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sheepwithspecs · 5 months ago

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Echar Agua al Mar: Chapter 1

|| DP Coco (2017) || Rated T ||

Ao3 Link

For Imelda, trying to prevent Héctor from coming back into her life is like throwing water into the sea: pointless. With her family keen to accept the strange musician, and a challenge she can hardly refuse, she soon finds herself caught up in the continuation of a romance decades in the making. [Updates every Saturday]

Author's Note:

A lot of people wanted this one back, so I took the time to sit down and rewrite it properly. I plan on writing a proper ending, but it will be finished as-is (with no added chapters). I don't plan to write anything else for the DP-Coco fandom, so please accept this reworked fic as a celebration of my short, but meaningful time here. As roughly as it ended, I still would not trade those years for the world. I met some of the best people in that fandom, many of which I am still in contact with as friends and mutuals.

I want to take the time to thank each and every reader who has reached out over the years asking about this fic (as well as other DPC fics). The fact that you remember my work fondly means more to me than words can really describe. I wanted to finish this for you, so it's my fervent hope that you enjoy it just as much, if not more, as you enjoyed the original WIP. Please don't stop reaching out, either! In this day and age, it's rare to get reviews on fics anymore. If there's something you enjoyed, no matter how small, I promise that it would make my day to hear it!

The Rivera family was in distress.

Before the last Día de Los Muertos, they had been perfectly content with their lives—if a skeletal soul could indeed be called "living". They had a certain pride in being the best shoemakers in the Land of the Dead, and in death they worked much as they had in life: hard. But now production had slacked off unexpectedly; the twins fulfilled the quota of only one man, Julio made more mistakes in one hour than he had in nearly twenty years, Rosita polished at a tortoise's speed, and even Victoria made simple errors, growing frustrated as she was forced to thread and rethread her needle.

If Mamá Imelda saw them, she might have gloated that her ban on music was well and just. It was music—or the lack of it—that kept the family working at a plodding pace. They'd had a taste of the tunes, a bite of the proverbial apple, and now they were tempted for more. They heard rhythm in the steady ringing of the twins' hammers, in the swish-swish of Victoria's needle, in the scrubbing of Rosita's polishing brush. The Rivera harmony, so easy to recognize, to hum along to… if they weren't in the habit of suppressing those same urges.

But the family matriarch was nowhere to be found downstairs, and could not scold their behavior from the living quarters on the second floor. It was early afternoon, and so Imelda was in her bedroom, hiding… though no one would have dared suggest such a thing within earshot.

"Mamá Imelda can't blame us now," Julio murmured. "Not when she herself sang at the Sunrise Spectacular. In front of everyone, too." It was a conversation they'd repeated over and over again for three months.

"It's true," Oscar added. "She sang again, and so beautifully! But if she heard us…." He was irritated, more with himself than with his older sister. He hated working as though he were a greenhorn cobbler. If he could only finish the day's quota, he could spend the rest of the afternoon tinkering on inventions with his twin. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't stop his foot from tapping along in time with his hammer.

"Then let her hear us," Victoria huffed, squinting over the rims of her spectacles. The needle was mere inches from her eye sockets, shaking slightly as she aimed. "Maybe that will be what makes her come downstairs for a change."

"She won't." Felipe looked over his shoulder, shaking his skull at his great-niece. "Not so early in the afternoon. Not before…" he trailed off, gazing pointedly at the clock just above her elegant bun.

"And so? Why not sing?" Victoria lifted her eyes from her work, pushing the spectacles up her skull with one dainty finger. "If there's no danger of her coming down." She sighed as the twins shook their heads in unison. "Oh, if my mamá could see us now. She'd have a good laugh at us all."

"Ah, he's coming!" Rosita announced suddenly, rising from her chair at the window. She let the unfinished shoe in her hand fall to the table, the brush tossed aside as she raced for the door. Everyone paused in their work, following Felipe's eyes towards the clock.

"Right on schedule," Julio said with a smile. "By the way, what will today's excuse be? The corner store?"

"No, we used that one yesterday."

"A walk?"

"We used that one two days ago." They stared at one another with growing concern, each racking their brain for some useful idea. Finally Rosita shook her head, shrugging helplessly at Julio. He blew out a low breath, hands stuck deep into his pockets.

"You say something," Oscar muttered, elbowing his brother in the ribs.

"Why me?" Felipe gulped. "You know I can't think under pressure!"

"Neither can I!"

"I'll say something." Victoria stood as well, brushing bits of thread from her apron. The twins sighed in relief, dropping their hammers simultaneously to the workbench as everyone in the room turned towards the open door in anticipation of their daily visitor. A moment later, there was a self-conscious knock as a man stepped just past the threshold. He was dressed in ragged clothing—espantapájaros, Victoria often muttered under her breath—with his sleeve barely hanging by a thread and shoeless as the day he was born. His gold tooth glinted in the afternoon sunlight as he grinned sheepishly, his hat clutched in nervous hands.

"Hello, Héctor," the Riveras chanted in unison, the start of their new daily routine.

"Hello, everyone." The hat brim began its revolution as Héctor's anxious fingers began to twist. "I've come to… I mean: is Imelda at home today?" The twins shared a sympathetic wince. Rosita's fingers clacked against her cheekbones as she raised her hands to her face. Victoria looked around the room, adjusted her glasses, and scowled.

"This has gone on long enough!" she declared, ignoring the shocked gasps from the rest of the family. "Of course she's here! She's been here every day for as long as you've been coming."

"Ahaha… I, uh… I thought that might be the case." Héctor sighed, looking down at his bare feet. "There's only so many times someone might go to the markets, after all." He looked so pitiable, dashed hopes and guilt and shame, standing in their doorway like a beggar searching for alms. Rosita clucked and guided him to her empty chair, inviting him in properly now that Victoria had broken the routine.

Héctor had given them all of a month before showing up out of the blue, hoping to speak with his wife. Of course, they had all been under strict orders after day one to not let him inside. If he asked, they were supposed to offer some excuse as to why Imelda was not downstairs with the rest of the family. Every afternoon she avoided the workshop like the plague, waiting until he had come and gone before venturing downstairs to complete her portion of the day's work.

This left the rest of the family with no choice but to scramble and find sixty days' worth of excuses to feed him, along with their best what-can-be-done expressions. They would have much rather invited him in, treated him as one of their own, and marched him up to Imelda's room without a word of protest. But the family matriarch's orders overruled any personal attachment to Héctor. At least, it had… until today.

"So." Héctor placed his hat on the table, linking his fingers politely in his lap. "She asked you to cover for her."

"She did," Victoria answered for them, "but this is getting out of hand."

"Even though you knew we were lying, and that Imelda didn't want to see you… you still came every day?" Oscar asked curiously, running a finger over his thin mustache. Héctor managed a one-sided shrug, smiling sadly. "That's pretty stubborn of you."

"Imelda's just as stubborn as you, though," Felipe pointed out, leaning against the workbench. "She won't come downstairs. Not even if you come every day for the next century."

"Victoria?" Julio waved his hand in his daughter's face, a frown twisting his mustache. "Go upstairs and ask Mamá Imelda to come down. For your Papá Héctor's sake."

"No! No, don't bother her. If she doesn't want to see me, then…." Héctor stood quickly, scratching at his thin goatee before offering them a much happier smile. "Tell me, how much would I have to pay for a pair of genuine Rivera boots?"

"What?!" Rosita shook her head in dismay. "What on earth are you talking about? You're family, of course they'd be free—" Oscar and Felipe immediately bent, each studying one of his feet.

"Come now, I'm willing to pay something—"

"No, Héctor." Julio crossed his arms. "Rosita's right. Family doesn't pay for shoes. But, eh…." He glanced warily at Victoria. "What do you think Mamá Imelda will have to say?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. You can leave her to me-e-e—!" Héctor jerked his foot away from Oscar, the appendage flopping loosely as he hopped off-balance. "Hey, watch it! That tickles!"

"But—"

"Listen: Imelda is your mamá. Of course you will do as she says, and don't ask questions. That's the way it should be. But she's my Imelda." His eyes twinkled. "I know how to deal with her. You can leave that to me. I just thought that since I have no plans to stop visiting my family, I might as well have a proper excuse of my own." He leaned in, motioning for them to join him. They huddled around him, close enough that their heads were nearly touching.

"As far as you're concerned," he whispered, "I've given up on seeing Imelda. I've accepted that she doesn't want to see me. And if you do see us together, just… y'know." He smiled again, but this time the expression was far more playful. "She's my wife, isn't she? Act natural."

"Natural?" Oscar parroted, only to get thumped on the skull. "Oh, right! Natural!" They all chuckled, save for Victoria's modest headshake. Héctor nodded and they broke apart.

"I'm sure boots take quite a while to make, yes?" He asked in a much louder tone, directing his voice towards the stairs. "Especially custom boots for your Papá Héctor!"

"You're right!" Julio agreed just as loudly, winking at Rosita. "Custom boots take a very long time!"

"Yes! Weeks!" Rosita giggled.

"Then I'll leave you all," Héctor nearly shouted, taking his hat and waving it with a flourish, "to your work!" As he jammed the hat on his head, there was a soft sound… almost like the rustling of skirts at the head of a grand staircase.

"Come back tomorrow for a proper sizing," Victoria advised, one eye on the stairs. "That way, we won't have to second-guess ourselves once we begin."

"Understood!" He winked once more before turning, offering a little wave over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow, everyone."

"Adiós, Héctor!" The Riveras waved him out the door, looking at one another before stifling their laughter. If Héctor was volunteering to take the brunt of Imelda's anger, they were more than willing to sneak around and help them any way they could. After all, her mighty arm was often the only thing that kept them in line, and something about Héctor's goofy charm made him hard to resist. Maybe that was what she had meant, blaming him for Miguel's naughtiness on Día de Los Muertos: his mischief was catching.

"It's all right, Mamá!" Julio called at the foot of the stairs. "He's gone now." There wasn't a full thirty seconds of silence before Imelda was among them, eyeing them all suspiciously with her usual motherly intuition.

"It took longer than normal to make him leave this time…." She trailed off expectantly, waiting for someone to explain. Without batting an eye, Victoria took over.

"We ran out of excuses and had to think of something else." It was a lie by omission, but it rang enough of the truth that she felt confident staring directly into her grandmother's eyes. "He stayed because he wanted to order some boots."

"Boots?" Imelda repeated, her mouth pursing in distaste. "What sort of boots?"

"Custom boots," Rosita explained. "He's tired of walking around in his bare feet."

"And you accepted him?" For the first time, Imelda seemed unhappy about a potential sale. "Why? Now he has an excuse to come inside and—anyway, you should have turned him away," she fussed, running both hands over her immaculate hairstyle and patting it into place nervously.

"It's our fault," Oscar spoke up, hands clasped in false penitence. "Felipe and I couldn't turn him down."

"We haven't made a custom order of boots in so long. We were excited, Imelda."

"We didn't think, and he is—"

"—like a brother to us, after all."

"It's not just anyone," Rosita pointed out gently. "It's Papá Héctor. We can't refuse him."

"Papá Héctor?" Imelda groaned. "Since when is he— Never mind." She crossed her arms, staring out the open door. "I can't even blame you for it. A Rivera has never been able to turn away someone in need of shoes. Even if it's him. And it's only for a few more days."

"Maybe a week," Julio corrected her. "Or more. We have a lot of orders…."

"Ay… heaven help me."

Héctor sat at the edge of Shantytown, kicking his feet off the ledge as he thought. People passed by, shouting greetings to him from the docks, but he was far too lost in his own mind to pay much attention. As was the case lately, his thoughts were focused on one goal: Imelda.

Admittedly he was out of practice, and quite rusty when it came to the art of courtship. In the olden days, back when they were alive, it had been more a scheme of getting her to notice him at all. He had even rejected the help of his best friend, afraid that Ernesto might catch her eye before he could ever hope to. That was good: he hadn't needed him then, and certainly didn't need him now.

Most of his ideas for getting back into her good graces were the same as his former exploits: serenading by moonlight, offering her gifts, winning her over with his irresistible charm… he no longer had the dimples she so admired, by he was still quite handsome, if he said so himself.

The real question was: would she ever indulge him?

Probably not at first. He frowned, staring up at the city lights dancing above him. He'd given her a full month, slipping away after the Sunrise Spectacular and biding his time. Imelda could hold a nasty grudge—he had firsthand knowledge of that. Years of bitterness would not disappear overnight, just because they'd had one song together, one small adventure with their living progeny. Before Miguel had come, he'd given up hope of reaching her at all.

But.

That's for murdering the love of my life!

The thwap of the huarache against bone rang over and over in his head: a sound of hope. He was the love of her life! Even all these months later, he still couldn't quite believe it.

I still have a chance. I'm the love of her life.

It was that mentality that had him coming to the Rivera household day after day, standing awkwardly in the doorway and asking to see her. He could tell that the family was willing, even if the woman was not. There was pity in their expressions as they lied to his face, telling him that he'd just missed her, that she'd gone for a walk, or to get more thread, or to deliver a rush order of shoes.

Imelda was a stubborn woman, that was for sure. But he was a stubborn man. Year after year he'd gone to that dumb bridge, knowing full well that he would not be able to cross. Compared to that, romancing his own estranged wife would be a piece of cake! He planned it out in his head, days of shoemaking and nights of wooing. She'd be begging him to stay within the month. Maybe. Hopefully.

It was a foolproof plan… so long as she didn't call for Pepita.

#fanfiction #my writing #dp coco #coco #disney pixar coco #imelda x héctor #imector #pixar coco

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bleedingectoplasm · 2 years ago

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A Spark (Real or Imagined)

This was inspired by the prompts for DP Side Hoes Week Day 1, Tucker and Power Up! Of course, I am posting it on Day 3, but better late than never, I suppose? I hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3.

Tucker stands frozen outside of Danny’s bedroom door. He wants to knock, he really does, but for some reason, he can’t get his limbs to cooperate. Some sort of disconnect between his brain and his body is stopping the signals from his synapses from reaching the nerves in his arm.

Maybe it’s some sort of self-preservation instinct. Maybe his body knows that his heart will skip a beat the second he looks into his best friend’s eyes. Maybe his muscles know the best way to maintain homeostasis is to stay far away from Daniel James Fenton and his soft hair and sharp cheekbones and paint splatter freckles.

Ever since Danny and Sam broke up, things have been…different. Well, not between Danny and Sam. Their breakup was amicable, prompted mostly by Sam’s realization that her strong desire to be close to Valerie at all times was not, in fact, entirely platonic and she is, in fact, a lesbian. After the breakup, Danny was…completely fine. Shockingly so. While Tucker never doubted that Danny would fully support Sam’s moment of self-discovery, he expected for there to be some hurt in the fallout. It seemed almost unavoidable. But that hurt never came.

When they talked about it, Danny had just shrugged and said, “we both wanted different things.” He didn’t volunteer any additional information, as if that statement was enough of an explanation in and of itself. And then, Danny had given him that look, the one he’s been wearing more and more lately when he catches Tucker’s gaze. The corners of Danny’s eyes get all soft and his lips quirk up into a fond smile, almost like he’s looking for something and liking what he finds. It’s an expression that makes Tucker’s breath catch in his throat, equal parts intoxicating and unreadable and overwhelming.

The shift in their dynamic hasn’t been because of Danny and Sam. In fact, Tucker is pretty sure that if Danny and Sam had their way, the three of them would still be hanging out every day like nothing has changed at all. No, the difference is entirely within Tucker.

Something stirs in the pit of Tucker’s stomach whenever he and Danny are together. It’s a feeling he is intimately familiar with, a want that has burned inside of him for as long as he can remember. The fluttering of infatuation was much easier to control when Danny was dating someone else. But now that Danny is single again, now that the smallest, dumbest part of Tucker is hopeful that there might be a chance for his friendship with Danny to become something more, he can’t seem to get his butterflies to fly in formation.

Tucker hates it. He hates feeling like a little kid with a schoolyard crush, hates that he can hear his pulse in his ears every time Danny laughs, hates the way that ecstasy tips into nausea whenever Danny’s hand brushes his own at lunch. The butterflies are only manageable when Danny isn’t around, so Tucker has been valiantly trying to avoid him for the past few weeks. He’s made up homework assignments and family commitments and pulsing migraines. Danny knows it’s bullshit, Tucker can tell. He can see it in the little furrow of Danny’s brow and the tiny tilt of his head and slight purse of his lips. However, instead of calling Tucker out, Danny’s skepticism will always melt into that stupid fucking look, and he’ll accept the excuse at face value.

Tucker has been completing his duties to Team Phantom remotely, but his latest project requires face to face interaction with Danny. He’s been working on some modular enhancements to Danny’s suit, and there needs to be a fitting before final adjustments. Tucker tried to just get Danny to send over his measurements, but Danny couldn’t quite figure out how to use the measuring tape properly, for whatever reason.

Mechanical engineering is a bit outside of Tucker’s comfort zone. He’s always been more of a software guy, but Danny’s rubber hazmat suit isn’t doing enough to protect him anymore. Danny’s armor needs an upgrade, and as Danny’s guy in a chair, that responsibility falls squarely on Tucker’s shoulders. So, with little to no experience in practical construction, Tucker has been tasked with crafting something that will protect his best friend and guy he’s maybe sorta kinda in love with from facing mortal injury.

No pressure at all.

It should be a simple visit, really. He just needs to take some measurements, have Danny try a few pieces on, and then he can leave. In and out. Easy.

After one more heavy sigh, his brain and his body finally get on the same page, and he forces himself to knock.

“Come in,” Danny calls, voice muffled through the door.

Slowly, cautiously, Tucker opens the door and steps into the room. Danny is splayed out on his bed, scrolling through his phone. His shirt has ridden up a bit, and Tucker can see a small sliver of skin right above the cut of his hip bone. All the air empties from Tucker’s lungs, and he sharply turns away, unable to meet Danny’s eyes.

Danny throws Tucker a lazy grin as he hauls himself into a sitting position, his movements relaxed and self-assured. Tucker is grateful when Danny’s shirt drops to fully cover his stomach and he can breathe somewhat normally again.

“Hey,” Tucker says, hating himself when his voice waivers. “Hey, dude.” He tries again.

“Hiya, Tuck,” Danny smiles back at him. He stands and stretches his arms above his head, exposing that strip of skin once more. Tucker can feel himself short circuiting. The butterflies have become wasps and are pounding at the edges of his ribcage. He’s pretty sure that all the blood in his body has rushed up to his cheeks to paint him bright red.

This visit may be trickier than he initially thought.

“So, what’s the plan?” Danny asks.

“Uh,” Tucker says eloquently. “Um, yeah. Plan. Right. I’m just going to try these pieces on you and see what adjustments need to be made.”

Danny nods, then asks, “Do I need to change my clothes? Or does this work fine for the whole fitting thing?”

Danny is wearing jeans and an oversized NASA hoodie. The hoodie has a small blotchy stain on one of the sleeves, and Tucker can’t quite tell if it’s remnants of ketchup or blood. The stitching of the front pocket is ripping, like Danny has shoved his hands inside of it a bit too hard a few too many times. The jeans are fraying at the edges, and Tucker is pretty sure that they’re the same pair of pants that Danny has been wearing for the last four school days.

He looks beautiful.

“Are you wearing a shirt under the hoodie?” Tucker manages to ask around the lump in his throat.

Danny cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I just mean for fitting purposes,” he rushes to explain. “The hoodie looks like it might be a little thick so, you know-“

“Yeah, I gotcha,” Danny interrupts, stopping Tucker from embarrassing himself further. “I can take it off, one sec.”

Danny crosses his arms over himself, grabbing the sweatshirt from the bottom hem and lifting it over his head. Mercifully, his t-shirt remains in place, and Tucker is spared from seeing any flash of Danny’s torso.

Danny tosses the hoodie onto the bed before ruffling his unruly hair back into place.

“All good?”

Tucker swallows. Hard. “Great,” he chokes out.

The air between them is supercharged with a tension that Tucker can’t quite place. He steps closer to Danny, removing the armor prototypes from his duffel bag and laying them onto the bed.

Piece by piece, Tucker places the suit upgrades on his friend’s body, snapping and buckling the flexible plating into place. He tightens the breastplate around Danny’s chest, careful to touch only the armor itself, refusing to indulge in fantasies of resting his hand on the small of Danny’s back. As he settles the shoulder piece across Danny’s collarbone, he can feel Danny’s icy breath dance across his cheek. It’s tantalizing, and it takes all of Tucker’s willpower to hold himself back.

His fingertips just barely brush against Danny as he places the final piece of the armor around Danny’s forearm. There’s a spark that skitters across the surface of Tucker’s skin where they made contact, and for a moment he thinks it’s just in his head, the same sort of electricity he always feels whenever he gets too close to Danny. But as he catches the incremental shift in Danny’s expression as he winces, he realizes the spark was very real.

Tucker jerks his hand away from Danny, tripping over himself to apologize. “I’m sorry, this is new tech and all, but it shouldn’t have—”

His voice seizes as Danny catches Tucker’s hand in his own and presses Tucker’s palm firmly against his arm, refusing to break eye contact. The atmosphere in the room shifts and gravity collapses into them. Tucker can’t move away, he doesn’t want to. He may never move from this spot ever again. He keeps waiting for Danny to say something, but Danny offers no explanation. The only sound in the room is the twin rattling of their breathing. Danny’s bedroom has become a cathedral, and speaking would disturb the holiness of the atmosphere.

The moment stretches into an eternity. Tucker can feel a flush licking over his skin like fire. He is afraid he may burn up, completely consumed by the flames of his own desire. In a last attempt at self-preservation, Tucker finally finds his voice.

“What are you doing?” The question resonates in the room with a rasp.

There it is again. The look. Tucker’s nerve endings are lit anew.

“Pressure is good for pain,” Danny explains. The twinkle in his eye dares Tucker to disagree.

Tucker’s head is pounding. The butterflies have migrated from his stomach to his skull. His entire body is an inferno. The metaphors are getting all mixed up and Tucker can hardly move. Breathe. Think.

Danny edges forward by a nanometer, and his nose is practically brushing against Tucker’s cheek. He doesn’t know when Danny got so close. Tucker turns his head on instinct, and he can feel Danny’s breath skitter across his lips. An electric sensation zings down Tucker’s spine. His mouth parts ever so slightly, and the movement causes Danny’s eyes to dart down to Tucker’s lips. He can see Danny swallow, hear his shuddering breath, feel his uneven pulse where his fingers hook around Danny’s inner elbow.

Danny moves impossibly closer. Tucker is frozen, either in fear or anticipation. He’s not quite sure. For the briefest moment, Tucker thinks that Danny’s lips will meet his own. He braces himself for the brush of Danny’s chapped lips. He doesn’t know what he wants. He wants this. He wants everything. He wants nothing at all.

Suddenly, Danny pulls away, opening a vacuum between them. Tucker gasps, feeling as if he has been plunged into an ice bath. Danny seems completely nonchalant.

“This looks great, Tuck,” Danny flexes a bit, turning his arm to get a better look at his new gear. “Thanks for the power up.”

Tucker is still struggling to catch his breath. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Anytime.”

“And Tucker?” Danny peers over at him, a patient smile painted across his freckled face.

Tucker absentmindedly rubs his thumb across his lips, the ghostly memory of Danny’s breath still buzzing beneath his skin. “Yeah?”

“Let me know when you’re ready, okay?”

Tucker has never been more confused in his entire life. “When I’m ready?”

He forces himself to meet Danny’s gaze, and only to be met once more with the look.

God fucking damn it.

“Yeah. Just let me know.” Danny says softly, lovingly. “I’ll be here.”

#savant par #danny phantom #danny fenton #tucker foley #danny fenton x tucker foley #danny fenton/tucker foley #tucker foley x danny fenton #tucker foley/danny fenton #dp side hoes week 2023 #i am on my romance novel bullshit!!!#ecto writes #as i am ought to do #also can you tell i like physical descriptors? i am so very subtle about it <3

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mossy-covered-bones · 2 years ago

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Hi, @eldest-of-katts ! I got you for the dp holiday truce--I decided to write something for the ghost hunger au prompt. I hope you like it ^ ^

ao3 link

Sample VIals

He couldn’t have described the taste if asked—it was like liquid energy on his tongue, tangy and invigorating and downright heavenly. One taste and all the worry, the fatigue, the hunger of the past few weeks just washed away.��

Danny wiped away the ectoplasm smeared around his mouth, licking the residue off his gloved fingers. He glanced to the mouth of the alley, out at the empty street.

It was quiet, and still, and the streetlights didn’t reach far enough to touch him.

He could remember going out for… some reason that had long since been buried in a blurry mess of tired and hungry and barely aware. Idly, he ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to stir up the memory.

The taste of ectoplasm danced across his tongue again before dissolving, and Danny paused.

The ground in front of him was splattered with green—it practically coated the front of his jumpsuit, was still clinging to parts of his gloves. He could feel it in his mouth, on his gums and sticking to his canines.

It wasn’t his—he was almost certain he’d’ve remembered a fight—so he must’ve…

He pushed himself to his feet, using the wall to steady himself. He tried not to look at the ectoplasm splattered across the alley, tried to ignore the urge to scrape every last drop off the pavement.

Danny could vaguely recall his ghost sense going off, slipping out of Fentonworks to try and track down whichever ghost it had been, but everything after that was blank. He hoped it had been a smaller ghost, an animal of some sort, and not…

He felt like he was going to be sick.

Danny hated how much better he felt afterwards. Time stopped blurring together, his thoughts made sense again. No more dozing off in class despite having slept eleven hours the night before, no more feeling hungry in a way food couldn’t satisfy.

It kind of scared him.

He couldn’t help but dwell on it through class, think of green-splattered pavement when he should be paying attention. How could he not, when he could have torn apart a person?

It didn’t take long after class started for his ghost sense to go off, practically shoving Danny out of his seat. He shot Sam and Tucker a look and raised his hand, about to ask to be excused, before he paused.

The last time he’d slipped out after a ghost, he’d blacked out and ended up in that alley. Could he really trust himself this time?

But it wasn’t the middle of the night, and he wasn’t out of his mind from hunger and fatigue. Surely he could control himself.

Surely.

Danny put his hand up, and asked to go to the bathroom. Mr. Lancer dismissed him without much protest, and he grabbed his backpack and left before either of them could change their minds.

He slipped into the bathroom nearest Mr. Lancer’s room, checking to make sure the stalls were empty before transforming. He grabbed the thermos, then shoved the rest of his things through the tiles of the suspended ceiling.

Danny was practically drooling at this point. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, with a ghost hunt dangled in front of him instead of the ringing of bells.

Pulling invisibility over him like a blanket, Danny stepped through the wall, letting instinct tug him in the right direction.

It wasn’t too hard to convince Sam and Tucker that he was better, that they could hang out and chase ghosts and he’d be fine. It wasn’t a lie, either—Danny still felt fine, even days after… eating. And maybe he threw himself back into normalcy a little too fast, if he was starting to get dizzy sometimes, but he was fine!

Well enough that he could catch up on the chores his parents had been bothering him about, even if he didn’t feel like doing them.

He threw on a jacket—stars knew why his parents bothered using the fridge for samples when the basement was already so cold—and headed downstairs to clean up the lab.

His parents had left everything a mess with their most recent work, so he resolved himself to a late night to finish his homework, yawned, and got started.

Gathering used glassware to be washed, wiping up spilled samples, putting away the blueprints shoved to the sides of the worktables.

Danny set the to-wash box by the stairs and turned to get back to work.

His eyes caught on the portal, and he froze. Staring at the swirling vortex of ectoplasm, the phantom taste of it dancing across his tongue.

Danny looked away, wiping his hand on his hoodie where he’d been chewing on his nails. He was fine, he wasn’t going to do anything like that again. He didn’t need to—it had been a week, and he was doing just fantastic. Perfectly fine.

He grabbed the mop, stubbornly avoiding looking anywhere near the portal, and got back to his chores.

Another week came and went, and Danny didn’t miss the worried looks Jazz kept sending him. Sure, he was a little irritable. Sure, he was starting to get bags under his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it, because there was nothing to talk about. He was fine.

He dropped his backpack on the couch and went to look for something to eat. He’d barely eaten anything at lunch—thanks a lot, Box Ghost—so he was absolutely starving.

Danny opened the fridge, nudging some of his parents’ samples aside to look at what they had. It was pretty underwhelming, to be honest.

His eyes trailed back to the ectoplasm samples, idly chewing on his lip. He was hungry, but not hungry enough for that.

Danny let the fridge door swing shut. There was probably something in the cupboards he could eat.

The Chinese takeout they had for dinner was good, but Danny couldn’t help but think of the vials left in the fridge. Stomach twisting in hunger, barely managing to keep from biting off his nails as his resolve crumbled.

He waited until everyone else had gone to bed before creeping back downstairs to stare at the samples.

Surely it would be fine, since he wasn’t hurting anyone to get it? It would help him, would chase away the clawing in his stomach and the dryness in his mouth. It’s not like his parents would notice; they siphoned most of their samples off of the portal, and that gave off enough latent ectoplasm that they couldn’t really collect it all. Plus, his dad was no stranger to accidental spills, so they would probably chalk up any missing stores to his clumsiness.

Slowly, like someone would run into the kitchen demanding to know what he was doing, Danny pulled out one of the vials. He twisted off the cap, looking down at the glowing green liquid.

He swirled it around in the vial, licking his lips. He wanted so badly to chug the whole thing, but only took a sip, choking at the taste.

If the ectoplasm from last time had tasted anything like oranges, then this would’ve been the equivalent of straight lemon juice. Harsh and bitter, and more like drinking static than the tangy liquid energy he remembered from last time.

He set the vial down a little too fast, glassware clanking against the counter, and held a hand over his mouth. Okay, maybe that hadn’t been the best idea. He felt a little better, the edge of his craving dulled, but he wanted more. Wanted the sweeter, smoother ectoplasm he’d had before.

But that wasn’t an option, Danny had to remind himself. He couldn’t bring himself to kill another ghost, so it was what his parents had or starving.

It was like taking medicine. Bitter and awful, but the sooner he got it done the sooner he could wash away the taste with something else.

Danny knocked back the rest of the vial, trying not to gag at the taste.

It was better than starving.

#danny phantom #2022 holiday truce #its not too gore heavy but i did try and lean into the moral qualms a fair bit #sev writes

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heretichromia · 11 months ago

Text

I'm pretty happy with where the Star Rail metagame has landed, all things considered. Ruan Mei has changed the landscape just enough to be interesting and competitive, and I'm happy with where she's landed.

It's...still rather clear that the two best units in the game are DHIL and Jingliu, and the new units haven't exactly done much to unseat those tyrants. Still, I honestly don't hate where we're sitting. At least, MoC stats-wise, there's a lot of team comps that have proven themselves pretty competitive with those teams under specific circumstances.

Ruan Mei has given a massive boost to Kafka comps, to the point where I wouldn't be overly surprised if Black Swan comes out of the gate swinging for the top spots. Topaz is the other major beneficiary of Ruan Mei's nonsense, as expected, and her performance hasn't been half-bad either.

Topaz is clearly the most flexible DPS unit in the game, and should probably at least be an immediate thought the moment you see the color red. All of her comps have performed pretty admirably since Ruan Mei's release, and while there isn't a single one of them that's horrendously strong by itself (yet), she's more than proven her worth. I personally just think she's fun, too.

Both Kafka and Topaz have been surprisingly flexible, and...even more surprisingly, they work pretty well with each other. Like, really well, according to the (very limited sample size) data that we have. Like, "if we trust these stats at all, they're each other's best partners" well. Now, I don't know if I do. Kafka hypercarry has also put up continually good stats, and my personal experience with it has been...unimpressive. Maybe there's a broken setup I'm not privy to, or something—but it's something I'll be investigating more now that Ruan Mei is out. A third viable Fire/Lightning team is a funny thing to have in the game.

Every support unit (except for arguably Asta) is BIS or near BIS in some relatively strong comp, and the strongest team currently per stats, Jingliu hypercarry, is very flexible and can be built with a good number of units while still performing admirably. Choosing teams for MoC feels like it's an actual decision again, since there are legitimate options now.

Anyone who was huffing copium that Ruan Mei would make Jingliu Blade a top-tier team is undoubtedly a little disappointed with where she landed, but I'm pretty damn pleased.

Physical and Wind feel like they're the elements in the toughest spots right now. Clara and Argenti are units who aren't unconditionally strong in every circumstance, and have the same weakness in single-target fights. Blade, meanwhile, is just okay. Topaz revitalized Fire, and over time it's gone from feeling like Fire-weak enemies had one fewer weakness to something that legitimately matters—so I'm hoping the same happens to Wind and Physical, and ideally that the something isn't just "if you see Green, bring this exact lineup of four units that includes Black Swan."

#AK posting will continue. I just wanted to comment a lil on Star Rail's current state of affairs.#honkai star rail #star rail

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treadmilltreats · 11 days ago

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Does My Happiness Make You Sick?

Yes, I realized that some people might get sick of my happiness. They might think "Why the hell is she always happy and smiling? Life sucks, no one should be that happy" So many people say I hate my job, I have no one in my life, or my relationship sucks. My kids are not doing the right thing, I have to take care of my parents, and my bills are overdue, so what the hell are you so happy about!!"

Do you think I don't have bills? A job that gets stressful? Kids that make me want to pull my hair out? A relationship, oh please don't even let me go there, since that's nonexistent. Even the world that is falling apart in front of our eyes. But I don't choose to look at all of the negatives in my life, I choose to be grateful. I choose not to worry about what I can't change.

I am happy because I know who I am. I love myself even with all of the small meaningless things in life, I realized that they are just that, small and meaningless. That's all they are. I will never again let any of that affect my life or happiness.

I don't take one day, or even one second for granted. It is a gift to me and I know that I want to be present in every moment. I am so very happy to be enjoying each beautiful day! There is a song called It's Good to Be Alive, that is how I feel each and every day.

I don't understand how everyone doesn't feel this way. God woke you up, you are healthy, you have a job, you drove there today, and you have food, gas, and friends. Doesn't that alone make you want to smile? And even if you don't have all of that, trust and believe you probably have more than others.

We take everything way too seriously in this life. We are so worried about what others will think, our status, what we have, the likes we get, or how much money we make. We are killing ourselves trying to keep up with all the fake people out there posting about their perfect lives.

What you don't see is that millionaire that has no true friends, that they are lonely and cry at night. That woman in church in the fancy dress and purse can't sleep at night because the bills are past due and she can't pay them because she is trying to front to the world. That person with the fancy car at work parks it 3 blocks away because the car company is trying to repossess it. No, you only see what they show to the world. I know I no longer need "things" to make me "happy"

I get true peace and joy just from being alive!

Just from being one with God and the universe, just from spending time with my loved ones or by myself. There is an inner happiness that I can't keep hidden, it pours over and out of me.

Yes, this is why I sing at the gym at 5:30 in the morning or I dance in the street. This is the reason that I have a smile on my face all day or a kind word for someone. I am happy and I want to share it with the world.

So, today my friends, remember that I have to tell you that I'm sorry in advance. I am going to make you sick, probably each and every time you see me or read my blog, and sorry…I am not sorry!

I am hoping that I may rub off on some of you and that you may be happy and grateful just for being alive today. People, please remember that life is too short, just be happy!

"Be the change you want to see"

@TreadmillTreatsCheck out my daily blogs @ https://treadmilltreats.blogspot.com/?m=1

Www.treadmilltreats.com

**Now released my latest book**

The Blessing in Disguise.... revealed

https://www.amazon.com/Blessing-Disguise-Revealed-story-faith/dp/1074340493/ref=sr_1_19?keywords=the+blessing+in+disguise&qid=1561392004&s=books&sr=1-19

***Now available***

My 1st book The blessing in Disguise

Selling on my website:

Http://www.treadmilltreats.com

And on Amazon.com

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#treadmilltreats

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#NewYorktimesbestseller

#Oprah

#TylerPerry

#self help #positive #self improvement #mental health #faith #god

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iznsfw · 3 years ago

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Damn, nowadays almost every new writer comes with an amazing first fic. Nice work there! Keep it up..

Anyway, i don't wanna rush you but would you write for other members in the future, maybe chaewon? rough, dp or whatever, the prompt is up to you. Just make it dirty.. 😶

Crybaby

IZ*ONE's Kim Chaewon x Male Reader Angst & Smut

Categories: toxic relationship, mentioned dacryphilia, rough hate sex, dub-con, rushed editing

Hello, anon! I'm glad you liked my first work! I hope you like this too :) Fun fact: This was meant to be an Eunbi piece, but I figured this could go well with Chaewon too.

It has been several days of giving Chaewon the cold shoulder. Several long, dark days, that pass by like turtles. A second feels like a minute, and a minute feels like an hour. An hour for is a whole day.

At least, for Chaewon it is.

You know it hurts her. And you have to admit to yourself that maybe that's why you enjoy doing it so much.

What kind of partner are you?

It's difficult to accept that maybe seeing her eyes well up in tears and her lips stretch into a quivering pout are what drive you to hurt her. Maybe you enjoy seeing her eyes get red and sore. Maybe you like her getting so upset she begins to sob like a child denied a toy and run to Minju for comfort.

It just brings a forbidden swell of pride in your heart (was it pride? Or sadness? You had no idea either) to watch her weakly stutter back a pathetic insult then her pale cheeks get red with embarrassment, and dumbed down into a mess of tears and whimpers on the carpeted floor.

You shake your head, placing both hands on the sides of it. Why are you like this? you ask yourself. She's your girlfriend! Why would you want to see such a pretty and sweet girl cry because of you? Were you some kind of psycho or something?

You think of how sweet she is. Chaewon used to be a cold and reserved girl who never attempted to smile, but because of you she found meaning to it. She became affectionate, making you breakfast when she could and allowing you to playfully boop the tip of her cute nose.

Where did you go wrong?

You can't even remember when it all changed. Maybe it was the time that—

You hear the door of your apartment creak.

You break away from your trance, looking up at the door. There, you see Chaewon with red eyes, silent as ever. You could tell she's been crying. Her arms clutch the heavy red backpack to her chest.

You know what she was trying to do. And you know why she returned:

You.

You always know, no matter how big of a fight emerges between you two, she will always come crawling back. That's the power you have over her.

Chaewon's head is low. The mass of black hair dangles on the sides of her face.

"I'm sorry."

You love it. You love when her mind automatically places all your mistakes on her own back. You love how she always tries to excuse how much you love hurting her, and how at the end you always come out as the poor boy Kim Chaewon abuses.

You decide to hold one of your little sessions again. You know how it starts, and she does too. But only one of you is in control.

You press play.

"You fucking crybaby."

Chaewon is sensitive, both physically and emotionally. Tears brim at the bottom of her eyes. One slips down her face and onto her neck.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," you contradict her as you rise from the sofa, crossing your arms. "You cry so easily, and I don't even tell you anything that's not true."

"You called me a fat whore, for God's sake!"

Ah yes, you remember that. You could recall the both of you arguing over a thing as little as who would bring Wonyoung her birthday present. She was sitting on the other end of the sofa, voice raised and pointing aggressively at you while you argued back just as loudly.

Your mind could accurately remember how it went from "I can't get her the fucking present, Chaewon, I'm busy" to "You're always busy, but you never are when Eunbi unnie asks something from you!" and end in "Well, at least Eunbi isn't a fat whore!"

Remembering that makes you smile cruelly at her. You always enjoy this.

"Am I not wrong?"

Chaewon slaps her hand to her mouth.

You've just crossed the red line she's been trying to maintain ever since she cried in front of you for the first time.

You both glare at each other for long, delicious seconds. Invisible daggers dig holes into Chaewon's eyes. You could tell her mind is doing cartwheels trying to dream up a proper excuse for what you just said.

None come up.

"Alright that's it!"

Chaewon drops her backpack on the floor and rushes at you. Unable to process everything to move away, she ends up pushing you into the sofa, lips harshly locking with yours. She straddles you and rips your buttoned shirt apart.

You are still not able to register everything in your mind. Everything is hurried and blurred. All you could understand is Chaewon messily making out with you, her hand holding your cheek in place, and her hips dry humping your hidden bulge.

Chaewon pulls away briefly. Her cheeks are still wet from tears but her hands say anything but sadness. One slaps you across the face.

"Ow!"

"You undeserving bastard. Minju always told me you were trouble. I should have listened to her."

"Chaewon, you're a fucking—"

She laughs loudly before you could finish your sentence. "'A fucking' what? Slut? Bitch? Or I don't know, crybaby? Call me anything you like. We'll see who's the crybaby here."

You are stunned. Chaewon has rarely stood up for herself whenever the two of you fought. She would always apologize in the end for what you've done to her, and still love you all the same.

But now?

Chaewon spits in your face. She adjusts herself on your lap so she could fumble with the zipper of your pants. She shoves her hand in and pulls out your hardening dick.

Without caring if it is pleasurable for you or not, her hand jacks you off in a quick mindless pace. She grins when she hears you shamelessly let out a moan. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asks, though she already knows the answer. "Come on. You know you are."

You groan loudly. "I am."

"You're such a bad boy. Just for that, I'll hit you."

And she does. She raises her hand high and slaps your cheek. You shout; the sting is enough to form a red handprint.

Chaewon stops her hurried handjob and suddenly sits on your cock. You gasp loudly at how tight she is. You wonder how she never had any panties on ever since she walked back in.

Chaewon rides you at an unexplainable speed. Her hands grip your broad shoulders for leverage. Each return of your shaft inside her heavenly wet hole brings you faster to orgasm. Her arousal wets your length over and over as each bounce shoves your tip against her cervix.

Not stopping at all, she removes the white shirt she is wearing over her head. A second pleasant surprise that follows her lack of panties is her lack of a bra too. Her small breasts bounce up and down. She squeezes it in her hand, eliciting a gaspy moan from her throat that makes you even harder if that were possible.

"Suck on my tits," she orders.

She does not wait for you to do so. Chaewon shoves a brown nipple into your mouth. You obediently suck it as if you were a hungry infant.

You could feel it coming already. "Fuck, Chaewon," you exclaim, eyes squeezing shut. "I'm gonna cum!"

"Do it," she snarls. Her eyes almost roll at the back of her head as she quickens her riding. "I'm going to wring out every drop of cum from you till you can't even blow anymore."

You start to shove you own hips up into her. The way her tight little pussy clenches onto your dick every two seconds and massages it in between her velvety walls, along with her tight naked body fully exposed to you are the ingredients to your intense orgasm.

You let out a shout as you cum inside her, your dick being squeezed so unbelievably tight so Chaewon could milk you of every drop.

She doesn't stop. She keeps riding you. But you are too sensitive for even a second round.

"Please, Chaewon," you plead. Your body spasms and shakes violently. "It's too sensitive."

"You said you were gonna cum, didn't you? Let's make sure you don't stop."

She's won. Tears form in the corners of your eyes as Chaewon fucks her tight wet pussy onto you. Every single nerve is stimulated, and it's becoming too much.

Tears come spilling down your face like a waterfall. You have never experienced this rough kind of sex, but you understand why you are now. Chaewon is fucking every apology she's made and every mistake you've done onto you. Each manipulation and insult is returned in the form of harsh fucking. Right now, to her you are just a toy. Nothing else but a toy to play with and discard of when done.

Chaewon laughs pridefully. She knows she's won. This is probably the proudest she's been of herself in the long time, you think.

"Aw, are you gonna cry?" she asks, faking a mockful pout. "Maybe it's because you're so fucking pathetic. Using a girl so you could jack off in the bedroom at night watching her cry." She laughs again at your stunned look. "That's right, dickhead. I know what you're doing."

You unexpectedly cum again. Semen spurts from your dick and into her womb. But that doesn't make her stop either.

Your thighs begin to shake. Your nails dig into Chaewon's thin hips and your toes curl tightly.

Chaewon finally cums onto you. Her fluids mix with your own cum, a sick pool of arousal and orgasm. But she doesn't scream or moan; she's too focused on making you cry to even let you know your dick feels good.

You sob. You want her to stop, but at same time you never want to pull out. Your nails draw blood from her skin. You've lost count of the orgasms you've had. "Please, Chaewon, I'm sorry!"

"You know what? I'm sorry too, but not for you; for myself."

She starts riding you again. You cry exhaustedly, sensitive dick spewing out loads of cum again. You give Chaewon a pleading look but to no avail.

"You know what else Minju told me? She told me to do this."

Has Chaewon been holding that little kitchen knife this whole time? You wouldn't know.

#kpop smut #izone smut #kim chaewon #kim chaewon smut #anon #request

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lilahisntsadanymore · 3 years ago

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Hi there! I saw you did dps x reader and I was wondering if I could get some Neil Perry x reader fluff, or maybe hurt/comfort?

Thank you!

Hi, thank you for the request! I hope you'll like this. I don't know if you could call it a fluff, but I tried my best.

It's written pretty much gender neutral.

No trigger warnings.

Words count: 1190

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

A bad day

It was a long day for Y/n Y/l/n, the only comforting thing was that the next day was Saturday. Fridays were the worst at Welton, at least for Y/n. In the schedule there were classes they hated the most. Plus they had to wait until Monday for English with Keating. He was so different from other teachers.

Eventually the last class came to an end. Why did all the teachers seem to be harder on students suddenly? Only Sherlock Holmes could solve this mystery.

After the bell rang, Y/n hurried to the library where they had a study group with their friends. All the boys were already waiting for Y/n, who smiled at them and sat down by the table.

"That smile was so forced." Charlie Dalton chuckled.

"It was not-, uh, I guess I've just had a bad day." Y/n admitted.

"What happened?" Neil Perry asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

"Have the teachers always been so hard on us?"

"Yeah, but on Fridays it gets even worse." Charlie joked. "They just can't wait for the weekend. Imagine dealing with us for five days straight, I wouldn't take it."

The rest of the study group laughed. Except for one person.

"With us?" Richard Cameron said, slightly offended. "You meant to say with you, Dalton."

"Obviously, because you're a teacher's pet of most of the teachers in Hellton, Cameron."

"Hey, hey, hey, guys," Y/n interrupted the little fight, "no arguing, okay? We're here to study so let's do it."

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

The eight of friends spent time in the library almost until it was the dinner time. Then everyone went to their dorms to change from school uniforms to some casual clothes.

"Thank you for help with math, Y/n." Neil said with a smile on his face.

"No problem," Y/n said a bit nervously, "I just like...math, yeah, I love math, math is...awesome."

"Yeah, um, you're smart."

"Thanks."

A blush appeared on Y/n's face. Them and Neil stood in front of Y/n's dorm door in an awkward silence.

"See you at dinner?" Neil broke the silence.

"Yes, sure." Y/n gave Neil their hand to shake, but then hid it behind their back awkwardly realizing shaking hands isn't needed since they're going to see Neil again in a few minutes. Neil chuckled as Y/n looked down at the floor in embarrassment.

"Okay, so, see you."

"Yeah, see you, Neil."

Y/n walked into their room. Their roommate, Charlie, was sitting on his bed. Charlie's previous roommate was Richard but things had been changed after a request of both boys' parents.

"What're you smiling at?" Y/n questioned, noticing Charlie's grin. The boy giggled and said:

"Nothing. Totally not at how awkward you're around Neil. 'I love math'? More like 'I love you Neil, date me'." He teased, imitating Y/n's voice.

Charlie didn't want to sound mean, he just couldn't wait until Y/n and Neil confess their feelings for each other. It was very entertaining to watch these two trying to act like they're not head over heels in love with each other, but someone had to eventually ask the other one out.

"My voice does not sound like that at all." After such a bad day, Y/n didn't want to have to deal with Charlie being, well, Charlie. "And Neil is my friend, Neil is our friend. Do I love him? Yes I do."

Y/n put both their hands over their mouth, not believing they said that. If Y/n could turn back a few seconds in time, they would and pay attention to this stream of words that has just escaped their mouth.

"I gotta tell Neil." Charlie announced, getting up from the bed and heading to the door. Y/n tried to stop him.

"No, please," they begged, "what if it ruins our friendship?"

"It won't, he loves you too. You're the only one not noticing it."

"But I don't want him to know yet."

"I won't tell him if you confess it after dinner."

"Fine."

Y/n agreed, but in their mind, they were already making a plan to avoid it. I could just leave the dinner earlier, Y/n thought.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

Dead Poets used to always sit together by the same table during all meals. That day's dinner wasn't different.

Charlie was quiet for the whole time about that Y/n and Neil thing. But by the end of dinner it turned out to be a bad sign.

"So," he said, "Y/n, do you have anything to say?"

All the boys looked at Y/n, who seemed to feel uncomfortable.

"No." Y/n stated, trying to sound sure, but it turned out to sound rather like a question.

"Oh really? What about confessing your feelings to a certain-"

"Shut up, Dalton."

Y/n stood up and rushed to their dorm. The day was bad enough, Charlie didn't need to make it even worse.

As soon as Y/n got to the dorm, they sat on the bed and hid their face in their hands. Tears were falling down their face.

Y/n was crying and sobbing so hard that after a few minutes, they didn't even notice they weren't alone anymore.

"Hey, Y/n," Neil's voice said, making Y/n look at him, "I'm sorry for Charlie being mean."

Y/n tried to stop sobbing as Neil said next to them.

"He told me you like someone and aren't ready to confess," the boy continued, "and it's okay, you know? Whoever it is that you like, Charlie shouldn't pressure you to tell them."

Y/n noticed a bit of jealousy in Neil's voice. They understood that it was true what Charlie said about Neil having feelings for Y/n. And now he thought Y/n is into someone else so he felt jealous. And even despite that, he decided to come here and comfort Y/n. Such a pure soul.

"It's you." Y/n decided to confess. They couldn't let Neil think he isn't who Y/n has feelings for.

"What?" The boy either thought he misheard or didn't believe it.

"You are the person I like. Love. The person I love."

"You love me?"

"Yes, Neil."

A big smile appeared on Neil's face.

"That's...that's great! I mean, I have feelings for you too and I've been planning on telling you, someday."

The two laughed. No more words were needed, the silence wasn't awkward anymore. The bad day wasn't really so bad suddenly.

Neil put his hand on Y/n's jaw and kissed them. The two were so absorbed in kissing, that they didn't hear the door open.

"Gosh, finally!" Charlie, who has just walked in, exclaimed.

Neil and Y/n broke the kiss and looked at the 'matchmaker'. Neil grabbed the pillow from Y/n's bed and threw it at him.

"Charlie!" Neil yelled, but he wasn't angry. Both him and Y/n were now kind of thankful to Charlie, even if they didn't want to admit it.

"What? If not me, you two would be still just dreaming about kissing each other instead of actually doing it!" Charlie defended himself as he walked out and closed the door.

"After all, he's right." Both Y/n and Neil said in the same time.

#Neil Perry x reader #Dead Poets Society imagine #Dead Poets Society x reader #Dead Poets Society one shot #Neil Perry x y/n

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imekitty · 4 years ago

Text

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

The idea for this part came from @dp-marvel94. Thanks!

—

Jack watched the newest clone sleep. The boy’s chest rose and fell, rhythmically, deeply, gently.

Besides the number 14 tattooed on his upper arm, he looked exactly like Danny in his human form.

Jack rested his arms on the examination table, watching the clone’s face for any change or stirring consciousness. He had been instructed to stay by the clone’s side and mark the exact time he woke while Maddie was upstairs waiting to see when Danny would leave for his patrol.

Jack hoped the clone wouldn’t wake at all this time.

He glanced over the notes Maddie had made for their research and experimentation with this clone, who had been here several days now. Not the longest they had kept a clone. There was the tenth clone they starved who didn’t die for a few weeks.

Jack wasn’t sure which he hated more: the experiments that killed the clones quickly or the ones that required keeping the clones alive for an extended amount of time.

Either way, the clones screamed and screamed but were unheard outside the soundproofed lab.

And Maddie ignored them all.

The clone’s body twitched against the belts strapping him to the table. Jack watched the clone’s eyes slit open before looking at the clock and jotting down a time on his notepad.

“Oh, God,” the clone moaned. “Oh, God, no.”

Jack noted the clone’s watery eyes and thick articulation. “How are you feeling? Headache? Nausea? Do you know where you are right now?”

“Where is she?” The clone’s face paled. “Mom?”

“She doesn’t like you calling her that,” said Jack. “And she’s not here yet. Please just tell me how you’re feeling. You know what happens when you make things hard for us.”

The clone swallowed. “My neck and throat hurt. I’m really thirsty.”

Jack recorded the clone’s words. “I’ll see if Maddie will let you have some water before we start tonight.”

The clone sniffled. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up in my bed.”

Jack lowered his eyes.

“What are you going to do to me this time?” whispered the clone.

“More drug trials,” said Jack.

The clone shut his eyes, tears trickling from the corners. “No. Please. I don’t want to do any more. Not again.”

“I know,” said Jack. “Hopefully one of them will knock you out again so you can sleep through most of the day until tomorrow night.”

“No. No, I don’t want that, I just want to leave, I just—”

The clone’s chest convulsed, his body writhing against the restraints. Jack clenched his teeth and clasped his hands on the table.

“It hurts so much,” wept the clone. “Dad, please, I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not your dad,” said Jack. This was how Maddie was able to do this guilt free, convince herself that the clone was not her son.

So why wasn’t this working for him too?

“You’re not Danny,” he said more quietly.

The clone choked on a sob. “You keep telling me that. You keep telling me that I’m not real, that I’m a clone.”

The clone looked at the far wall, his eyes glassing over.

“But this feels real.” His words were barely audible, hardly voiced. “I feel real. And I don’t know why you and Mom are keeping me here like this.”

Jack pressed his hands to his forehead. “Maddie is so much better at this,” he muttered.

“Why are you keeping me here?” asked the clone.

“It’s just for research,” said Jack, lowering his hands with a tired sigh. “You’re not the first clone we’ve had here in this lab. You’re not going to be the first we kill here.” He paused. “And you won’t be the last.”

The clone’s breathing became erratic, shallow. “I don’t want to die,” he gasped. “I don’t—not here—not like this—”

Jack looked away from the clone’s face. Too pitiful, too sad, too much like Danny.

“You can’t,” the clone blubbered. “Don’t. Please. Don’t do this, Dad.”

Jack looked toward the lab door. Maddie still wasn’t here.

He looked at the clone again. The clone blinked wet eyes.

He imagined the clone’s unmoving body. He imagined zipping it up in another bag and carrying it to Vlad’s lab because Maddie always made him carry the body.

He knew exactly what the clone would look like when he died. Jack had seen it thirteen times now.

He did not want to see it a fourteenth.

Jack moved quickly, undoing the belts around the clone’s ankles, wrists, and abdomen.

“Go,” he said once the last belt was undone. “Leave.”

The clone sat up on the table and stared at Jack with his mouth hanging open.

“Go. Before Maddie gets here,” said Jack quietly but firmly. “Get far away from here and don’t come back.”

The clone clutched the fabric of his hospital gown against his chest.

“Go,” said Jack more forcefully, “or you will die.”

The clone pulled his knees up under him. Jack gave him a final warning glare. The clone transformed into his ghost form and shot up through the ceiling, vanishing beyond it.

Jack hunched over the now vacant examination table.

The lab door opened. Jack listened to the sound of Maddie’s boots clicking on the stairs.

“Sorry I took so long,” said Maddie. “I kept waiting to see when Danny was going to leave for his nightly patrol. But he decided to do his homework instead and then went to bed, no patrol. It’s interesting how he sometimes chooses being a good student over a hero.”

Jack straightened but did not say anything. Maddie stopped a short distance away from the table.

“Where’s the clone?” she asked.

Jack didn’t look at her.

“Where’s the clone?” she asked again, her tone sharpening.

“He’s gone,” said Jack.

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“I let him go.”

Maddie froze.

“Why?” she asked with a dark thickness.

“I couldn’t do it again, Maddie.”

Her nostrils flared. Her upper lip curled in a snarl.

“I told him to get away from here,” said Jack. “Far away so you can’t hurt him anymore. So you can’t kill him.”

Maddie stared at him. Jack waited for her to snap, to scream.

But instead, she turned on her heel and stomped up the stairs out of the lab. Jack released a sigh as the lab door slammed shut.

He set to cleaning and organizing the lab. He wasn’t about to go up to bed right now, not when Maddie was this angry with him.

Hours later, Jack rubbed his eyes and checked the clock. Nearly four in the morning. Should he go upstairs to bed, or should he sleep on the couch? Or even down here in the lab?

The lab door opened. Jack furrowed his brow and turned toward the stairs. Maddie’s boots clicked on each step as usual, but something else thumped along beside her, something that sounded heavy.

Maddie appeared at the base of the stairs, her orange goggles set over her eyes and aimed right at Jack, her lips curved in a stern frown.

Beside her, she held the fourteenth clone by the wrist, now in his human form and wearing the hospital gown Vlad had originally dressed him in. He was slumped on the floor, covered in gashes and scrapes, his left eye bloodied.

“Maddie.” Jack gaped. “Maddie, what did you—”

Maddie gripped the clone’s wrist tighter and lifted him off the floor. “He has the same ecto-signature Danny does. All the clones do. It was easy to track him down.”

The clone hung his head.

“You really tracked him down just to bring him back here?” asked Jack.

“Of course I did,” snapped Maddie. “You know we can’t just let these clones free. We can’t risk Danny running into them. Or God forbid, the Guys in White capturing them.”

Jack watched a trickle of blood fall from past the clone’s hairline down his forehead.

“So what do you want to do now?” asked Jack quietly, calmly. “Proceed with your plans for this clone?”

“No. He’s useless now,” said Maddie. “He’s not in proper condition for further experimentation. Everything we’ve done with him is pointless data now.”

Maddie threw the clone forward onto the floor. The clone crumpled and did not get up. His sleeve hiked just above the number 14 tattooed on his arm.

“Waste of our money,” she muttered.

Jack sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “Then what do you want to do with him?”

“Just quick lethal injection,” said Maddie. “Let’s just do it now and go to bed.”

“Quick lethal injection. Glad you’re being humane about this,” said Jack.

Maddie jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t start with me. We’ll talk about this in the morning. Right now, I am exhausted.”

“Right. Beating up a teenage boy takes a lot out of you,” said Jack.

Maddie glared at him before moving to the counters to prepare the injection. Jack bent and scooped the clone into his arms. Up close, Jack could now see the red splotches in his eyes, the break in his nose, the split in his bottom lip.

He didn’t beg for anything this time.

—

The next morning, Danny met Sam and Tucker outside on the school steps.

“Hey, I thought you said you weren’t going on patrol last night,” said Tucker.

“Yeah, you said you actually wanted to get some sleep for once,” said Sam with a wry smile.

“You should’ve told us you changed your mind!” said Tucker. “We would’ve joined you. Or did your ghost sense go off?”

Danny frowned. “I didn’t go out last night. What are you talking about?”

“I saw you flying last night,” said Tucker. “I was looking out my window and saw you.”

“What? You saw me?”

“Did you decide to go for just a night flight?” asked Sam.

“No, I didn’t go out at all. You couldn’t have seen me.”

“It looked just like you,” said Tucker. “Are you sure you weren’t out last night?”

The first bell rang. Students began shuffling past them into the building.

“I wasn’t out last night,” said Danny. “I actually finished my homework for once and then went to bed.”

“Huh.” Tucker shrugged. “I guess it was a different ghost with white hair in a black suit.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you were seeing things,” teased Sam. “Your eyes were probably bugging out from staying up too late playing video games.”

“They were not!”

“Were you even wearing your glasses?”

“Yes, of course I was!”

Sam and Tucker led the way inside the school. Danny followed, but not before glancing up at the sky.

Part 12

#danny phantom #planned au #imekitty writes #angst #jack fenton #maddie fenton #danny fenton

144 notes · View notes

yeojaa · 4 years ago

Text

( SOMETHING COMFORTING. )

Jeon Jungkook loves Overwatch, drinking games, and Halloween. What he loves more than that? You.

pairing. gamer!jjk x named f!reader.

genre + rating. idol!au set in room filled with bunnies and a cotton candy machine that’s exploded. it’s just that fluffy. (but also explicit cause why not.)

tags / warnings. established relationship, gaming (overwatch), dorky weeb references, mentions of drinking, yugyeom makes an appearance (!!), fingering, soft soft soft love making in the shower.

wc. 9.7k

beta reader(s). the lovely @kerikaaria read through this to make sure i didn’t get too nerdy. tysm! 💛 i may like further changes once my beloved @hobi-gif gets her hands on it but i’m a potato who wanted to post this quickly. oops...

author note. this fulfills the “jeon jungkook” square of @btsholidaybingo‘s bts holiday bingo 2020 and this is the couple from angels & airwaves. while this story isn’t super plot-driven, it’s meant to be a little peek into the lives of a couple that live in my mind rent-free and continue to make me soft and gooey inside. i hope you enjoy it!

You don’t know how he talked you into it or how it really happened. You remember, faintly, the mention of a party. Something about it being a small thing - just a few close friends, the members, etc. He’d said it so offhand, like commenting on the sky or asking for another package of Choco Boys, so you hadn't given it a second thought. If it was important, he’d bring it up again and if not, well, you hardly remembered it anyway. Win-win or whatever.

So you’d given up some intelligence points, traded them for space to fit more gaming knowledge. Somewhere along the line went your memory too - the conversation wiped from your brain like Will Smith had lasered it clean.

“Zarya’s one! Zarya’s one—“ You’re not sure how many times you can repeat yourself, shrieking through comms to a team that doesn’t seem to want to listen. You’re blasted into oblivion, Mercy’s prone body launched across the map as you watch your Rein fall too. There’s an irritation bubbling in your stomach, fizzing uncomfortably like the Japanese honeydew soda you’d had at lunch. “Zarya’s actually one!”

No one cares. She’s healed by the time you respawn and make it back across the map.

“Jesus—“ Your push-to-talk remains off for that flippant comment, distaste colouring your words a bitter shade of blue. You almost want to let your Ashe get headshot by the enemy Widow, only switching the stream from damage boosting to healing when your teammate starts spamming their hotkey.

I need healing! I need healing!

What you need is a team that listens to your calls or at the very least communicates in some way. Doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen though. There’s near radio silence in the voice chat, the only other person remotely helpful being your bouncing booping Lucio that’s trying to keep a flanking Tracer off point. Stupid. You almost feel bad for him, Guardian Angeling to him when no one else seems to want to offer any support.

Ah, the life of a support player in masters ranked. So infuriating and yet— nope. Just infuriating.

You lose the first round with 1:56 to spare, to no one’s surprise. Okay, maybe to your Reinhardt’s surprise. He’s being surprisingly chipper in text chat, sending WP and a dorky smiley face. You think he must volunteer at the local animal shelter and buy coffee for the people behind him in the drive-thru. He’s far too well-adjusted, not shooting off a single accusation to anyone on the team. A silver lining, you suppose.

Your second round starts well enough. Your comp is solid - as much as it can be in the current off-tank dominated meta. Hog, Zarya, a private profiled GM Widowmaker, Tracer, Lucio, and you as Ana. You’d prefer to play Mercy - find the most comfort in her skill set - but on an attack map, you’re not risking a headshot right out of spawn. Broken maximum damage good stuff means healers are squishy and you don’t have your usual DPS to boost. (He’s off doing god knows what - maybe filming an ad for Samsung or breaking the internet with his permed man bun.)

You make it through the choke without much ado. The enemy Rein is wildly out of position, eager to make some big brained play that goes terribly wrong. Your Lucio chuckles through voice and you join him, tossing a nade when your Zarya looks like she’s about to die to a poorly executed 360 shatter.

“You winning?”

It’s your boyfriend peeking over your shoulder, so close you nearly scream, mouse launched across your desk with the intensity of your reaction. You hadn’t heard him come in, the stupid sneaky bastard as quiet as a mouse.

(It’s not your own fault. He knows you can’t hear anything when you’ve got your headphones on, the noise cancelling in your state of the art Sennheisers not something to scoff at.)

“Jeez, Kook!” You want to be more mad. Really, you do. You’re scrambling across your desk to retrieve your mouse, squeaking a quick apology into team voice when your hero stays in one place for too long. Luckily, Hog - previously sweet kind Rein - throws his big fat piggy self directly in front of you, effectively saving you from an otherwise miserable death at the hands of Torbjorn.

“What?” Jeon Jungkook has the audacity to look scandalised, shiny eyes so wide and innocent they feel more as if they belong in an early 2000s anime.

You’re not even looking at him when you huff - too invested in your Overwatch game to give him the hell he deserves. All you manage is a swift don’t scare me like that! as you pump your tanks back to full health.

You notice Jungkook hasn’t moved away, still peering curiously over your shoulder. You know he hasn’t had much time to play lately, too involved with appearances for their comeback, his schedule too packed even for you some days. You don’t blame him when he pulls his chair up behind you, rolling into place so he’s just within your periphery.

It’s a little distracting; he smells good, like his - and by extension your - favourite laundry detergent and a fruity, nectarine-heavy shampoo you’d picked up for him when he’d run out of his usual. You notice then that his hair is wet, just the wrong-side of too damp with droplets beading over his neck. Moisture soaks into the top of his shirt and you think it might be more soaked than you can see; it’s hard to tell when it’s a jet black shirt, one of the many he keeps in your closet for the nights he stays over. You realise then that he must’ve been home far longer than you’d thought, if his freshly washed pink cheeks are any indication. (Because he takes seriously long showers, nearly doubling your water bill in the year you’ve been together.)

You want to ask what he’s doing here - you’d sworn he was busy for the next few days - but can’t find the adequate brain power to do so. You’re playing an incredibly high skill character (your words) and if you don’t get this goddamn shot on your Lucio to keep him up, your team is going to die (your ego’s words).

‘Ask Kook about his day’ gets scribbled on a paper on the desk in your head and filed away under To Do Later in your overflowing brainiac filing cabinet.

“Can we pleaaaaase focus their Zarya? She has grav.” Though you offer the tidbit of information, you don’t assume it’s going to be relied upon. Your team is well on their way to taking first point - surprisingly - and there’s still nearly three minutes left on the clock. If the six of you idiots can keep it together and kill that goddamn Zarya, there’s no doubt in your mind you’ll win the game.

Alas, fate is but a cruel mistress and said Zarya gets said grav off, sucking your own Russian tank and Tracer-turned-Soldier into her hell void. Not even your well-timed nade can save them from the Genji that dragon blades directly into their faces. Your poor Lucio dies to the same ult and you imagine you or your Widow are next. Your Hog’s just respawning, his lumbering silhouette not even on screen.

“Rip,” says your boyfriend - like the sound, not the letters - from beside you, a droplet of water splashing across your wrist when he shakes his head. He looks disappointed - as if he’s the one that’s lost the match. It makes you laugh, the sound tripping off your tongue despite the overwhelming rage you’re currently battling.

“Rip is right,” you mumble back, tossing yourself off the map. If you’re gonna die, it'll be on your own terms. Jungkook chuckles at that.

By the time you respawn, both you and Widow are joining a fight that looks like it’s going surprisingly well. There’s no one on point and you’re capping uncontested. Widow even headshots a wayward Moira.

“You should go top left.”

You don’t turn your head. Jungkook’s always been a bit of a backseat gamer, whether he’s watching your stream while he’s out of town or sitting right beside you. Sometimes, you love it; other times, you hate it. Most times, though, he’s right. He has surprisingly good game sense, despite being lower ranked than you (something you remind him of constantly, without shame).

“Can we go top left?” You parrot into your speaker.

For once, your team listens, most of them running up the sidewall with Widow right down main. Not for the first time you wish you were playing Mercy, if only to be able to damage boost your sniper while she distracts the enemy team. Still, you make due, taking your boyfriend’s next piece of advice when it comes, unsolicited. “You should be back right by the stairs. You can see up the hall and still heal Widow on top.”

You’d kiss him if you weren’t so intently focused, unable to tear your gaze from the screen when the enemy team seems to pluck their strategy directly from Jungkook’s skull and hold conservatively on point. Amazing.

“Your Zarya has grav. She’ll probably throw it on point so you should nade as soon as you get in and Widow can pick them off without full charge.”

If he were anyone else, you’d probably be giving him hell for mansplaining your favourite game to you. As it stands, you follow his instructions to the letter and the Team Kill marker flashes across your screen.

“Told you,” he quips, ever the snooty dork you adore.

“I was going to say thank you.” Just not right now. You can’t multitask quite like he can.

If you could look over, you think you’d see him grinning from ear to ear, buck teeth and dimples on full display. “I know.”

As it stands, the other team has trouble getting on point fast enough and you’re left with a whopping 3:56 left on the clock. Thank freaking god. You can win this, you think. Easy. No problem.

“Go Ana on defense.” At some point, Jungkook had gotten up to find a snack and he returns now, bag of shrimp chips in his hand and packet of matcha Pocky held between his teeth. You open your mouth for a stinky tasty treat and he shoves four crisps in, unceremoniously and with his signature dummy grin.

You manage to crunch crunch crunch through it all but shoot him a glare the entire time. He only smiles wider, all perfectly white enamel and enough cuteness to make your heart skip a beat.

“Do you just want to play?” You don’t mean it seriously. You don’t mind him watching and you know he enjoys pretending like he’s better than you. It’s a strange give and take but one that’s uniquely yours, built over nearly a year of online friendship and another year of a real-life relationship.

“Nah, I’m snacking.” He punctuates his response as a child would, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. You wonder, briefly, why you love him so much when he’s a certifiable goon.

The third match begins and you’re not too proud to say you spend most of it following Jungkook’s directions. He tells you to sleep the enemy Genji trying to scale the right wall - you do. He tells you to nade once their Rein gets in because your own Rein is going to shatter - you do. He tells you to do the macarena and— okay, that, you don’t.

You sweep the match, leaving the other team without a single tick.

When it comes to the final round, he seems to have lost interest in the game, instead rolling himself back to his computer with a parting, wayward ruffle of your hair. You don’t blame him but you thank him nonetheless, blowing a kiss before he settles his headphones over his ears.

You, of course and unsurprisingly, win the game. There’s nothing like using a Sym portal onto point when they’ve got a Bastion set up off point and no shield to protect him from the back.

Satisfied, you don’t bother requeueing and instead force yourself into your boyfriend’s personal space, draping your arms across the idol’s neck as he scrolls through YouTube like a zombie. “We won,” you sing-song into his ear, proud and a little smug.

“Of course you did.” He sounds equally smug and you suppose the win does belong to the both of you. He’d been a great coach.

“What’re you doing here?” It’s pure curiosity offered in the form of a kiss to his cheek, fingers locked across the broad expanse of his chest. He’s delightfully warm beneath you, familiar and unyielding as you sink over the back of his computer chair. (You can feel the chair creaking as it reclines. You don’t care.)

“Whaddya mean?”

The look he levels you with makes you think you’ve grown a second head.

“Your schedule said you had a thing tonight.” You remember, because you’d been disappointed. Halloween was one of your favourite holidays and all you’d wanted was to watch some campy horror movies and use him as a personal eye shield and security blanket combo.

“We have a thing,” he states, like he’s talking to a moron. You know it isn’t meant meanly, too emphatic and amused to hurt your feelings.

When you echo his words (“We?”) you swear you see him roll his eyes in the reflection of his computer screen. Luckily, he laughs, sweet and cracky, somewhere high in his throat - a barking hyena. It’s so cute - your favourite thing in the world - that you don’t have it in you to shame him for it.

“Yeah, we,” Jungkook repeats around something close to a snicker. “Halloween party, baby. Seriously— you forgot?”

It’s then and there you have two crises: (a) you don’t have a costume and (b) Halloween party? You didn’t think idols had those. Weren’t they all too hip and cool to get together to dress up and act stupid?

(You know the answer is no. Exhibit A being the costume-wearing dance practices BTS put out.)

“I don’t have anything to wear.” It’s truly the one thing holding you back, creasing the soft skin between your brows to resemble a peach. It’s also nearing seven in the evening and you’re absolutely certain you’re not going to find something so late in the day.

To your surprise. Jungkook looks flabbergasted, that same you-have-two-heads stare wrought across his face. It’d be endearing if it were directed at anyone else but with it trained on you, it’s rubbing you and your confusion the wrong way. Why’s he looking at you like that? Why’s your memory so bad? Why hasn’t he said anything to answer all of life’s questions?

“You said you’d go as witch Mercy.”

All at once, you’re pulled back to the offhand conversation, the pleading in his eyes, your half-asleep acceptance. It’s the memory you’d lost somewhere along the way in upgrading your in-brain video game storage. A conversation had in bed, his cheeks so big and full of joy they’d waned his eyes into crescents, and your uncoordinated answer because you’d just wanted to go to sleep and not think about anything after indulging in a few too many mochi cream buns.

“I— don’t remember that.” You’re lying through your damn teeth. Your parents would be devastated, all their hard earned money wasted on the braces-straightened enamel that was now letting lies pass.

“But you did!” He’s like a kid being denied candy, rounded bottom lip dropping into a pout that should, frankly, be illegal. It’s far too powerful on him, paired with those Bambi eyes that scream don’t eat (hate/deny/etc.) me! You can only scowl at him, because you know your own puppy dog eyes only work 100% of the time half of the time whereas his track record was immaculate.

“Okay, but I forgot to get the—“

“I have it!”

Jeon Jungkook has an answer for everything, it seems.

“I picked it up on the way here. It’s in your room along with my costume.”

The knowledge of his own intrigues you, squarely centring your curiosity on that and not the fact that you apparently need to get tested for early onset dementia. “Who’re you going as?”

“You’ll see.”

Your costume is spectacular. You can’t even find it in yourself to put up much of a fight when your boyfriend reveals it like you’ve won the lottery, throwing his arms wide in a flourish.

It’s incredibly well made, intricately tailored in a way that makes you worry how much it costs. (When you bring it up to him, Jungkook simply shrugs. You think it’s as much a gift for you as it is for him.) It’s witchy and eye-catching, the belt hung across your hips clipped with an actual book - hollowed out, thank god but also poor thing. The hat that sits on your head is neatly crumpled, sitting at such an angle you worry whether you’ll need to avoid too-low door frames. Your wings - well, you’re almost too afraid to touch them; Jungkook has to help you pull them over your arms, falling into near hysterics when you twitch your elbow the wrong way and smack him right between the eyes.

“I don’t think I can pull this off,” you state, somberly, despite the fact that you’re not terribly self-conscious. (You were, once. Being in a relationship with someone that worships your body has helped with that.)

The top of your outfit is fitted, boned and ribbed and snapped together in all the right places. Leather stands in stark contrast to your skin - summer-soft and gently golden - and hugs curves that don’t quite exist, falling short in a way that has you glaring down at your own chest. You’ve never wanted a Playboy body but in this sort of costume, it practically demands it. (You try not to dwell on the fact that you’ve been conditioned to want to look like an impractically designed video game hero.)

From the foot of your bed comes a snort, a derisive sound that draws your attention. Jungkook’s unabashed in how he admires you, stare roving over every inch like he’s about to devour you. You’re not sure how you can feel so soft for him when he looks completely the opposite, jaw set and expression sharp. A Greek god carved from hardened honey, dressed in Balenciaga blue. “You look great, angel.”

Your heart skips a beat - plays a funny little game of tag with itself - and you can’t help the smile that comes, brought to life by his reassurance. It isn’t necessary to rebuff him then - eyes rolling, laugh spilling - but you do it anyway. “You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” he retorts, levelling you with a look that has your insides molten. It’s the look that reads don’t test me but also I love you and you’re my idiot. It’s your favourite look in the world, lending wings to your flimsy heart. “You look great because you always look great, no matter what.”

“What about when you found me in the shower ?”

Jungkook hesitates then. He’s no liar and he had almost had a heart attack the first time it’d happened. He’d been minding his business, half-asleep and battling the need to piss, when he’d noticed you curled up in the bathroom. How he hadn’t realised you were missing from bed, he’s not sure. All he knew was that you’d terrified him, mentioning something about invading refrigerators when he was pulling his dick out of his boxers.

His scream was what had woken you up; yours was what had him bashing his head into the wall, foot slipping on the soft pink bathroom rug. You could laugh about it now but at the time, you’d thought he’d cracked his skull right open, shouting his name so loudly the neighbours had complained.

(Lucky for you two, they were a nice elderly couple who sometimes had you babysit their grandson. They’d laughed it off when you’d apologised with a loaf of fresh bread and a bandage wrapped around your boyfriend’s head.)

“Okay— that was scary. I thought you’d crawled out of the drain or something.” A shudder rolls through Jungkook’s body, shaking him from his shoulders all the way down to his knees. It’s a strangely adorable reaction from someone who looks like he could bench press you.

“You’re calling me the Grudge?” You’re deeply offended, gloved hands clasping over your chest as if to pull out the treacherous dagger he’s just lodged there. He only rolls his eyes, leaning forward to catch you in his arms; he’s relentless as he drags you to him, side of his face pressed to the bare skin of your thigh. His cheek’s searing but you’re not surprised; Jungkook ran hot, keeping you warm in winter and sweltering in summer. (Ah, the price you paid for love.)

“Yeah, you haunt me in my dreams.”

“That’s not the Grudge, Kook.” Your scoff earns you a pinch, right where the top of your stockings end. It blooms red beneath his fingers, a little reminder of his competitive I’m-never-wrong nature. You swat his hand away, not too bothered when it only finds a home elsewhere, hooked behind your knee. Jungkook had a habit of needing to be in constant contact. A little quirk of his you adored.

“I’m serious. You look—” You should clock the look on his face, the wiggle of mischief up his nose. A dead giveaway shining bright - a beacon. “—bewitching.”

If the book weren’t attached to your hip, you’d be clobbering him with it. Instead, you’re left to whack him with the equally intricate Caduceus staff, booping it over his shoulders. You feel like a certain shamanic mandrill, Jungkook the idiotic lion that’s asking for an earful.

“Shut up!” You’re laughing despite yourself and he is too, holding you so recklessly close it’s hard to hit him without hurting yourself. All part of his plan, you suppose. “You’re so freaking corny.”

“It’s because I’m a-maize-ing, ang—”

Another wap! to the head, shielded only by a tattooed hand that curls over his ear.

“Okay! Sorry!” Except he doesn’t look very sorry. More pleased that you’ve stopped the assault, dark hair pushed back from his forehead as he stares up at you. You hate how he’s so handsome - how you forget yourself when he smiles that smile, nearly yeeting your whole heart directly into the sun.

“Are you going to put on yours yet?”

It’s quarter past nine already and all you’ve done is rope him into eating some chapaguri - you’ve been obsessed with it since a few weeks ago - and play real life Witch Barbie. You have a feeling if you don’t get him into his own costume soon, you’re never going to leave the apartment. (Not that you really mind.)

Your boyfriend - bless his heart - pretends not to hear you, suddenly intently focused on an indiscernible spot past your hip. It’d be more believable if he was glued to his phone or doing anything remotely interesting. Instead, you stare down at him and count the seconds until he realises just how silly he looks. It usually comes around six, paired with a forced chuckle and that lisp you love.

Today, it comes after the fourth count.

“You’re gonna think it’s lame.” Well, of course you will. As his girlfriend - and one of his best friends, you’d like to think - it’s your relationship-given right to shame him for his more often than not absurd ideas. It’s what you deserve for suffering through all his bad jokes and 3 AM Instagram spams.

With a hand on his cheek, you squeeze the apple like you’ve seen a certain member do a million times. “So?”

He’s not really sure how to respond to that, mouth drawn into a pout that reminds you of children’s television show about penguins. It’s unfairly adorable. Still, you push. Jungkook’s bad at saying no to you - always has been, even before he really knew you. From “one more game!” to “bring me bingsu”, you always got what you wanted.

(Which wasn’t to say you asked for a lot. You were happy - more than that, ecstatic and over the moon - with the bare minimum. A selfie while on the plane, some shoddy cinematography during dance practice, a voicemail to wake up to. You didn’t love Jungkook for all the things he gave you; rather, you loved him for who he was, who he’d always been even before you knew who he really was.)

“Don’t laugh.” By the look on his face, you’re worried it’s something awful. The cheesiest thing in the world come to life to haunt you on your beloved spooky holiday.

It turns out to be the opposite: one of your favourite characters realised in the form of your achingly handsome boyfriend. He looks so good you’re not certain whether it’s your attraction to him or him in that particular guise that’s stronger. You figure it doesn’t matter one way or another. For tonight, they’re one and the same.

“Joker? Seriously?” You can’t hide the delight. It colours every syllable, sets them glowing like a neon sign.

Your boyfriend only rolls his eyes, as if he’d predicted this reaction. Dressed as he is, the movement is impossible to miss, brought into focus by the white domino mask. “Don’t sound so excited.” It’s an actual concern of his. He’s seen you sink upwards of ninety hours on the video game, playing it in the early hours when he’s fast asleep and you’re battling another night of insomnia.

Once, he’d asked whether you loved him or Joker more. He hadn’t liked the answer (joking as it was) and had spent the better part of the evening pouting.

This time, you’re sweet as pie, eyes so dark and twinkly he wonders whether he’s staring at the night sky. You wonder the same yourself almost every night, lost in the constellations of his irises. It’s the most intimate form of stargazing you can afford, a luxury you indulge in frequently. You’ve mapped the different formations, named them in honour of all the special moments you’ve shared; you think to label one for this night too.

“You look so good.” You don’t hesitate to brush his hair from his eyes. It’s still relaxing from the perm he’d gotten days ago, curling like classic calligraphy over his eyes. It’s surprisingly soft between your fingers, silk despite the constant heat styling. Bastard. “I can’t believe you’re going as Joker. You don’t even like Persona 5!”

By how Jungkook looks at you then - the same way he did the first time you met standing on the street corner in Dotonbori and a hundred more times since then - you realise it doesn’t matter. He’s dressed this way because you like the character.

“Oh,” you say, because there’s not much more to say. Nothing that needs to be said as he grins down at you, so heartbreakingly handsome you’ll never get used to it.

“Yeah,” he parrots back, a little smug.

Bangtan’s golden maknae is having the time of his life. He’s four cups deep into a game of beer pong that’s played like the Wimbledon classic, back hunched, jaw set. You’d think he was battling it out for the title of God of Beer Pong if you didn’t know better. (You suppose he is.)

“Angel, come here!” He’s giddy - slightly glazed in the eyes - as he waves you over, a red-gloved hand beckoning you to his side. Despite how good he looks in the costume - every weakness of yours encapsulated by the intricate dress shirt that hugs him like a second skin - the gesture is decidedly adorable, an eager puppy seeking unconditional love. There’s simply too much affection in his voice, so much sugar-spun love that you can’t deny him (even as you consider jumping his bones at a party full of people).

He’s shining as bright as the sun and you want nothing more than to live within his warmth.

With your fingers twined, he pulls you to him, drawing you tight against his side like he doesn’t need that same hand to throw another ball. You don’t mind. You know he’ll sink it even with his left hand.

“I’m winning,” he states, as if it weren’t wildly obvious by the fact all cups remain untouched on his side.

Across the table, Yugyeom’s eyes roll so far back you want to laugh. Jungkook’s competitive side is endearing at best and infuriating at worst. Luckily, his competition is enjoying himself too much to give him shit.

(He’s also probably too drunk to, given how badly he’s doing.)

“I see that.” You’re not a big drinker yourself but you like seeing Jungkook in his element. He thrives in this sort of setting, showing off all the talents he has and then some. It’s just another stage to him, somewhere he can prove himself (even if it’s over something as small as how good his bounce-shot is). “How many games have you won?” Because he’s been at this table for the last hour, dropping his competition like flies.

“All of them.” God, his ego. You know you shouldn’t stroke it but you can’t help it, brushing a hand through his tousled hair in the way he likes best. Fingers over his scalp, thumb rubbing soothing circles across the nape of his neck. He nearly melts then, tilting his head into the gentle caress.

“Good job, Kook.”

You’re so lost in your own little world that poor Yugyeom has to pull you both from it, launching a poorly-aimed white ping pong ball at the two of you. To no one’s surprise, it careens past your heads, hitting the wall behind you and disappearing off to god knows where.

“Can we play?” Again, that eye roll, visible just past the bandages that loosely wrap his cheeks. You know he’s only teasing, that he’s actually quite a fan of your and Jungkook’s dumb coupling (he’s told you), but you return his mockery with a raised hand, thumb and forefinger waving in salute.

“Losers don’t get to complain.”

The idol throws a hand to his chest, the gesture bordering on sloppy from the liquor that threads his limbs. Still, it’s cute, earning a sweet laugh from you and a witch’s cackle from your boyfriend. (How fitting.) “I’m hurt, Yoojin-ssi.”

It’s Jungkook’s turn to tease, brattiness flipped on like a haywire lightswitch. “No, you’re just bad at games!” He’s a sniggering schoolgirl, lines wrapping the delicate skin of his nose, streaking joy into the wrinkles beneath his eyes. Slightly-too-big front teeth are on full display, his expression the embodiment of an “uwu” emote.

That riles Yugyeom up, powder puff of hair bounding over to you before you have time to blink. In the next moment, your boyfriend’s half-wrestling with him, their arms locked around each other like some sort of weird four-limbed octopus. (Video game protagonist vs. hot mummy— who will win?) You jump back just in time, avoiding a wayward fist and laughing merrily. Idiots, the both of them.

“You guys have fun.” And then you’re gone, off to busy yourself with people who won’t accidentally give you a black eye or knock over the nearest thing not bolted to the ground.

You can still hear them tussling when you latch yourself to the back of a certain blond. He’s dressed like one of your greatest nightmares - an actual clown, drawing inspiration from a certain 2017 blockbuster - and yet somehow still manages to look good. You don’t understand it and frankly, you’re a little envious, but such was life.

“Jimin-ssiiiii.”

“Ahhhhhh, stop!” It’s the same reaction he always has, paired with wiggling shoulders and sweet laughter that bounces around the room and stirs to life your own. Indisputable and lovely, the sound is brighter than the sun or the lights that currently swing through the chandelier lights above your heads. “You two are ridiculous.”

“He’s ridiculous, not me!” You know it isn’t true. Separately, you and Jungkook were idiotic enough, finding humour in the silliest things (funny threads on r/Relationship_Advice and four year old Vines). But together? It was a two-person circus, graduate professors at clown college.

You absolutely loved it.

“Sure, sure,” the dancer hums, delightfully disbelieving as he takes another shot. One of three lined up across the counter, clear in little orange cups made to look like pumpkins. A whiff tells you they’re strawberry soju - your least favourite flavour. You decline with a wrinkled nose and waving hand when he offers you one. Jimin shrugs and downs the next, delicately wiping the corner of his mouth when he misjudges the pour. “Aren’t you drinking?”

You wiggle the half-empty Cass bottle in your hand in response and receive a scoff, different bottle - green, unopened - thrust into your other.

“Drink this!”

“You want me to drink an entire bottle?” You’re incredulous. Jimin’s seen you on the edge of intoxication and more than a little sloppy, giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s not unbecoming - you know better than to get blackout - but laughable nonetheless. Something to record and post on Snapchat with a voice-altering filter.

“It’s Halloween!” The pumpkin shot glass makes you go cross-eyed before he’s knocking it back too. “Live a little!”

Who are you to say no to the recent birthday boy? It would simply be bad manners and you were nothing if polite (though, you’re sure some might beg to differ - Yoongi, maybe?).

The remnants of your beer are swallowed down in the next moment, so quickly you almost choke on it. Your life flashes before your eyes, Jimin’s hand on your shoulder as he beats breath into your body. “Don’t die!” He cries, despite the fact that it’s his fist that’s making it worse, doubling you over with hacking coughs.

“K-Kook’s g-going to kill you—”

“No, you’re fine.” He’s reassuring you just as much as himself, laughing too loudly as you straighten up. You wonder how red your face is when he takes your place, slapping his own knee as he shakes with amusement. “Your face, oh— Your face.”

It’s not meant to be offensive but your buzzed brain demands payment for each giggle.

The base of the green bottle collides with the back of his knee - gentle, gentle - just hard enough to have him properly toppling over, collapsing onto the carpet like a frail old grandpa without his cane. You can’t help the snicker that careens off your liquor-laden tongue.

That is, until he’s pulling you down with him and the two of you are a giggling, giddy mess, tucked beneath the edge of the bar as you laugh together. It’s a chorus of sound, unrelenting and building the longer you both sit on the floor. Jimin’s practically hunched over, head caught between his propped up arms. You imagine it’s a funny sight - two people in their twenties acting like college freshmen.

“Baby?” It’s your boyfriend, amused and confused as he stares down at your and Jimin’s prone bodies. He’s got that dent between his brows, the colour of his eyes all but swallowed up by the way his cheeks press wide with his smile. “What’re you doing down there?”

“Just hanging out,” you answer, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. At your side, Jimin’s still trying to collect himself, parroting your words around his lungfuls of quieting laughter.

“Are you drunk?”

You’re not, but that doesn’t stop you from gasping, overdramatic and with your unopened bottle of soju held aloft. A modern day olive branch. “No?”

Jungkook snorts and then all at once, he’s close. Too close - smelling of beer and your favourite cologne of his, citrusy and woodsy and every other nice thing you like. It fills your senses just as his smile does, blindingly bright and bunny-like. Even behind the mask, his good looks take your breath away. You must be staring up at him idiotically, all one hundred and sixteen pounds of ooey gooey tenderness. “You sound drunk, angel,” he teases, warm red-covered palm coming to cradle your cheek. It sears heat everywhere it touches, guiding the same hue over your skin. It creeps up your chest and over your ears, standing in contrast to the material of his gloves. “Pretty.”

(He really is, you think.)

“Get a room,” comes Jimin from beside you. There’s no malice in his voice - just soft affection for a couple of lovesick idiots.

“That’s the plan,” Jungkook replies, as if he’d been waiting for the moment. It skips off his tongue and settles into your ears, tipping your head curiously as you stare at him. He’s never been very shy about wanting you - at least, not since you’d made things official, so many months ago - but you’re surprised by the insinuation. When he speaks again, you realise your brain has been rolling around in the gutter, fallen out of your ears like candy from a worn pillow case. “Want to head home?”

You do. You really, really do.

When you stumble into your apartment - the same one with the polka-dot welcome rug and crisp white paint - you realise you were perhaps wrong about how drunk you are. Everything’s coming at you quite quickly, the ground beneath your feet somehow suddenly rushing at you like Mach Five.

“Whoa—” There’s an impossibly solid warmth against your back, fingers locked around your wrists that feel more like flimsy chicken feet. “Careful.”

Your boyfriend’s keeping you upright while stepping out of his boots - impossibly expensive supple dark leather - and you’re giggling all the while, practically sinking against him as he does his best to shuffle his shoes away and get you further into the hallway. “Sorry,” you offer in a terrible stage whisper, smiling wide when you catch sight of his, small and endlessly amused. It slips across his face even as he tries to bite it back, warring with the patience he holds in spades.

“Let’s just get these off.” He means the boots - the intricate, vaguely absurd things that creep up almost the entirety of your leg, neatly wrapped and knotted midway up your thigh. Dexterous as he is, it’s a task to unravel the strings and thread buttons when you’re weighing on him like a bag of bricks.

You’re fumbling for the tops, haphazardly smacking his hands away. “Here, let me.”

Somehow, you manage to get them off in what feels like record time. (In reality, it takes a good five minutes of futility before they’re left on the ground and Jungkook’s swept you into his arms, seemingly over waiting for you to do much else.)

“Oh, my prince charming,” you tease, clinging to him like a koala. You’re locked around him, practically suffocating him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s used to it when you’re this way, just a little too much liquid courage turning your level of affection to eleven. “Or are you the court jester? That’s what Joker is, right?” It’s a joke and a bad one at that. Still, your boyfriend indulges you, depositing a forced laugh against your shoulder as he navigates to your bedroom.

“You’re drunk.” He says it more kindly than you expect. Perhaps even more kindly than you deserve. You know he’s not exactly sober himself, his gaze verging on heavy-lidded. There’s sleepiness blending seamlessly with intoxication, softening the edge of his jaw, the narrow of his stare. It’s terribly tender, skipping your heart when you look at him dead on.

It comes without thought. You have to tell him. Your drunk brain and your puppy dog heart demand it. “I love you.”

Jungkook returns the confession with humour, eyes sparkling despite the haze of alcohol that dims them down. As always, he indulges you, giving you support in the form of his heart and his hands. (Literally, he’s still holding you even though you’ve reached your destination.) “Love you too.”

“Is it time for bed?” You’re surprisingly tired, despite the fact that you’d slept until late in the afternoon. You certainly wouldn’t mind falling face first into your mattress.

“You need a shower first.” It’s a simple statement of fact, you know that. You’ve got at least ten pounds of makeup on and your hair’s the furthest thing from soft and silky, carefully coiffed to mimic Mercy’s signature style. You still pretend like you’re just a bit offended, scowling into the face of your boyfriend even as he rolls his eyes, already somehow able to read the words written into your expression. “I meant we and no, I’m not calling you stinky.”

He’s stolen your thunder, as he so often does. You pout, as you so often do.

“Okay,” you relent, finally, moving to rest your head against his shoulder. You could get down - walk on your own two tired feet - but you’re enjoying the closeness, how warm and real he feels in comparison to the swimming surroundings. “Will you wash my hair?” You don’t really need to ask but do anyway, because you like the sound of his voice when it’s so close.

“You know I will.” Because he always does when you shower together (and it falls on a designated hair washing day - that was important).

You offer your thanks with a kiss, laid right over the jumping pulse in his neck. When Jungkook hums in acknowledgment, you feel the way the muscles constrict, his Adam’s apple jumping beneath your lips. You zero in on it with laser precision, mouthing over his throat. Somewhere above you - against the shell of your ear - he exhales a laugh, breath hot.

“We’re showering, baby.” As if that’s meant to stop you. He, more than anyone, should know how adamant you get, singularly focused on whatever’s got your attention. He’s been on the receiving end of it more than enough times, strung into playing another one, two, ten matches of Overwatch or hunting down the limited edition Funko Pops that now sit proudly on your white shelf (and behind your plants and on the ledge by the front door).

“We can shower and have fun,” you mumble into the expanse of his chest. He’s so pleasantly warm, unyielding and firm and so, so comfortable. You think you could live in the feeling of his arms. (You’re lucky you get to.) You don’t even mind the sudden cold of the counter or the space that forms between you when he sets you down, because he’s still caging you in where it matters most. “Right, JK?”

It’s a nickname you rarely use now - one that only comes out in times of desperation. You’ve never quite understood why it affects your boyfriend the way it does, stuttering the rhythmic beating of his heart, but you love it nonetheless. It makes you grin, high on power and giddy with nothing but sweetness.

He’d explained it to you once. Jay was how you’d met him, the version of himself you’d loved first. Jungkook was the side of himself he’d wanted to give you but couldn’t. JK was the in-between - the chaos and the calm. Hearing you say it brought back all the memories of year one and he liked that. You could only laugh at his sentimentality and tuck the piece of knowledge somewhere deep, to be pulled out in instances like this.

“Right, angel.” You don’t miss the colour on his cheeks - so pretty you reach your hands out to cup them, squishing them between your palms like an old grandmother testing a watermelon. You continue to hold him until he pulls your hands from his face, guiding them to the edge of the counter with gentle pressure. “Gotta get undressed to shower,” he chides, that twinkle in his eye that makes it hard to look away.

Really, how can he expect you to do anything when he’s got an entire unexplored galaxy hidden in his irises? It’s an absurd ask.

“Or I’ll help you.”

Your clothes fall away while you’re still staring up at him.

First, the gloves, peeled from your fingers with utmost care. Kisses fill the spaces between each finger, passed from knuckles to wrist, all the way up to your elbow. You squirm when his teeth graze the sensitive underside of your bicep. He stifles a snicker into the skin.

Next goes your cape and wings, hung on the door handle. His mouth warms the suddenly bare skin, pressing affection into the line of your shoulder, up over your neck. You don’t squirm this time, instead humming a noise of delight. You hardly notice when the corset goes next, undone by surprisingly nimble inked digits. There’s hardly a moment to savour the freedom - you can finally breathe - when his hands replace the cups, palms eager over your chest. He doesn’t hesitate to hold you, pinching your perked nipples with a sly grin.

“I thought we were going to shower.” The words are barely out before turning breathless, stolen by the way he easily palms your breast, dropping his face into the crook of your neck.

“We are, angel,” Jungkook teases, rolling your bud between his thumb and forefinger, other hand moved to splay across the now-bare small of your back. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you fall into him, drawn against him like a moth to a flame. “Just need to get you warmed up first.”

“The shower’ll be warm,” you say - or think you say, anyway. It isn’t quite articulated, half your brain left somewhere at the party (or maybe caught dead centre in the coil that’s tightening in your stomach).

“Do you want me to stop?” It’s so quiet you almost miss it, too distracted by how he slips the rest of your costume off. Shorts, thong, stockings, silly witch’s hat. “Tell me if you want me to stop, baby.” Ever the gentleman, he’s patient, meeting your glazed stare with something close to concern. You almost laugh in his face then - stopping short only when you note just how serious he is, the tell-tale set of his jaw shining like a familiar beacon.

You return your hands to his face, palms cradling his chin like he might break otherwise. “I never want you to stop.”

That’s all Jungkook needs before he’s slotting himself between your legs, mirroring your motion with hands creeping up the side of your neck, fingers ascending into the roots of your hair. He holds you close and kisses you like it’s all he’s ever wanted. “I love you,” he breathes, speaks against the corner of your mouth.

You parrot the words back at him and he grins, stepping away in the next moment. He laughs when you pout, offering a kiss in apology as he undoes the buttons of his dress shirt, slipping the soft cotton off. You stop then, entranced by the revealed skin, how it shifts with each adjustment of muscle, sinew tight over his arms and shoulders. You wonder, not for the first time, how you’d managed to luck out so spectacularly.

“Start the shower.”

You hop down with the direction, slipping past him to do exactly that. You don’t miss the way he rotates, brings himself closer as you move away. The magnetism is undeniable - always has been.

“I love you,” he states, again, bare against your back as you hover by the edge of the glass door, one hand stuck past to test the slow-warming stream. He’s solid, familiar and comfortable, as he slinks his arms back around you, heat burning the shape of his hands over your ribs, the shape of your hip. You think he might mark himself there, just as neatly as the floral ink does. You wouldn’t mind.

The water is welcome, bathing the both of you in steam when you step inside. It’s an incredibly relaxing feeling, being caught between the spray and the hard body behind you. You hum a noise of pure delight, turning your face toward the one that nuzzles itself into your neck, and bring your hands to rest over his, fingers slotting between ink.

“Hair?” You’re not in a terrible rush but you like redirecting his attention (pretending to, at least) - the teasing that formed the base of your relationship presenting itself in the quiet reminder. It earns the laugh you expect, muffled into your hair, featherlight over the delicate shell of your jewelled ear.

“Patience, baby.” It’s something Jungkook tends to say a lot, whether waiting in queue in Overwatch or in bed, with you a complete mess. He repeats it easily, like he’s the poster boy for the virtue. (He isn’t.)

“What am I waiting—” The question dies, swallowed whole by the gasp he draws from you with a wandering hand. Fingers slip across your stomach, digits deftly seeking out warmth as if you weren’t already enveloped in it. It’s a touch that’s tantalisingly slow, unfairly light, but it still makes you keen when it drags over your lips. A single digit pushes past muscle - so shallow you’re not sure you’re not just imagining it - before retreating, dragging your slick back up to your clit. The moment the pad of his finger makes contact with the sensitive bundle of nerves, you almost jump. Would, if he weren’t caging you with his other arm.

You feel the cold of his teeth bared against your neck then, the throaty laugh that pulls out of his chest and deposits itself into your hair. “Patience,” he repeats, swirling his fingers over your clit, his mouth moving in tandem with the twist of his wrist. He peppers love and affection in the form of kisses, presses devotion with the edge of his teeth, soothes all your nerves with a sweep of his tongue.

“Kook,” you sigh, already well on your way to being a boneless mess. There’s tingling in your toes, fizzing in your stomach, butterflies in your chest. A whirlwind of emotion and sensation that he stirs to life effortlessly.

“Relax for me.” You do so because it’s easy, because he’s so devastatingly good to you.

The figure eights skating over your clit cease, fingers dropping further down to nestle against your cunt. He pauses there, almost experimentally flexing against the muscle that aches and clenches around nothing, eager for more. You think he’s smirking by the way his lips form with his kisses, a little lopsided and devilish. (You wish you could see him.)

A single digit enters you then, to the third knuckle as if your body was made for this, for him. (It was.) He coos against your neck when a garbled mess skips off your tongue and nearly laughs when another slips in alongside it, turning the mess into nonsense. Despite how badly you want it - need it, really - it’s a sensation that’s too much and not enough all at once, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

It was how Jungkook loved you - recklessly, shamelessly, in no half measures. With more love than you could ever hope for, giving you things you didn’t even know how to ask for.

“Relax, angel,” comes as he begins scissoring both fingers inside you, stretching you out with an otherworldly amount of care. Even your neglected clit is given some sort of relief - anything to ease the sting of two long fingers - his thumb gliding over it with each stretch of your walls. He knows exactly where to touch you, how much pressure to apply, and you’re melting, lost in the feeling.

When he’s had enough and he curls his fingers within you, seeking out that particular spot, you’re trembling, caught off guard. Heat builds quickly with the precision of which he taps against that spot; it starts low in your back, climbing each vertebrae of your spine until you’re quivering in his arms.

“K-Kook.” It’s both a plea and a demand, nonsensical as he guides you through your orgasm, keeping you upright against him when your knees feel like they might give out.

“I’ve got you.” And he does - hook, line, and sinker. He holds you steady as the pleasure crashes over your head, keeps you anchored to the here and now and the pleasure that rolls through you like a relentless wave. It sinks beneath your skin, settles heavy into every atom, and he never lets you go. He’s got you.

When sensation returns - slowly, so slowly it feels like you’re stuck in the Twilight Zone - you only want to turn. See him, hold him, whisper sweet nothings as you kiss him silly and thank him for his service. Instead, you’re held in place, two hands firm upon your hips even as you crane your neck to look over your shoulder at him. You should recognise the look on his face. “Kook?”

“My turn.” It’s a statement more than anything, a kind heads-up as he nudges you forward. There’s that same twinkle in his eye, the only source of light around the pupil that’s blown out, otherwise engulfing the constellations he so normally offers you. It’s a black hole and one you’d gladly get lost in. “Hands on the wall, baby.”

You’d never been one for shower sex - it’s too small a space, too much happening at once, a guaranteed freak accident waiting to happen - but you can’t deny him when he asks so nicely. (It really hadn’t been that nice but you were a certified sucker for one Jeon Jungkook.)

Hands find themselves on the wall, palms flat, fingers splayed. In the same instance you wiggle your hips, there’s a ghosting touch over your spine. It trails up and down, soothes the residual heat that lingers, and then slips higher, palm gentle over your throat. His thumb rubs reassuring circles over the nape of your neck, pressing gently into the sensitive spot behind your ear. It’s distracting and you realise much needed when he sinks into you with one fluid press of his hips, filling you so full you can’t help the gasp that bounds past your lips and bounces around the glass enclosure. “Oh fuck,” he sighs, his grip on your hip tightening incrementally.

He sounds like sin and feels like heaven.

“Always so good for me.” Another thing he says, often and without prompting. It still feels just as good the umpteenth time, sparking pride deep in your chest as he pulls out and drives himself back in, staring in rapt fascination at where your bodies meet. “Always so perfect for me.”

“Because I love you,” you quip, more than a little out of breath and jostled by the way he thrusts into you, measured and with enough force to shake your legs.

“Love you too, angel.” He doesn’t need to say it back - you know, can feel it by how he holds you, drives you to brink of insanity with his cock - but he does it anyway. He always says it back, no matter what, even if he’s half-asleep or distracted. He’ll never stop saying it.

The hand on your hip falls, slinks across your hip and between your legs, and you’re pushed further forward, his feet gently kicking yours further apart. Jungkook assaults your clit then, timing each pass with each thrust. An attempted glance back has fireworks going off before your eyes, specks of pleasure lighting up your vision; it’s a technicolour lightshow, framing the way his face scrunches, brow set and jaw hard. He’s determined, focused on bringing you to another orgasm before he hits his own high. You assist him as best you can, swiveling your hips and grinding back against him even as the coil pulls impossibly tight in your stomach, barely held together by threadbare strings.

“Kook,” you whine when the tension becomes too much, hands scrabbling across the wall of the shower. The same overwhelming tingle sparks beneath your skin, entire body trembling like a leaf when the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you at just the right angle.

He doesn’t relent, rhythm turning almost punishing as he drives you over the edge, launching you headlong into your second orgasm. You’re not sure how you stay upright, near sobbing when you crash into euphoric bliss, neither his fingers nor his thrusts ceasing. It’s almost too much and yet you know how close he is, so you push back, whimper words you know he wants to hear.

“P-please, Kook. Please.” You’re reaching a hand back, desperate to interlace your fingers with his. He gives in easily, catches your hand in his own and plants it on the swell of your hip as he chases his own release with desperation. “Come for me, Kook. Fill me up.”

Jungkook does just that, balls tight as he spills himself inside you, hand at your throat so tight you’re seeing stars. Somehow - with the feeling of him grinding into you, overcome with so much sensitivity - you come for the third time, crying very real tears as the sensation washes over you. It’s weaker than your first two but unravels you all the same, seeping the energy from your limbs. You’re grateful for how well he knows you and the fact he catches you before your arms collapse, pulling you to him with gentle movements.

“I love you,” he whispers against your temple, out of breath and sweat-slick despite the water that rains down upon you.

“I love you,” you answer, pressing a kiss to the hand that still twines with yours. “But I still need you to wash my hair.” It’s cheeky and you know it so you don’t even mind when he bites into the meat of your shoulder, leaving a pretty red mark that’ll bloom for the next few days. “Ow!”

��You’re a brat.” Said even as he’s reaching for your shampoo bar, teasing it through your roots with practiced movements. He’s careful despite his scathing tone, gentle despite how he glares at you from the corner of your periphery. Each tangle is neatly undone and not a single bubble gets in your eye, much to your joy.

“I thought I was an angel.” You’re taking a page out of his book, speaking in fluent pout.

He catches your lips with his own, pushing your lathered up head beneath the steady stream when he withdraws and speaks. Suds run across your cheeks, eyes shielded only by the hand he keeps steady along your hairline. Even so mean, your boyfriend is still terribly nice. “You’re my angel - but you’re still a brat.”

You can’t argue with that.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi

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avaritia-apotheosis · 4 years ago

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Phantom Children [DP x Batman Crossover] Ch. 1

Disclaimer: It's been a while since I watched DP and the only Batman/DC stuff I've interacted with are B:TAS, the JL cartoons, and what I got from fandom osmosis so don't expect any sort of canon compliance.

In Which: the author takes advantage of the passage of time in Nanda Parbat being wonky and Danny doesn't give up, per se, but is sort of resigned to being stuck with the League of Assassins until further notice.

AO3 | Prologue | [ 1 ] | 2 |

CW for descriptions of non-consensual drug use (if there's anything you guys would like me to tag, please tell me)

-----

WHEN SOMETHING WENT WRONG WITH DANNY’S LIFE, it was usually because of one or two things: Ghosts or Vlad. And considering their truce and how even Vlad wouldn’t go this far (at least, Danny hoped), Danny was kidnapped because of ghosts. Or his association with ghosts.

Though how an organization of ninja-assassins got wind of his ‘unique’ circumstance was beyond him. The shackles they slapped on his wrists were more a formality than anything after the second time he tried to escape them with intangibility. The only reason they managed to get him contained the entire trip from Amity Park to wherever the fuck Nanda Parbat lay was because of the cocktail of drugs they pumped into his system spiked with blood blossoms.

Danny had to give it to them. The League of Assassins might not have any anti-ecto weaponry, but they did their homework.

He barely remembered the trip. He catches flashes—blurry figures and words he couldn’t comprehend. A warm hand holding his, a thumb rubbing smooth circles on the back of his palm and calloused fingers running through his hair.

When he awoke, it was in a room bigger than his bedroom. His ankle was shackled to a bedpost, and the only door leading out was locked. There was a separate room for the bathroom off to the side and a shelf stacked with books decorating the otherwise bare walls, but other than that there wasn’t much else. Not even windows.

Intangibility, he learned, wasn’t an option. The blood blossoms in his bloodstream were still in circulation, rendering his transformation useless. If his nose was right, his captors were pumping blood blossoms from the vents. The sickly sweet of the flower was faint in the cool air, but the slight red haze that persisted in the room was unmistakable.

He tried, regardless. The rings barely made it half-way before his knees buckled and he started retching all over the floor. At least his stomach was empty.

-------

Danny doesn’t know how long he’s been in Nanda Parbat. Time moved differently here. Faster, he thought. He doesn’t really understand how or why, though sometimes he wondered what Clockwork thought of all of this.

(There are times, in the darkness and solitude of his cell, when Danny would call for Clockwork to rescue him. Quietly, so quietly, it was barely even a whisper. But Clockwork would hear it—Danny was sure he would. Clockwork helped him out before, so this time shouldn’t be all that different. But at the end of the night, nothingness would answer him. And Danny had to learn over and over again that even the Ghost of Time had his own rules to follow.)

It had taken a few days and Talia nearly biting the head off of the League’s physician for them to realize that blood blossoms would be an awful way to contain him. Effective at immobilizing him, yes, but the flowers left him about as helpless as Superman in a kryptonite cave.

“It all works out in the end,” Talia would say. “The blossoms were never going to become a long-term solution; you might end up developing an immunity to them given enough exposure.”

Though knowing now what Talia’s ‘long-term plan’ was for making sure Danny didn’t slip through the walls of the headquarters and fly across the ocean, Danny would rather take his chances with the blood blossoms.

Danny might not have been as smart as Vlad, but he was tricky and creative when he needed to be. He knows he’s powerful. And sure, he might forget some of his own abilities every now and then, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use them. In the time he’s been stuck in the Leage’s lair (and coherent), Danny had thought of a dozen escape plans, each one with a high chance of success. If he made an attempt, he could guarantee the League wouldn’t notice until he was a quarter-way across the globe.

Escaping wasn’t the problem. That would be the easy part.

His core burned at the thought of it. And it hurt—as if his entire being was dunked in a vat of dry ice and left to freeze. He hated how he was here and everything that he was protecting was far. Away.

Danny wanted to go home. Wanted to read comic books in his bed, play Doom with Tucker and Sam, sleep in class and make fun of the Box Ghost. He wants to eat his mom’s food, even if there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it would come alive and try to eat him instead. He wants to listen to Jazz try to psychoanalyze his problems. Wants to go fishing with his dad and eat his famous chocolate fudge. Wants to fly above the skies of Amity Park and touch what little he can of the universe before he’s called down again.

Amity Park is his haunt. His Home. The soft hum of the Ghost Portal in the basement a lullaby he’s listened to for so long that sleeping without it was next to impossible. Every fiber of his being craved to go back because how is he supposed to protect Amity if he isn’t there?

But to go back meant sacrificing everyone.

Danny doesn’t risk it.

(The—the last time was an accident. If Danny isn’t—if he isn’t careful, this time it may be an assassination. He refused to have his family’s death on his hands again.)

He has faith in Sam, Tucker, and Jazz to hold down the fort until he could find a way to escape. They’re smart. Smarter than him. They’ll work something out and—in a worst-case scenario, they’ll find a way to shut down the Ghost Portal to stop the ghosts from coming through.

Logic meant nothing to his ghost core, though. The next best thing to do was to drown out his worries with the League’s rigorous education.

Hand-to-hand and weapons combat. Geography. History. Dozens of foreign languages. Poisons and herbology and basic first-aid. His days are packed with new things to learn and to repeat until it’s drilled into his skull so deep he could recite the information in his sleep. (Hyosycamus niger, aka Henbane. Every part is highly toxic and can cause dizziness, stupor, insanity, and eventual death. It’s medicinal uses range from--)

The League demanded perfection. The Demon’s Head demanded even more than that.

Talia oversaw his education. Sometimes, there would be another, older, man by her side, observing his regimen with cold calculation. Whenever that man arrived, Danny’s instructors were always stricter.

His teachers made little effort to interact with him outside of their set schedule, and during his lessons they only ever answer pertinent questions. He supposed there would be other students of the League in Nanda Parbat, but he’s seen neither hide nor hair of them. His rooms (a bedroom + bathroom combo that led out into a large indoor space for training) are separate from everything else.

Danny slept alone, ate alone, and trained alone. And for a boy who has had his two best friends stuck to his side like glue for as long as he could remember, it’s a terribly lonely experience.

His shadow guards don’t count. They might as well be another piece of furniture. Another stone in the wall.

-------

Talia was the only one that broke his new mundane routine, as much as she was the cause of it. She was his only source of companionship in this hell hole; the only one who would really speak to him. And yeah, he knew why that was. Jazz had rambled on enough about Stockholm syndrome to know that this ‘arrangement’ was Talia’s attempts at forging a bond between them. But godit’s just so hard to be stuck inside your own mind all day when. It made him think too much. Worry. (Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif).

And then—

And then.

Danny had asked Talia a multitude of questions, but only two did she ever answer. Both asked when he was still trying to flush the drug cocktail and the blood blossoms from his system.

The first was when he asked, “Why am I here?” She answered that it was because Ra’s al Ghul, her father, wanted him. He had knowledge the Demon’s Head wanted; powers that Ra’s could only ever dream of. The man was curious—though Talia assured him over and over again that Danny wouldn’t be vivisected and studied for science.

The second answer came right after when Danny asked her “How could you be so sure?”

Talia smiled. Lacquered fingers coming up to brush away the dark strands that fell over his face. Her hands traced the curve of his jaw, cupping his cheeks to raise his eyes to hers. “Because you are my son,” she said, voice honey sweet.

He jerked from her hold.

Burned by it.

“You’re lying,” he spat. “I’m already someone else’s son. Try again.”

Talia let her hands drop to her sides. “You are my son.” She took a step closer towards him. Steady. Firm. “That is why you are here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A pitying smile. “Be that as it may, you cannot change the truth.” She approached him, slowly backing him against the wall before she reached out to tilt his chin upwards. Some traitorous part of Danny’s mind catalogued her features. Made connections that shouldn’t exist. “I have carried you in my womb, Daniel. You were a part of me for so very long and I loved you more with each passing day. You are of my body and of my blood—not matter how much you may deny it.”

“No.” He pushed her hands away and raked his hands over his hair. “You’re lying.” She must be. They don’t look alike. Not at all. Everyone always said he was his dad’s—Jack Fenton’s—exact copy. Black haired and blue eyed and sharp-jawed. Awkward but well-meaning and with a heart of gold, his mother said. It was once of the facts of life; Danny took after his dad, and Jazz took after their mom. Simple as that.

(There is a memory resurfacing from his early childhood that Danny is desperately trying to repress again. Memories of kids teasing him on the playground, innocently cruel in the way only children can be as they tried to convince him he was adopted. That his skin looked nothing like his parents’. Dusky where his parents and sister were fair. He went home crying to his parents that same day, and they soothed away his worries with hushed words and a well-timed distraction.)

He asked no more questions after that. Talia was lying to him for some reason, and no answer she could give would be trustworthy anyways. What little of him he could see in her was only a figment of his own imagination. His mind playing cruel tricks.

Then his hopes were dashed aside when Talia showed him a picture of his father a day later.

The man in the photo looked like him. Black haired and eyes the same shade of too-bright blue. There were differences, of course. The man in the photograph was fairer, unlike Danny. He was taller and broader where Danny was lean and lanky. But despite this and all the other minute differences, this man who was supposed to be Danny’s biological father looked like him.

The same slant of the brow. The same shape of the eyes. The way the man held himself with this sense of gravitas and power that Danny couldn’t yet do in his awkward teenage years but had seen before. In a monster another man.

Danny’s future self was terrifying in its inhumanity, but it didn’t take that much of an imagination to know that he looked almost exactly like the man in the picture.

#danny phantom #batman #danny phantom x batman crossover #cw; drug use #phantom children.txt

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iampikachuhearmeroar · 3 years ago

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honestly one of my worst crush rejections from high school was when my years 9-12 crush (let’s call him rich boy) decided to do one of those stupid “like this status and i’ll…..” trend fb statuses that were big when i was in late high school back in 2011-2013….. and it was “like this and i’ll pair you with someone/something for shit & giggles!”. unfortunately for teen me, rich boy decided to pair himself with one of the girls in my group at catholic school, a post which had a load of likes….. while he paired me with fucking lord voldemort (leave me be i was still a hella HP stan at that age). but the post on MY timeline had received no likes but mine (i think) and a like on the weird asf comment that i’d made on it from one of our friends from catholic school.

like 17yo me liked rich boy’s status all bc she just wanted to see if he’d be nice to her on fb bc she was partly getting over the crush by then (mid 2013)…. but she was still hoping he’d write something stupidly romantic like “you’re the elizabeth bennett to my darcy” or some other jane austen pairing; even though she’d never bothered to read jane austen books back then lmao. or even “you’re the hermione granger to my ron weasley” (again LEAVE ME BE) or some other harry potter themed relationship lmao.

obvs it was all bc a couple of years earlier, rich boy had decided at our year 10 formal to hold one of teen me’s high heels up for her when it’d come off in a dance circle lmao. or at that point, she was even happy to be paired with his best friend that he kept trying to hint at her on some joke statuses with flirtatious undertones; that she should go out with him by tagging that friend on them lol.

the crush was also based on the one term long drama group assignment we did together in year 9, and the one (1) seemingly flirtatious comment he’d made to 14yo me in year 9/2010 when i had that short-lived typical train-wreck teen relationship with clear braces boy…. where rich boy and a couple of his friends decided to sit with us (ie to harass us) on the wooden benches at back of year 9/10 lunch area, which were playground hot property for groups to sit on.

but the point is that the flirtatious comment came out as if to sound that rich boy was jealous about that teen me was “off the market” so to speak lmao. but i remember with the drama group assignment, i hated rich boy at the start and wanted to change groups 😂, even asking my teacher to change me to another one. but he made me stay in the group with rich boy to “learn to work with him” lmao 😂😅. i was so overdramatic back then. and then i got the crush on RB like a sickness for 3 years. the jokes’ on me, as usual lol 🙄😂.

she also was holding out secretly that hopefully rich boy was staying at tafe (technical college) with her bc he liked being with her and also wanted to keep her safe from her stalker/creeper from public school (although let’s be real here, he really couldn’t do much about that lmao, that was more her job to deal with and not his) and in general she hoped he was just staying to keep her updated on what was happening at that school when her group from catholic school had stopped talking to her by mid 2013….

when looking back now, he was probs staying bc he was the top of our small tafe theatre tech class along with me lmao… so he was staying there for the good marks and not teen me’s company at all. on top of it all, by the end of the course, i’d stopped talking to him anyway. like 17/18yo me really had a rosy view of everything lmao.

and also, i haven’t seen rich boy (and by extension also clear braces boy although that’s more than 10 years now lol) in almost 10 years now lmao. i legit forgot that he existed for a while bc he never updates his fb; except when something big happens or when he gets tagged in something. or i’m also reminded that he exists when he likes one of my selfies/i update my dp or whatever else; albeit those times are obvs very, very few and far between. and like…. i’ve pretty much forgiven him for the above. bc god. we were both fucking dickhead assholes. and i suppose i should’ve actually expected some stupid witty pairing like voldemort or the like….. and not a real one lmao….. bc after all, we were always sassy/witty/sarcastic/snarky to each other at catholic school; so we had to play that bs out on our fb interactions as well.

which looking back, didn’t breed a good friendship with us either. considering i only ever went to him for rude tit-for-tat conversations, where i always made sure that i got the last quick-witted word in with criticising him when people were around us; and nothing deep and meaningful or serious lmao. bc to teen me, he was only good to talk to for a laugh mostly… but when we did try to talk about other things it was stilted and awkward; bc we didn’t really know how to be consistently nice to each other when we were alone lmao.

and tafe is also where l learnt that we didn’t really have much in common (besides liking 1-2 of the same emo bands- and things like him going to soundwave (ie aussie warped tour/slam dunk fest etc back then)… where i literally posted flirtatiously on his wall one that that i “hated” him for going to it and also made pointed statuses at him about it lmao) like lonely 14-18yo me thought we did lmao.

for example: rich boy was super into classic cinema (one of his projects in our tafe course was building a model house from alfred hitchcock’s psycho), game of thrones and quentin tarantino movies and also he loved basketball…. while i was still obsessed with harry potter as i said earlier, and still into pretty little liars and into the “…….next top model” reality tv juggernaut with australia’s and america’s next top model and the E! celeb channel; amongst other things. i loathed and despised sport, and most especially basketball lmao. i actually tried to read asoiaf/watch GOT bc he liked it lmao (and also had friends at public school who were into it)…. but i couldnt bring myself to do it at the time. like we weren’t compatible at all lmao. but teen me didn’t get it.

but yeah. unrequited teen crushes suck. so, to all of my younger followers, if i have any: if your crush acts like this don’t waste time on thinking they’ll be nice to you lmao; and drop that crush like a hot fucking potato. bc if they’re mean to you (which is what i was running under from all the shitty tween/teen shows i was watching at the time) it defs means that they do NOT like you romantically lmao. fuck that noise.

#life #about me #shut up ilona #relationships i guess #and this why i’m not dating #bc i can’t deal with this level of rejection again lmao

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applepiry · 4 years ago

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Sharing Is Caring [3rd Gym Gang]

Day 11. Orgy (Kenma, Kuroo, Bokuto, Tsukki, Akaashi)

!!18+!!

WC: 6059

Pairing: Fem!YN x Kenma, Kuroo, Bokuto, Tsukki and Akaashi

Contains: Orgy, Oral, Anal, DP, Dubcon, Daddy/Sir Kink, Prasing, Degradation, Vouyerism, Being recorded, semi-public sex... It’s a lot, okay??

Ry: I… I hope you like it u////u

[Smut Under Cut]

You had always loved Volleyball, but due to a knee injury of your own during middle school, could no longer play it, so you decided managing would be the next best thing. You had managed the girls team back in high school, but here at Nekoma University, the girls team already had two managers. You had then been told the boys team had no managers at all aside from the coaches, and you felt compelled to join.

When you had come into the gym on the second day of College, asking about becoming a manager for the Boys Volleyball team, you had been suddenly surrounded and your ears filled with the sounds of happy sobbing. They had all been so excited to get a manager, and a cute girl at that. None of them wasted any time flirting when they could with you, but it was Kenma and Kuroo who had really caught your eye. Something about the two senpai stuck with you.

Surprisingly, the two of them had ended up coming to you, led majority by Kuroo, and asked if you wanted to be in a relationship with the two of them. Of course, you had to keep it mostly a secret, since they didn’t want the other guys on the team to be jealous about it. You did your best to be discreet, and really, it wasn’t odd for you to spend a lot of time with the Captain and Co-Captain, being the only manager they had.

It was now July, and like always, they had their summer week long Tokyo training camp with several other schools, including Karasuno University, a tradition since high school to now invite them.

It was Nekoma University that was hosting this year and you ended up being roomed with the other female managers, all of whom you had only met before at practice matches. You hadn’t really had any time to get to know any of the other members of the other teams, but you didn’t really mind either way.

All the schools were shocked when they had met you, surprised someone was actually Nekoma’s Manager. It had caused Yamamoto to brag happily that they finally got a hot girl as their manager, who could “rival” that of Kiyoko, but that had earned him a smack across the head from you, telling him not to act up and you weren’t in any competitions.

The day went by, helping the other girls with chores around while the boys all played. Every now and then, you’d watch a match or two, but it was mostly time spent with the girls until lunch. Having gone to get more plates, you were heading back when you were stopped.

Kuroo came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and nuzzling the top of your head, “Mmm, it’s been so long since I’ve held you like this,” he purrs in your ear.

You giggle softly, “Tetsu-chan, it’s been since this morning,” you gently remind him.

“But I’ve worked so hard since then!” he whines, “Plus, I won’t be able to just take you home after this,” he murmured into your ear, gently nibbling at it.

“Hm, I guess that is true since we’ll be staying here on campus for the week,” you muse, smirking a bit. “Where’s Kenma?” you wonder, looking around for your other boyfriend.

“Oh, he’s busy with Chibi-chan. They’re like, best friends,” Kuroo explains, shrugging a bit. “He’ll probably come see you later, I can tell he’s getting drained already. Everyone’s gotten so much better since last year,” he goes on, explaining how Tsukishima and Washio had both been getting way better in their blocking skills. You leaned into him, forgetting your mission, snuggling into his back, inhaling his musky scent from all the sweat. “Oh hey, we’ll be doing a two on two later after our main training is done, want to come by and watch?” he asked, peppering your neck with kisses as he spoke.

You let out a soft moan, nodding slowly, “Mmm, sure. I like watching you play,” you tell him.

“Mmm, perfect, princess. You motivate me,” he purrs, nipping your ear again before taking the plates from you. “Well, let’s go before someone tries to come find us,” he laughs.

You can feel yourself blushing, nodding again, “Sure, sure,” you laughed, taking some of the plates back and grinning as Kuroo pouted.

The rest of the day had gone by without a hitch, everyone taking plenty of turns with penalties. They had all grown so much, and it was extremely hard playing against each other at this point. You had just finished cleaning up the main gym, going to change before finding your boyfriends and their friends for the two-on-two game. You had changed from your regular capri’s you wore during practice to a pair of shorts, since it was still hot outside. Still wearing your Nekoma jacket, unzipped, showing off your soft blue tank top, your cleavage bouncing slightly as you walked as you hadn’t worn a bra. Truthfully, you hated them, avoiding them as much as possible.

Getting to the practice gym, you noticed the door was already cracked open, peeking inside. You were honestly shocked they weren’t all exhausted on the floor of the gym after today. You were tired from watching them! Inside were two players from Fukurodani, Kotaro Bokuto and Keiji Akaashi, and the tall middle blocker from Karasuno, Kei Tsukishima, along with your two boyfriends. Akaashi was setting while the two on two game was Kuroo and Bokuto against Kenma and Tsukishima.

Unable to help it as Kenma gave very little effort into blocking, you giggled a bit too loudly, all five pairs of eyes instantly finding you behind the slightly cracked door.

“Hey Hey! LN-chan!” Bokuto was the first to come running to you, opening the door wide and ushering you in, “I didn’t know you’d be stopping by!” his arm slung around your shoulder.

“O-Oh, yeah, I was just… um.. walking by when I heard you all…” you say nervously, Bokuto’s hand on your shoulder gently squeezing. Your eyes flicker to Kenma and Kuroo, hoping they aren’t angry someone else is touching you in such a way. Neither seems bothered, though.

“So you just decided to stop and peek in?” you hear Tsukishima wonder, his arms crossed.

“Well, this is Nekoma’s campus and I am the manager,” you reply, your bottom lip sticking out in a pout, your arms crossing, “I can peek in if I want to.”

“Tsuki! You better be nice to my girlfriend” Kuroo said, coming over to you and pulling you to his chest, Bokuto pouting for a moment before his mouth hung open.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared, quiet for a while.

“Our girlfriend,” Kenma finally said, his voice quiet but loud enough to be heard in the gym.

“EHHHH?” Bokuto shouted, looking between the three of you. “Seriously, seriously!? Wow Kuroo! Kozume! You two are so lucky!” he whined. “I want to date her too!”

“She is very attractive,” Akaashi says, though he’s not as surprised as the others, or at least not showing it.

“You’re seriously dating these two?” Tsukishima asks you, but is only pointing to Kuroo.

“Hey what's that supposed to mean!?” Kuroo growls, “She’s my precious princess!” he declares rather loudly. He turns his attention back to you, “Did you wear those shorts just for us?” Kuroo asks, his voice a purr, “I told you others would be here… Or was this because there’d be others?” he teases, squeezing your hip as he says this, making a rather loud moan escape your lips

Your eyes widen, the sound echoing in the nearly empty gym, your face feeling hotter by the second.

“Wow, that was hot,” Bokuto breaths out, his pants tightening.

Tsukishima is biting his bottom lip so hard you expect to see blood start to drip down his chin.

Akaashi isn’t even looking towards you, but you can see the red in his ears.

Kenma is beside you in an instant, lacing your fingers with his, “Answer his question, kitten,” he purrs into your ear. You whimper, shifting a bit, feeling all eyes on you. Were they trying to tease you in front of the others?

“It.. it wasn’t on purpose… I think they shrunk in the wash…” you manage to get out, burying your face in Kuroo’s shoulder in embarrassment.

“Mmm, but why not wear sweats?” Kuroo presses.

“I… W.. Well….” you stumble, unsure what to say. Yes, you had worn these shorts for your boyfriends, but you hadn’t expected them all to be staring at you this way, with a certain hunger in their eyes that made you squirm.

“Answer him,” Kenma encouraged, “You’re not in trouble,” he reassures you.

“Well, hold on, Kenma, she might be. Teasing guys other than her boyfriends? Doesn’t that sound like something that should be punished?” Kuroo says, his eyes flickering around the room.

Kenma hums in agreement, but waits for your answer.

“I… I wanted to wear these for you two…” you finally tell them honestly, your legs shifting at the odd feeling pooling in your panties.

“So you are being a tease?” Kuroo confirms, smacking your ass with a loud slap. Unable to help it, you let out a yelp, your body shivering a bit. They really had trained your body well in the last few months. His eyes tell you how he wants you to answer him.

“Y-Yes, Daddy,” you murmur.

Bokuto lets out an ungodly loud groan, Akaashi is shifting himself as he tries to adjust his hard-on, while Tsukishima is just staring at you, apparently in shock.

“Good girl,” Kuroo purrs, kissing your temple, “Looks like you’ve got some admirers…”

Your eyes flickering between all of the boys in the gym, looking down and shifting again, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Kenma gently grabs your chin, tilting your head up so you’re looking at him, kissing your lips briefly before forcing you to look at Bokuto.

“Are you going to take responsibility for that?” Kenma whispers in your ear.

Your eyes flicker down to Bokuto’s shorts, seeing how tight they had become from his erection, his eyes looking you up and down.

“Want to show Bokuto-san what a naughty princess you are?” Kuroo wondered out loud. “If you guys want to be involved, her punishment can be to take all of us,” he said, licking his lips as he watched you, gently nudging you towards Bokuto.

You inhaled a shaky breath but nodded at your tall, black haired boyfriend. For some reason, deep within you, you really wanted this, to be shared, with all the eyes watching you.

Bokuto groaned at your silent reply, getting closer to you cautiously, half wondering if this was a dream. “I’m okay with it,” he said, his voice already thick with lust.

“Show him what a good girl you are, even if you are a slutty one,” Kuroo encouraged, smirking.

Once you’re in front of Bokuto, you slip down onto your knees when Kenma lets go of your hand fully, looking up into Bokuto's eyes as you pull his shorts down enough that his cock springs out. As you look it over, you can tell it’s definitely thicker than either Kuroo and Kenma, and you wonder for half a second if it’ll even fit in your mouth. Flicking your tongue over the slit to taste a bead of pre-cum before you run your tongue along the underside, pressing into the vein.

“Akaashi? Tsuki?” It was Kenma that asked, which surprised everyone aside from you, who was too busy slurping on Bokuto’s cock as they spoke. Both stayed silent for a while.

You began taking it all in, making sure to keep your cheeks hollow as you sucked and slurped, your tongue swirling around as best it could. Your head began to bob, your eyes glancing up to see how Bokuto was doing. His face was twisted in pleasure, drool coming from one side of his mouth as his hands rested on your shoulders, gently squeezing as he groaned softly and mumbled.

“A-Akaashi… You need to try her mouth,” Bokuto panted out as he began to move his hips, one of his hands twisted behind your head to keep you from moving back.

Akaashi cleared his throat and shifted a bit, trying to decide what to do, “O.. Okay… As long as.. You guys really don’t care…”

Tsukishima shifted in place, brought out of his trace as he stepped forward, he had been wanting to touch you since the moment he laid eyes on you at the first practice game. “F-Fine…” he grumbles, as if not already hard.

“Not at all, she deserves it for being such a fucking tease,” Kuroo replied as he leaned down to smack your ass again.

You moaned against Bokuto’s cock, the vibration causing him to shiver and begin moving his hips faster, his cock shoving down your throat. While it did burn a bit, you didn’t gag, not having had gag reflex since you were younger, which you were glad for now. Bokuto seems to perk up at this, practically purring as he starts going faster, watching you take his entire cock in your mouth, down into your throat. “F-Fuck,” he pants as he keeps going, his hips getting a bit wilder as he got close.

Kuroo smirks and pulls you away, lifting you up by hooking his arms under your armpits. You whine softly, looking back at him with confusion.

Bokuto mimics your whining, “Kuroo! What was that for? I was so close!” he complains.

“Exactly, do you want this to end that quickly?”

“Fuck you that was quick!” Bokuto snaps. “She’s just that good!”

“Oh, I know,” Kuroo grins widely and unzips your jacket the rest of the way, slipping it off your shoulders before lifting your top up to your neck, exposing your breasts and the fact you didn’t have a bra on.

“Oh, not wearing a bra? Wow, did you want this to happen, princess?” he wonders as he gently gropes one, pressing his hard-on against your back.

To be fair, you had expected sex from your boyfriends, not expecting them to tease you like this and share you. “I…” your eyes flicker to everyone before looking back at him, “I wanted you to touch me right after practice, Daddy,” you murmur, feeling all the pairs of eyes boring into your exposed body.

“Now your daddies have to share you because you were a naughty girl. You better be on your best behavior and show our friends a good time, okay? What kind of host would we be if you don’t help them relieve some stress?” Kuroo’s words swim in your head, making you whimper softly at the thought of all these men being inside of you.

Kenma reaches over, rolling one of your nipples between this thumb, making you moan loudly. “Who do you want to fuck you first?” he asks, and when you don’t answer right away, he pinches it again, making you wiggle and whine as Kuroo holds you up, his arms hooked under yours again. “Answer faster, kitten,” Kenma urges.

You look around at all the men, swallowing a hard lump in your throat as you finally reply, “Bokuto-san…”

Bokuto grins widely and jumps up, “Yes!” he shouts, excited to try out your pussy since your mouth had been so amazing. Your eyes lock with Akaashi for a moment, your mouth opening in response to the hunger in his eyes, sticking your tongue out as an invitation.

“Isn’t she such a pretty thing~” Kuroo coos as he picks you up, making you squeak, and leads everyone into the gym equipment room. Kenma and Akaashi get one of the mats and get it settled before Kuroo places you onto it, “Get onto all fours for now,” he instructs.

You waste no time obeying, getting onto your hands and knees, looking up at all five of them with curiosity sparkling in your eyes.

“Fuck, that’s a sexy look,” Kuroo curses under his breath, palming himself as he watched Bokuto get behind you and Akaashi get in front. Seeing you in this way made him just want to take you himself, but he was going to enjoy all of this.

Kenma gently nudged Tsukishima into going to stand by Akaashi, mentioning how you only needed one hand to balance yourself.

“Aw, shit, do you guys have condoms?” Bokuto wonders.

Kenma shrugs, “It’ll be fine, right, kitten?”

You nod, “Y-Yes, c-cum inside me,” you murmur, looking over your shoulder just enough to lock eyes with Bokuto.

“Stop. Bokuto, spank her. Hard,” Kuroo stern voice sends shivers down your spine.

Bokuto instantly did so without question, smacking your ass rather hard, a handprint shaped welt starting to form already as he looked towards Kuroo in confusion. You let out a yelp, your knees shaking as you try your best to stay up, whimpering, eyes tearing up a bit. “Ah- Sorr-'' he goes to apologize for being too hard but Kuroo stops him.

“Don’t apologize to her, she deserved that. What do you say, princess?” Kuroo urges, his eyes narrowed.

You swallowed hard, “P-Please cum inside me, Sir,” you say more clearly, fixing your earlier words, looking back at Bokuto with pleading eyes. Your legs are shaking, your hips wiggling as you try to get some friction on your already sopping pussy.

Kuroo grins, “Good girl,” he sweetly spoke to you now, then turned his attention on the others, “Now it’s okay to give her attention,” he told them.

Bokuto nodded excitedly, “Don’t mind if I do, then,” he purrs, his erection lining up with your folds as he runs the length against you, shivering a bit at the sound of your slick echoing in the room. “She’s so wet,” you hear Bokuto’s deep voice ring in your ears.

“She’s a good kitten,” Kenma murmurs, sitting in the corner on some equipment, one hand slowly rubbing his stiff cock while the other holds the phone’s camera focused solely on you.

You gently paw at Akaashi’s shorts until he pulls them down enough that his large cock springs out, slapping onto your tongue that you had stuck out again for him. Knowing you need your hand for other things, you slurp Akaashi’s cock into your mouth, your tongue pressed flat against the underside vein as you hollow out your cheeks and begin to suck vigorously.

“F-Fuck,” Akaashi hisses out.

Your hand goes up to find Tsukishima, who seems to have understood as he’s suddenly there, his own shorts already down. While his cock looks like the thinnest in terms of girth, he also appears to be rather long, maybe even rivaling Kuroo’s length. You begin to pump at his cock as you bob your head around Akaashi’s length, trying to focus on everything all at once. Letting out a loud whimper you think about all these different cocks about to stuff you, shivering a bit.

Akaashi grips your hair, his body shaking a bit at the vibrations from your throat as his hips begin to move, taking over some of your thinking for you as you allow him to simply face fuck you, still minding to keep your cheeks hollow as you do your best to give Tsukishima a good hand-job.

Bokuto licks his lips as he stares at your ass, rubbing his length across you a few more times before he slowly begins pushing the head in, inhaling sharply at how tight you are. “Ooooh fuck… She’s so wet but still.. so tight…” he groans, still pushing inside of you, giving you little time to adjust to the burning stretch you were feeling.

You end up choking and coughing a bit around Akaashi’s cock from the feeling of Bokuto filling your pussy up, but that only makes Akaashi grip your hair that much tighter, his hips keeping his rhythm as you adjusted back. “Good girl,” Akaashi’s praise reached your ears, making you purr, eyes looking up at him with interest.

“She’s a natural fuck doll, isn’t she?” Kuroo says, his voice dripping with pride. He and Kenma had made you sensitive to touches and praise, sure, but you were a natural all on your own, and Kuroo was extremely proud to be able to call you his princess.

Behind you, Bokuto pushes all the way inside of you, pressing against your cervix, threatening to push through. He pulls nearly all the way out before pushing back in, getting into a rhythm similar to that of Akaashi’s, with a bit more force behind every deep seeth of his cock into your throbbing hole. You can feel him pressing against every nerve, making your body spasm a bit, your first light orgasm washing over your body. Bokuto groans, shivering as he feels you tighten more around him, licking his lips. You let out a soft whimper when he speaks, your hand squeezing gently around Tsuki’s cock, still pumping away at it and trying to stay in a proper rhythm.

“I think she came from that,” he purred.

“I think you’re right,” Kuroo purred from his spot on your other side, watching you closely, hungrily, as you take all of this with stride, stroking his own cock.

Bokuto’s hips slap against your ass, keeping his pace and strength about the same with every stroke. His thumb gently nudges against your puckered asshole.

“Do you guys use here?” he asks in between pants.

You moan around Akaashi’s cock at the feeling of your butt being played with, anal being something you do enjoy.

“All the time,” Kuroo replies, “Do you want to?” he offers, smirking. “If so…” he trails off a bit.

“I do,” Bokuto replies quickly, having never done anal before and extremely excited to try. “If that’s okay with you?” a large, rough hand rubs your bottom gently, waiting for an answer.

You try to swallow around Akaashi’s cock, your stomach twisting, waiting to be filled up in that way, knowing someone else would take a place in your pussy as well. Akaashi pulls his cock out of your mouth, gently stroking himself.

You nod slowly, “It’s okay, sir,” you give your reply to Bokuto.

Kuroo explains to Bokuto how to get you ready, then explains to Akaashi and Tsuki that they’ll have to move you around a bit. They all seem to disappear at once, and Kenma is beside you, his soft voice filling your entire being with a special warmth.

“How are you doing, kitten?” he asks you, cupping your face as the guys all move around you, adjusting everything in the room you were occupying.

“G-Good, Daddy,” you pant out, your throat getting sore already, your wrist tired and your pussy throbbing still from the after shock of your orgasm.

Kenma smiles, kissing your lips sweetly, despite you just having sucked off two different guys, “Have fun, okay, and remember our hand-signals,” he kisses your forehead before moving back again when you nod, remembering the signals in case you needed to stop.

Perhaps that was why Kenma was staying out of it, at least for now, wanting to make sure you were being properly taken care of. Not that Kuroo would let them seriously hurt you, but Kenma had a bit of a sharper eye. Kenma shifts back to the corner, having put the phone down for now. You let out a whimper when you feel your hips being grabbed, looking behind you as you see Bokuto on his knees, moving so he was under you.

“I’m going to start now, okay?” You barely registered Bokuto’s voice before his well lubed, large finger slowly pushed into your puckered hole.

Your body adjusted quickly, used to this, moaning freely now that Akaashi had taken his cock out. He got between Bokuto’s legs, the two of you facing each other as you sit up slightly as your ass is played with. Akaashi’s lips catch yours, kissing you deeply before his mouth moves down your neck, to your collarbone and finally to your breasts, playing with one. His mouth descended one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around the bud as he sucked, making it nice and stiff before moving onto the other one.

With your mouth now free, Tsukishima stood near Bokuto’s side, his crotch eye-level as he stroked his cock, getting close enough that you could lean in, wrapping your lips around the long length. You bobbed your head for a while before Tsukki took over, his hands tangled in your hair as he controlled the pace and depth.

Under you, Bokuto had added another finger, scissoring your asshole to prepare you, eventually adding a third before he was comfortable enough to lube his cock up and press the head against you. He slowly took his fingers out before they were quickly replaced with his cock, causing you to hiss around Tsukishima’s long erection. Bokuto was definitely thicker than Kuroo, as the burning sensation was a bit more than usual. Akaashi kept sucking on your nipple, playing with the other until Bokuto was fully seated inside you. With a soft pop, he disconnected and got closer, the head of his own erection rubbing against your sopping pussy entrance.

“May I?” Akaashi wondered right as Tsukishima pulled your mouth off his cock, having gotten close and was now bringing himself back down a bit.

You nod listlessly, panting heavily, “P-Please fill me up, Sir.”

Akaashi shivers visibly before he begins pressing inside you, moaning at how tight you are as he gets all the way inside of you. His cock curves the opposite way of Bokuto’s cock, making it so they’re pressing the same way inside of you, hitting the same areas in different ways, rubbing against the thin walls that connect the two areas. You whimper and moan loudly, your mouth falling open and Tsukishima taking this as an invite to shove his cock back down your throat.

A familiar hand grabs your wrist, a large hand you’d know anywhere, Kuroo. He leads your hand to his erection, and you eagerly wrap your fingers around it, stroking it as best you could. You wished you could look at him, but your eyes could barely focus on anything, let alone someone who felt so far away. Here you were, sandwiched between two men who were not neither of your boyfriends, slurping and sucking on a cock that wasn’t either, while giving a sloppy handjob to your oldest boyfriend. Where even was Kenma? You could barely focus, panting heavily anytime Tsukishima pulled his cock out, just to ram it back in.

You could feel Bokuto’s hips snapping behind you, slapping against your ass with a squishy smack. His hands held onto your hips, keeping you as still as possible as he thrusted upwards into you. Warm air that you assumed was his breath made your back feel a little sweaty, but oddly, the smell of the room was becoming sweet.

Akaashi had his face buried in the crook of your neck, his cock buried deep inside your pussy as he and Bokuto moved in opposite rhythms, only occasionally slamming into you at the same time. His tongue grazed along your neck, occasionally biting and gently sucking on your lower neck. You really hoped he wasn’t leaving marks, but you also did not have the ability to say anything. It was a good thing you had gotten used to hiding hickeys, since Kuroo, and surprisingly Kenma, loved leaving marks all over. Although, they didn’t usually go for your neck.

You choked a bit as Tsukishima pushed himself down into your throat a bit more than before, which caused Kenma to speak up from somewhere in the room.

“Be gentle with her, it’s only the first day of training camp,” he said quietly, but with a certain sternness in his voice.

“Yeah if you wreck her too much, she won’t be able to stay and that wouldn’t be okay,” Kuroo said in between pants, watching you take three cocks at once while jerking him off.

Tsukishima hissed a bit, “Sorry, YN,” he managed to say from between gritted teeth, his pace picking up but at the same time, becoming a bit gentler with you.

You tried to mumble against his cock that it was okay, but it just sounded like a garbled mess as his cock went in and out of your mouth. It was you that started up again, bobbing your head so that he felt comfortable. Kuroo groaned beside you, bucking his hips into your hand haphazardly, “You’re so cute,” you heard him breath out in between grunts.

Akaashi’s face was still buried in your neck’s crook this entire time, still biting and sucking away at parts of your soft flesh. His hands gripped your thighs, while Bokuto’s hands held tight onto your hip bones. Tsukishima pulled his cock out and began stroking it for a while, panting heavily as he grumbled about being close again. Ah, so he was doing his best to keep from coming first. You wondered for a moment if anyone else felt the same way. But, this gave you an opportunity to moan as much as you wanted to, the sound flooding the room. Bokuto’s movements started getting faster from behind you, making you cry out as his thick cock pressed deep inside your ass.

“F-Fuck, she’s getting tighter…”

You weren’t sure whose voice it was at this point, the voice muffled by something. Your eyes blurry with tears as Tsukishima puts his cock back into your mouth.

Over all, every part of you tingling with pleasure; every touch, movement, kiss to your flesh, finger tangled in your hair, felt amazing.

Inside of you, you could feel Bokuto’s cock twitching like crazy, his hip movements getting messy as he started to chase his high. His fingers dug into your hips, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck as he tried to go deeper inside of you. Akaashi had began going a bit slower, but was still pushing in deep. As the two slam inside of you at the same time, they both press against bundles of nerves. You did your best to scream around Tsukishima’s cock, coughing a little, as you came around Bokuto and Akaashi’s cocks, tightening up once more.

Bokuto moaned loudly, shouting your name once before his teeth sunk into the back of your neck, causing you to scream around Tsukishima’s cock. Bokuto began rutting inside of you as he emptied his semen deep inside your hole, his hips sputtering a bit when he finished. He slumped more against you, panting heavily as his grip on your hips loosened, now gently rubbing at them as Akaashi began picking up pace.

Tsukishima groaned as the vibrations from your throat caused his orgasm to start. He held your head in pace, his cock most of the way in as he finished, mumbling your name quietly as he did so. You swallowed what you could, some of it dribbling down the corner of your mouth, as Tsukishima pulled his cock out. Once his cock was gone, so was his hand that had been tangled in your hair.

After a few moments of panting, Kuroo’s hard cock was against your lips, his sweet voice filling your ears, “Daddy is close, finish me off, my good princess.”

Your eyes fluttered open as you looked at him, opening your mouth again after you caught your breath. Behind you, Bokuto slowly pulled out, making you gasp at the empty feeling, but it was still nice and warm, a present that Bokuto had left behind. You quickly start sucking on Kuroo’s cock, moaning at the familiar taste.

Akaashi is still going strong, his hips slapping against yours. His pace picked up a bit, but he focused on pushing in as deeply as he could, adjusting every few strokes. His cock was twitching inside of you, and you knew he was getting close, but he was also trying to make you cum again. He smirked a bit as his cock rubbed against the bundle of nerves he was looking for, causing you to once again scream around a cock. Kuroo’s cock slipped deeper inside, making him groan loudly, shivering at the feeling of your throat around the head.

As your pussy and throat tightened at the same time, both remaining men dumped their loads inside you. Kuroo’s cock spurted down your throat, making you swallow it whether you wanted to or not. He pulled out once he was done so you could breathe properly.

Akaashi bit down on your shoulder as he shoved deeply inside you, his hips barely moving as he rubbed circles against your clit. You felt his lips move against your flesh, and you wondered what he said for a split second. After a few moments, he pulled out slowly, groaning quietly. You whimpered softly, your body shaking as it began to fully realize what had just happened.

Almost instantly, you slumped down, leaning into Akaashi as his strong hands held you up from collapsing completely against him. You heard several voices at once as your eyes slowly closed, your breathing slowing down as you began to pass out.

“YN!” was the last thing you heard, Kenma’s worried voice sounding so close.

When you came to, your eyes fluttered open, noticing the ceiling of the equipment room.

“Ah, YN is awake!” It was Bokuto, who was staring at your face rather closely.

You tried to sit up, wincing as you did so, laying back down and realizing your head had been laying in Kenma’s lap.

“YN, be careful, please.” Kenma’s voice sounded worried.

“Bokuto got too rough with you, didn’t he?” It was Kuroo, who was beside you, holding your hand and giving it sweet kisses.

“Nuh uh! It was Tsuki!” Bokuto pouted.

“Tch, whatever,” grumbled Kei, who was at the foot of where you were laying. You realized his hand was on your calve in a way that indicated he had been massaging them. Akaashi was on the other side, still massaging the other leg, his eyes watching you.

“How do you feel?” Akaashi wondered.

Kuroo held a water bottle up to your lips, making you drink before you answered.

“Sore,” is the only thing you can think to reply, but when all five pairs of eyes stare at you with worry, it causes you to laugh. Their looks quickly turn to confusion.

“How is that funny, YN?” Tsuki asked.

“It just feels like I have five boyfriends,” you tell them in between giggles, “I don’t mind the soreness, so don’t be too concerned.” you add, smiling softly at them all.

“Ah you’re so cute, YN! Date me too!” Bokuto whined, getting close to you and kissing your cheek, “I want to kiss your lips lots!”

Kenma glared a bit, pulling you closer, helping you sit up, nuzzling into you as you sat in his lap. His eyes scanned over your neck, noting all the marks that had been made. “I already had to share enough,” he grumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “But I guess I don’t mind with these guys…” he quietly added.

“Really?” Bokuto and Tsuki said, their tones different variations of questioning.

“Look at that, Kenma is being so honest!” Kuroo teased, smirking and giving him a kiss on the cheek, causing Kenma to use a free hand to shove him. His arms wrapped around you again, sighing.

Bokuto grinned and leaned in, kissing your lips sweetly before he pulled away. That was when you noticed everyone was dressed again, including yourself.

“How did i…?” you start to wonder.

“Kenma and Keiji got you dressed,” Kuroo told you, as if reading your mind.

“Thank you two.”

Akaashi nodded, his face covered in a small blush, “N-No problem…”

Kenma kissed your neck in response.

“We should probably get back to the dorms before anyone comes looking for us…” someone suggested. Bokuto ended up picking you up bridal style, as he had the strongest arms.

“What are we supposed to say when we drop her off?” Bokuto wonders.

“I-I’ll walk into the room! I am not answering to Yukie-chan and Kaori-chan!” you groan, leaning against Bokuto’s broad chest.

This is for @vixenpen @starry-eyed234 ‘s Event!

MasterList for XXXMas

Main Event Post

#haikyu x reader #haikyu x y/n #haikyu x you #haikyu x female reader #kenma kozume #tetsuro kuroo #kotaro bokuto #kei tsukishima #keiji akaashi #haikyuu!!#xxxmas2020 #xxxmas #applepiry #applepiry.content

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