep the disdain out of his voice.

“No.” Soap’s reply was sudden and resolute, like he wanted to shut down the notion immediately. “No, please don’t.”

“No?”

“No,” he confirmed. “I… know that if I want to— to stay around then yes, but… No. Not yet. I don’t want to repeat what happened before.”

The god had a sullen, far away look in his eyes, one Ghost had seen on several soldiers and fighters before and likely one that he himself has worn as well. It was the most Soap had ever talked about his time from before.

Ghost didn’t like the way Soap had said it and he liked the spike of sympathy even less, but he had a feeling he would have to get used to emotions he didn’t like so long as he continued following the god.

The words hang over them like a lead weight. Usually, Ghost didn’t mind letting awkwardness linger, enjoying the squirming of others but this felt different. It wasn’t someone trying to push Ghost beyond his limits, but instead more like the other way around, Ghost uncaringly pushing against a sore subject for the god.

For the god. You shouldn’t feel bad for him, he’s—

Oh, shut up.

He’s well past the point of no return. Feeling bad for Soap was the least of his worries now, whether he liked it or not. Besides, if not pity, why else would he have continued offering Soap whatever he could get his hands on?

It’s not like he’s on the precipice of doing something stupid, he already did the ‘something stupid.’ Ghost saw the edge of the cliff and the warning signs around it and still hiked on.

Ignoring everything in him yelling at him not to, he leaned into the god’s side. The words felt alien even to himself as he muttered, “Maybe someday.”

Soap smiled, and the edge of the cliff came closer as Soap muttered back, “Maybe.”

#ghost gets upsetti spaghetti but don't worry soap is there to make everything worse but also mostly better #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #forgotten death au #ghost holding a knife up to soap: STOP MAKING ME HAVE GAY THOUGHTS #soap currently having gay thoughts:

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happyandticklish · 16 days ago

Text

The Sweetest Revenge

Notes: A Christmas gift for @tickles-tea that has very little, and by that I mean nothing at all, to do with Christmas. A little bit non-con-y, just a heads up in advance. A touch of Shizaya toward the end, but other than that, this is primarily Izaya-focused. Meant to be x-reader-ish, if you want, though it can also be read otherwise. I hope you enjoy your holiday dose of torturing Izaya~

Summary: Izaya finds himself kidnapped by an unknown assailant who has a rather unorthodox method of dishing out revenge.

He opened his eyes to darkness, blinding and unending in its depths. He blinked again, unsure if he was merely disorientated, and it was then that he felt the cloth of the blindfold. Not an ideal situation to wake up in, but not the worst he’d encountered.

There was a crick in his back and he shifted to relieve it, only to come to the uncomfortable realization that he couldn’t move. At all. Izaya grunted, straining his muscles to pull his arms down, and once more they stuck firmly above his head. A quick test proved his legs to be the same.

“Well, isn’t this interesting,” he murmured, brows drawing down in vague irritation.

He leaned his head back and tried to search his memory for any indication of how he ended up here. The simplest option was to compile a list of all the people who might have a bone to pick with him, but Izaya had been collecting quite the collection throughout the years; narrowing it down would be impossible. Last night danced at the edges of his mind, and he tried to grasp onto any flying detail that might clue him in on what had happened.

He remembered a smile, along with a bar, and hands, perfectly elegant as each gesture promised the truth of their words. If only he could remember their owner.

Goosebumps prickled over his skin as a breeze wafted through the room, and his fingers twitched, longing to reach down to rub the area. The position was unfamiliarly vulnerable, a thought he tried to push to the back of his mind. He had been in scrapes like this before; the trick was to talk fast, too fast for them to think about what they were revealing.

There was a click in the distance and he froze, tilting his head up to try to hear better. A doorknob, probably. Which meant at the very least he was in a room. The click was followed by soft footfalls, and a voice, smooth and with a cadence that was frustratingly familiar.

“Sleep well?”

“What is this?” Izaya offered instead, a question for a question. He circled his wrists, gesturing to his splayed out form. “I assume you want something, so why don’t we cut straight to the chase?”

“You really don’t remember?”

“I really can’t be bothered to keep track of every person that comes in and out of my life, nor do I want to. I love your kind as a whole, but I’m afraid the individuals tend to be quite boring.” He grinned, a casual thing that held carefully cloaked danger behind it. “If you’re looking for an apology for something I’ve done, you’re wasting your time.”

“Not an apology.” The footfalls started up again, her volume increasing as she presumably closed in on him. He hated the way his ears strained to follow her; this lack of sight was really starting to become a nuisance. “I’m sure you don’t remember, but you broke a certain promise you made us a while ago. A promise that has cost us quite a bit of money.”

Noting the plural us, Izaya raised a brow, tilting his head towards the source of the mysterious voice. “Well, that sounds like a poor investment on your part, doesn’t it? A quick background check could have shown you that was a bad idea.”

He flinched as a finger trailed down the side of his arm, zagging in lazy circles like they were attempting to draw. It was annoying and his nerves prickled in discomfort, but he barely had time to focus on it before she continued talking.

“A promise is a promise, info broker, and we intend to make you face the consequences of breaking it. There’d be no point in taking the money back, as the pitiful funds you earn doing this kind of business is hardly enough to make up for our loss. So we turned to different options. Options that would teach you not to take us so lightly. We are no fools, Mr. Orihara.”

At some point in its journey, the finger had become a nail and Izaya squirmed almost imperceptibly as it made its unbearably slow descent down his arm. It was becoming far less itchy and far more something else. His stomach clenched in a chilling realization.

“But simple torture seemed too basic for the amazing Izaya Orihara. Your reputation called for something more impactful.”

The nail paused right above his armpit and Izaya realized that he had stopped breathing a while ago. He exhaled slowly, hating the way the breath stuttered a little. He longed for his sight, longed to be able to see his approaching torment. Maybe if he could have traced it, it wouldn’t have been so bad.

“I’m sure by now you’ve caught on.”

The finger remained still. So, horrendously still. “This is a child’s game.”

“That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? That something so simple can be so devastating all at once.”

The finger twitched slightly and Izaya’s nerves raced with trembling anticipation. He could practically feel it already, and the urge to slam his arm down in protection was growing greater by the second. He managed to keep his face neutral, but it was impossible not to notice the way he inched back into the soft cushion of the chair.

“You might as well give it up now,” Izaya said brazenly with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Tickling is hardly what I’d consider a valued torture method. It’s entirely reliant on your victim even possessing that particular sensitivity that you’d need to pull off. I might be immune to it.”

“Are you?”

The damned finger swirled over the soft, vulnerable skin right before his armpit and Izaya made a solemn promise to himself to snap that finger off of the connecting bone as soon as he got out of this. He forced his earlier smirk into a frown for fear that it might turn into something else. “Only as much as any other human being. It’s not exactly something I’d consider debilitating.”

“Well then, I guess you won’t have a problem enduring this, will you?”

The finger was still circling and it was quickly turning into an annoying itch. Izaya longed to scratch it and that longing unnerved him.

In truth, Izaya couldn’t actually remember whether he was ticklish or not. It made sense that he would be, on a purely physiological level, but he had never considered the implications of it before. The last time he could remember anyone attempting was with Shinra back in middle school, and those times had all been brief and quickly ended before either of them could gain any substantial data on his sensitivity. Since then there had been moments, brief dalliances where kisses had grown too light and left him shivering uneasily. Nothing too intense, though. Nothing that would ever make him worried.

He entertained the idea for a moment, unwillingly. Being trapped like this. Being ticklish. Being tickled, at that, for seemingly hours or days on end as whoever his tormenters were didn’t seem to have an end goal in mind. He had survived torture before, but, if the unease flooding through him at the simple scratching was any indication, he did not want to be stuck like this for too long.

“And just how long do you intend to keep up this act?” He arched a brow, steeling his voice into something more even. “I may not have friends coming for me, but I have too many people relying on me to simply go missing. Of all the people to kidnap, I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong one. It would be better to give it up now and save yourself the suffering that will come your way if the yakuza come looking for me.”

“Relax,” the voice cooed, a soothing gesture that dug under his skin. “We’re not keeping you in here forever. Only a day. Maybe two, if the point isn’t sticking by then. No one’s going to lose sleep over a day of lost contact with their precious little info broker.”

“A day?” Izaya scoffed. “How much damage do you possibly expect to do in that time?”

“I think you’ll find, Mr. Orihara—” the finger descended at last, nail tracing lazily under his arm— “that there is quite a fucking lot that we can do to you within that time.”

Whatever witty quip Izaya might have shot back at that died on his tongue as the itch from before suddenly became very intolerable. He squirmed back on the seat in a subtle attempt to try to raise himself up and away from the source of his irritation, but to no luck. He hadn’t realized quite how tightly he was restrained until this moment. Straps curled snugly around his biceps and thighs, accentuating the ones at his wrists and ankles. A quick wriggle of his hips proved that there was another around his waist as well. He could hardly move half an inch without a great force of will.

His breathing quickened, just slightly.

“What is it exactly that you want?” he asked quickly, closing his eyes behind the blindfold in an attempt to block out the sensation. Maybe he could bargain his way out of this—he had done it before, after all. “An apology? Information? I guarantee you that there’s someone out there you hate more than me. I am not opposed to helping with that, if you simply—"

“Quiet, I’m trying to concentrate.”

Izaya snapped his mouth shut, bristling at the nonchalant command—like he was some ignorant child. He tried again, this time, with a bit more anger seeping into his words.

“If this is all you intend to do, you’re wasting your time. Let me go and maybe we can—mmph!”

What he assumed to be a hand was slapped over his mouth, muffling the rest of his protest. Embarrassment and annoyance coiled in his stomach like a viper and he twisted his head, trying to dislodge her grip. When that failed, he stuck out his tongue, dragging it along her fingers—childish, maybe, but perhaps enough to startle her.

She didn’t even dignify it with a response. He was just considering biting her palm when a second, then a third, then all five fingers were dragging under his arms and he suddenly had a much larger problem.

It tickled. He hadn’t been sure earlier that that’s what it was, but he could say for absolute certain now that this tickled. A lot. Intolerably so. Laughter ballooned in his throat and he choked it back down with a struggle. He couldn’t laugh. Not only because it would be undignified, but because he was angry and frustrated and a million other emotions that were nowhere close to amused, so laughter was out of the question.

It was stupid. He shouldn’t want to laugh right now. He shouldn’t feel light and bubbly and he certainly shouldn’t feel giddy.

“Having a bit of trouble there?” The teasing wasn’t helping either. Everything about this was so damn patronizing and he couldn’t do a thing about it. “Tickles, doesn’t it? I will admit, I wasn’t sure that you were ticklish when I first enacted this plan, but I am happy to be proven wrong. I know this spot is absolutely horrendous for most—do you agree?”

Izaya let out a muffled sound that might have been a curse or a wheeze. His arms trembled, desperately wanting to dart down in protection. As much as he was suffering, he couldn’t help but admire this particular form of torture. For as much time as he spent observing human beings, tickling had never been a phenomenon that he’d paid much mind to. He had never been able to wrap his head around it, that something that made you giggle like a child could be agonizing if enacted correctly.

Now, he was starting to understand. Izaya was good at enduring pain—he had to be, to keep the kind of company he did. This tickling was weirdly difficult to resist, however. Each rush of stimulation sent panic alarms going off on his brain, demanding that he free himself as quickly as possible. He gritted his teeth, forcing short, even breaths in an attempt to jumpstart his body into a state of calm.

“You know, I’m glad that you’re holding out.” The sudden intrusion of her voice almost broke his concentration—almost. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t be disappointed if you broke so soon. My associates argued I should cut right to the chase and overwhelm you with sensation, but I prefer this slow weakening of resistance. It’ll make it all the more satisfying when you finally beg for me to stop, even more so when I refuse.”

Cheap threats. No one is so devout in their goals that they can’t be swayed if you pull the right triggers. There had to be something she desired, more than him, and Izaya was determined to find it out. In the meantime, he just needed to hold out long enough to get her talking. Make her reveal herself all on her own.

Which meant, he would have to give up the tough act just enough to bear through this. Anyone with any kind of sense knew that exerting all your strength through resistance in the beginning only tired you out later on. He had to be ready to be in this for the long haul.

Slowly, he willed his muscles to untense just slightly, a stupid grin flickering over his face as the sensations increased. He allowed the laughter in his throat a brief escape, a few, huffed giggles slipping into her hand.

It’s okay, it just tickles—nothing to get so worked up over.

Then, he bit her hand. She cursed, instinctively pulling it away just long enough for Izaya to get a sentence out. “You said you’re after money, right? I can ma—hah—ake you some. I h-have connections.”

“Are your ribs ticklish, do you think?” Ignoring him—smart on her part, unfortunate on his. The question itself made him tense. He wished more than anything that he knew the answer to it. “It would really be a shame if they were. Can you imagine having to endure that when they’re so exposed? Stretched taut, no shirt, no wiggle room—practically unbearable if you think about it.”

Shut up. He almost hissed it at her, but he bit back the words at the last minute. Thus far, she hadn’t re-covered his mouth yet and he didn’t want to provoke her back into it. Her voice needled under his skin like a parasite.

Instead, he forced his grin into a smirk, trying to ignore her nails settling against his ribs, trying to ignore how his skin had jumped treacherously under her touch. “There must be something. Revenge may seem sweet now, but how sweet will it be when you’re on the other side of it? I may not be able to see your face, but your voice is all I need when I get out of this. Which I will, and when I do, you’ll wish that the only retribution you’ll receive will be a bit of tickling. So just—god, fuhuhuck!”

His negotiations were abruptly cut off as her nails set into action, skittering light and quick against his ribs which were, evidently, fairly fucking ticklish. He cursed, throwing his head back as the laughter started streaming out of him at last. Whatever device they had him strapped into arched his torso, leaving his ribs stretched out and vulnerable. His nerves sparked urgently, and he jerked on his arms once more to no avail.

“Having trouble? I thought you said this wasn’t a ‘valued torture method’.”

Izaya opened his mouth to protest, but she had located a devilish spot behind his ribs that quickly robbed him of speech in favor of a fit of giggles. Giggles. He made a mental note to be embarrassed about this later when he had time to focus on anything but how much this tickled and how much it wasn’t going away.

“Nothing to say?”

“Fuhuhuhuck y-yohou!”

“Oh, quite the mouth. What’s the matter? Finally got under your skin?” There was a soft hum, and the next words were spoken next to Izaya’s ear. He flinched at the warm breath, hating how it sent shivers running down his spine. “I wonder how long it’ll be before you break—before you’re offering up anything and everything for even an ounce of mercy. We’ve been watching you for a while now. Studying your movements. That stubborn streak of yours is quite impressive. I’m going to enjoy breaking it.”

Before he had time to think about the implications of those last few sentences, the tickling subsided all at once, leaving him cackling over nothing for a moment. The hands pulled away as footsteps echoed across the floor. “I will agree though, I haven’t truly made you suffer yet—there’s something missing. You have a nasty habit of running your little mouth off even when it would behoove you to keep it shut. Without it, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now. So, I figured, why not take care of it for you?”

Izaya had just barely finished catching his breath, but his eyes narrowed at her words. He opened his mouth most likely to say something inadvisable in the moment only to have it filled with cloth as a gag was tied around his head. He muffled out a protest, jerking his head around to try to deter her, but it was no use.

“There we go. That’s much better, don’t you agree? Now I can finally have some peace and quiet while I explore the rest of your body. Let’s see… the upper torso appears to be quite sensitive. I wonder…”

Izaya jumped as fingernails began to dance treacherously around his neck, a gentle, slow torture that made him scrunch and let out muffled giggles into his gag. Shudder after shudder coursed down his spine as goosebumps spread down his chest. This was one of the few places that he knew he was ticklish due to unfortunate incidents with past lovers. Not the worst spot and certainly better than when her fingers were under his arms, but far more embarrassing due to the horrendous gasps and squeaks it was forcing out of him. There was something oddly intimate about the area, and he flushed red as she curled nails behind his ears to a flurry of high-pitched giggles.

“I almost wish I could remove the blindfold just to see the expression on your face. I’m sure you’re going positively mad right about now.” A hand stroked his cheek and Izaya jerked away. “Aw, poor baby. It’ll be over soon, don’t worry. Or, well—soon enough.”

The tickling at his neck continued for what felt like one minute too many. He was surprised he didn’t have whiplash from jerking his neck around in wild but ineffective protection. He kept expecting his body to grow used to the sensation as would make sense, but if anything, things seemed to be growing hypersensitive over time. By the time she pulled away, the lightest touch would have been enough to set him off.

He barely had time to feel any relief, however, before his legs were assaulted by a series of quick squeezes starting from his knees and climbing higher until they ended at the crease right before his hips. Izaya yelped indignantly, lurching forward in his bonds. He almost, almost, begged right then and there, and the plea sat ready on his lips as the squeezes began again. Not that it would have mattered much with the gag. But the lack of resistance disquieted him. He had been in much worse scrapes than this before, but the sheer helplessness of this situation was driving him into desperation faster than it would have otherwise.

“Oh, hoh! Now that works! Ticklish legs, informant?” The squeezes had transformed into light scribbles and that was worse, that was so much worse. “You really should have held out a little longer and I might have moved onto something else. But now? I think this would be a nice way to pass the next several hours.”

Izaya groaned, his face tensing in a grin as her touch traveled to his inner thighs. His mind raced with potential solutions, possible savors, even enemies who might be looking to steal him away for some other brand of torture that at the very least wouldn’t allow him to let out so many embarrassing noises. It was hard to think with featherlight touches at his thighs stealing away all his brain power.

Perhaps the worst part of all of this, worse than how helpless he felt or the knowledge that he might be stuck here for the long haul, was that a small, tiny, miniscule part of him was enjoying this. Sure, he would have preferred another person in her position, different context at least, but he had to admit that he couldn’t really remember the last time he had been touched in a non-murderous manner. And as much as this particular brand of touch was driving him crazy, it was soft and gentle and imbued with so much intentionality. She was not content to merely tickle him. She was examining him, taking in his reactions and studying them in order to bring him to the greatest level of torment. He had this woman’s attention, however briefly, entirely on him.

He hated how good that felt.

So, even as he giggled and shrieked and let out all manner of profanity and half-hearted negotiations behind his gag, in the safety of his own mind he made a silent, embarrassed plea for it to go on just a little longer.

Unbeknownst to both Izaya or the woman, however, stood another form—a man. He stood behind a column at the back of the warehouse, hidden in the darkness. Shizuo had been spending a perfectly pleasant evening with Tom getting hammered at some bar downtown when he had noticed Izaya disappearing off into the crowd with some stranger. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and so he had trailed the van once they knocked out Izaya and brought him to this place. He had already made quick work of the guards outside and had planned to do the same to whoever this mysterious assailant was. That was until he saw what they had planned for him.

His eyes lay transfixed on the sight of Izaya’s writhing, flushed form, the sound of his muffled laughter snagging Shizuo’s attention despite himself and making him hesitate. He didn’t owe Izaya anything. Whatever this mess was, Izaya had clearly gotten himself into it. Besides, it was only tickling. Sure, it would be bad if Izaya withstood this for as long as whoever the sadistic woman out there wanted to keep him for. But Shizuo didn’t have to let it go on that long. And there was something satisfying about watching the usually smug man fall to pieces over something so simple.

Another half hour, Shizuo reasoned as a shriek rang out across the room when the woman discovered the terribly sensitive spot on his upper hips. Another half hour, and then he would save him.

Izaya would be fine till then.

#tickle fic #izaya orihara #durarara #durarara!!#shizaya #shizuo heiwajima #fanfiction #tickling

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soggy-platee · 1 year ago

Text

Trade Mistakes Pt. 1/2

Din Djarin x Reader

Summary: Din bottles up his anger after a hunt, and you pay the price.

Maker, he pissed you off sometimes. Stomping in here like you and kid didn’t even exist.

You understood, to some extent. The bounty he had brought it was nothing but trouble, bucking and fighting against Din’s grip the whole time. Just when he shoved the rather ugly-looking blue-skinned creature into the carbon freezer and was about to hit the button, the bounty used his cuffed hands like a club, hitting Din directly in the helmet. To his credit, he didn’t react until the guy was fully frozen, only then cussing up a storm and throwing a gloved hand into the side of the ship. Anger radiated off him as he made quick pacing laps in place and you were grateful the child in your arms was nearly asleep.

It didn’t happen often, but maintaining such a constant stoic exterior outside the ship made him lose control in those rare moments it was just the three of you. Of course, he never laid a hand on you or the kid in the entire you had been traveling with him (Maker, almost a year now) and he even tried to avoid you seeing him like that most of the time, but it still made you angry. Angry that he felt the need to release himself in that way to begin with. You and Din had a...relationship? You still didn’t know what to call it. There simply wasn’t a word for it. Din and the kid were your world every since he hired you to watch the little monster, and you two were his. You wanted to help him, make it so he didn’t feel that way ever.

You were mad at your own helplessness, more than anything.

So, this time you were going to confront him about it. Figure out what you could do, what he needed from you.

You sat the now sleeping kid in his pram, tightly shutting the lid. Din was stalking toward the cockpit, his usual destination when he was in this kind of mood. In a move even you weren’t sure about, you stepped directly into his path, planting your hands on your hips and producing the firmest look you could. He huffed, hands clenching at his sides as your presence abrupptly stopped him. He titled his helmet down, being close enough to display the nearly head-length hight differance between the two of you.

“What?” he nearly grunted. His tone was harsh, but you tried to keep yourself calm and your tone steady. “I just don’t want you to have to do this.”

“Do what?” he replied, trying to sidestep you in an attempt to reach his original destination. A flash of anger ran through at his dismissal of you, and as he passed you, you grabbed his shoulder and pulled. He gave in, swinging to face you as your hand pulled on him, his back now to the ladder. He was tense under your hold, so you dropped your hand. Gesturing vaguely toward the cockpit with your other, you tried not to sound exasperated as you said, “This. All this. Closing yourself off from us after hunts, it’s not good for you, for any of us.”

He straightened his shoulders in front of you, shuffling as if uncomfortable. Finally, he ground out, “It’s for the best.” He tried again to retreat so you once again grabbed him, lower on his arm this time. “No, its not. Dealing with anything like this...its not healty. I...Please-just let me help you. How can I help?”

You tried to force your sincerity into your tone, amplifying it with your wide eyes and honest expression. He stood silent for a moment before raising the hand of the arm your held to grip onto your forearm as well. His fingers were tight against your skin, almost too tight. Your expression shifted, brows knitting together and looking down to see his gloved fingertips digging into your arm.

While you stared at his grip on you, his other hands came up to caress your face. The feeling of rought lether against your cheek made you raise your eyes to his visor. He was tense, almost too tense, as he stood there. What the hell made him act like this?

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious of the closeness, while at the same time, wishing on anything that you had ever known that this touch would never end. The urge to question him, make him aware of the unprecedented closessness between you, sat on your tongue like an avail.

Before you would object, he wrenched his hands from you. It was almost like he had lost himself for a moment, shaking his hands free of you slightly before turning and clambering up the ladder to the cockpit.

As the metal hatch swung closed with a resounding clap, you simply stood there, shell-shocked from the simple touch of your “employer”.

After all- that was all he was to you. Why did you- why should you care about how he felt after a hunt? So what is he was balling up his emotions, it was hardly your problem.

As you slowly recovered, that single thought dominated your mind. He was just some man, some man who had the credits you needed to keep you alive in this messed up universe. It didn’t matter that the sight of his helm sent you into a haze, or that the way he cared for the child made your heart flutter faster than lightspeed. The way he made you feel didn’t- it couldnt- matter to you. You had a job to do, and that was it.

The fading feeling of his hands on your body turned numb as you shook yourself from your space below the cockpit. You tried to block out his stomps of frustration as you stomped off yourself, hurdily checking in on the child you had just layed to bed.

Unsuprsingly, the child was still awake. Staring up at you with large, unblinking eyes, you couldn’t help but feel that he was judging you for your lact of tact with his surrogate father.

“What?” you whispered loudly. “He loves you, you don’t even know what its like to be on his bad side…”

You drifted off, realizing the futility of venting to a creature that was unable to speak for itself. Well, at least it made you feel better somewhat. Regardless, your eyes softened and your tone lightened, once again speaking to the child in your care- “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to think of your dad… He’s just so difficult- such a man’s man, determined to let his stress build up until it kills him”.

Not that you cared of course, as long as you got paid.

Well- that was what you tried to tell yourself at least. In reality, his attitude made you scared- for him. He came back from every hunt beat up, and wound up. Wound up so tight that you knew it would kill him faster than his less-than-safe hunting stategity.

But maker knows you would rather die before brining that up to than Mandolorain. Your were his employee, after it. It wasn’t your place to speak to him about his feeling, let alone your feelings about him.

So you once again stifled those pangs of concern, instead directing that energy into preparing the cabin for the long trip through hyperspace to drop this latest bouty.

After securing the child, you made your counts around the small space on the lower deck, strapping in equipment and ensuring you had the need supplies to make the days-long jump. It wasn’t unlike Din to forget such physical neccesiciies like food and drink for himself, but it was your job to keep the child, and by extension yourself, alive.

Moving along the back wall, you counted in your head the limited number of rashion packs you had left. Your mind drifted toward the next time you would see him, most likely handing him up a lukewarm meal into the cockpit, only dreaming of what he looked like when he finally relaxed and had himself a proper meal.

Before your mind could fall fully into imaganined what his uncovered face looked like, a crash drew your attention.

You jumped, twisting suddenly toward the harsh sound only to see a blur of movement. Your heart jumped a beat as your eyes struggled to focus in the dim light of the cabin.

The breath caught in your throught slowly released as you realized the simple issue. A pile of crates had collapsed, toppling over one another right in front of the carbonite freezer. You sighed, trying to dispel the sudden adrenaline in your system. Glacing back at the pram to confirm the child did not stir, you slowly turned to the pile of boxes.

You told yourself fixing this problem was enough for the night, and began stacking up the mismanaged crates in a pile most likely to stay out of the grumpy Mando’s way. His dismissive demnor once again reared up in your mind as you lifted each crate, making you question the very worth of this gig before you heard a slight hissing noise.

Just as you turned to look at the pram, sure the child had found his way out once more, a sudden smoke filled the air with a lound whistle. Your sight went a dusty white as you threw your arms out, struggling to get your barings in the sudden fog.

Before you could grab anything, you felt a wet thing through itself against you. Its weight pushed you to the ground, your head cracking against the metal floor with a deafening thud. Lights flashed against your closed eyelids, and you felt the thing above you slowly find its bearing, slowly find you. Its-his- wet finger slid up your dazed body to find your throat, slippery digits struggling to gain purchase on your slender neck.

It was all you could do to stay consciousness as pressure began to cut off your air, your blood. Your own fingers slid across those on your neck, desperately trying to pry the grip from your neck. Your awareness was slow, but you knew the sour smell of fresh carbonite anywhere. Din’s bounty was lose, and even as you desperately tried to call for him, you felt no air- no sound- leave your mouth.

Black dots flashed across your eyes as you thought of the child, thought of his father- neither of which could help you now. Heels kicking uselessly against the ground, you mustered one final shout in your own mind, begging for help, begging for anything- before you heard a familiar, childish coo and a thudding of metal boots.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin/you #the mandolarian #mandalorian fanfic #mando x reader #ao3 #star wars fanfiction

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