#the water in my faucet is actually pretty good when its cold

[separatist-apologist]

You know what. I am not surprise if people hate water. Because as a water lover, i have notice a huge different taste of water from different brand. My fav one has mineral in it and taste very good, some taste weird and it lean very far away from 'acidic' taste and taste kinda sour. But i have water filter at home. It is Coway, it is good but the hot water taste not my cup of water. Cuckcoo water filter brand is good too. If I am not mistaken this two brand are from Korea in case you are interested. However, please note this water filter brand filter almost everything out of the water and i read somewhere about the lack of minerals argument on this 2 brand.

My conclusion is, perhaps you dont like water because of the taste? I was suggesting btw since I notice the taste different. Happy Holiday

Anon, I appreciate this attempt at troubleshooting my refusal to drink a human amount of water on any given day. The problem isn't the taste, it's the lack of caffeine. It's just GOOD for you without ANY OTHER BENEFIT. I need my brain to be marinating in the go fast chemical or I will skid to a halt like a freight train slamming into a mountain side.

[autogynocrat]

Your face is always so smooth and pretty what's your shaving protocol/equipment

i shave approximately every 2 to 3 days depending on how fast it grows back, day 1 after shaving isn't noticeable enough for me to have problems, but by day 2 i start being able to feel and see it, and i become at risk of being distressed by it. day 3 is the longest i can go without beginning to suffer mentally for it. if, for whatever reason, i go a week without shaving, my mental state gets so bad i can barely get out of bed, i start freaking out, dysphoria goes into overdrive, not a good scene.

cerave cream to foam cleanser first so i dont have any product or too much oil and dead skin my face

i try to splash some warm to hot water on my face, like a little below steaming, has to not burn, but decently hot, helps open the pores i think, and soften the hairs. i think if you used a hot towel it would be better, like wet it down and microwave it somewhat, idk, i have a theory bu i never tried it.

next i mostly use any gel based shave cream, although my favorite i think has been this aveeno one

for razor i use gillette pro fusion 5 blades, i have the one with the vibrating handle but im not sure how much of a difference it matter or not. when im washing my face i usually have it directly under the hot water faucet to warm up the blade, no idea if this matters but i feel like a hot blade will cut through hair better than a cold one.

for actual shaving technique i go first in the direction of the growth, so downwards on cheeks for example. then i do another pass in the opposite direction, and then finally i do a couple of perpendicular passes. i repeat this throughout my face and neck and chin. some areas i have to do repeated passes again, like my chin area, due to the density of the hair follicles there. i have to be more careful around the neck and mustache, thats where i get the most cuts and nicks. for the mustache area i usually finish up with the precision trimmer blade, thats one of the things i like about the fusion 5, it has a smaller single bladed part for the smaller areas like the mustache. but basically same principle. with the hair first, then multiple passes in t he opposite direction until it feels smooth. i just keep repeating until i can't feel any hair on my face, because if theres any at all, it can send me into a really awful spiral of dysphoria, so i prefer to get rid of it entirely.

afterwards i follow up with my normal skincare routine. if its in the evening i do hyaluronic acid serum, retinol serum, vitamin c and/or niacinimide serums. for the last step i apply a moisturizer, usually cerave cream moisturizer. a little goes a long way. if im shaving in the morning then my skincare routine is a little simpler. usually just moisturizer and sunscreen, or even just sunscreen if i think the one i have is moisturizing enough.

[blueberry28]

Castle Built On Lies

Chapter 1

Ombré. The rich and vibrant yet so subtle and soothing shades of sunset ombré, I stare into the depths of the colours. Just how smoothly they blend in, the hues of richest and most orange shades of yellow to orange to pink to very slight red almost a hint of white added in the red type of red which in actuality is pink but is mixed with the blues creating a very unique colour to purple and then blue at the very top. It looks so alluring that one can get drunk on its beauty. The way that yellow shade beams across the horizon just shows how elegantly the sun has dipped down, bidding us goodbye for the day and going back to its cycle of letting the moon borrow some of its light and shine.

Just as I was drinking in all these pretty little details while holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in another, a deep voice startled me. I flinched, just a little not much as I was busy gazing at the sky trying to look beyond it, forgetting that a world behind it exists, a world so bitter, so gruesome and so cruel. I hear the voice this time more loudly with a pair of heavy footsteps saying, “Scarlett, get ready soon. We have guests coming over tonight. They are very important to us, to me. I want you to behave and not create a scene”. I reply nonchalantly, “Yes Father, I will. As you wish. Anything else that you wish for?” He exhales a heavy breath and turns around shaking his head in denial very firmly, and says a few words before exiting the balcony, “I bought a dress, wear it and come downstairs by 7. Make it clear.”

He has left my room and closed the door behind me. I sigh. I don’t want to do this, he brings the shittiest kind of clothes I’ve ever seen. I mean yes they are pretty, actually very pretty but they are too much out of my comfort zone. They expose too much of my skin and I’m not comfortable with showing my skin off to people. But again, do I have any other option left? No. I mean yeah, I can surely disobey him and wear what I want to but then I’ll have to face consequences for it and I’m too tired to do that, I just rebelled against him by not wearing the clothes he told me to, at this absurd and sick party of his at a club, nearly two weeks ago. So no, I’m good with it, I’ll just throw a matching sweater on, and it's September anyway, it's cold enough for me to do so. ‘I really need to clear my head’ I say to myself and head towards the bathroom after tipping the mug over my mouth and devouring the last sip of coffee in it.

I’m standing under the shower letting the warm water do its magic to soothe me and heal me, I press my head against the cold marble wall while the water is running down my back. I’ve bathed but I’m not able to clear my head so I stand straight under the shower turn the faucet’s dial towards the coldest setting in it and feel each water droplet glide down my skin. Cold, it’s so cold that it gives me warmth in its cold embrace. I like to stand under cold showers and I’ve gotten so used to it that I don’t even fall sick when I stand for more than thirty minutes as well. I realize I’ve been standing here for too long as I feel my legs are sore so I make a move to turn the faucet off and wrap a bathrobe around my skin.

My skin doesn’t belong to me, it’s disfigured in all the possible ways, I’ve learned to love my skin though, I guess I’m hoping I did and remind myself it’s not who I am and I’ll never be that little girl again, never. A flame of revenge burns in my eyes, if only that incident hadn’t occurred I guess I would have been lying around and my hair would have been stroked by—I stop my thoughts and cut myself because this is a possibility I shouldn’t dwell, it’s never going to come true.

I contain my emotions as I dry my skin—body off and wear my undergarments, and then I wear the dress given by my father. It’s a pretty purple dress, with a deep neck cut, and a big open back. The length of the dress reaches my heels and pools a little on the floor with a slit till mid-thigh on my left leg. The material is soft, it’s made of silk, and the silhouette hugs my body, tight enough to show off curves of mine if I have any because for as long as I remember my father has had an obsession with extremely thin bodies for girls, he finds it more feminine. I wear block heels of purple colour with silver straps and now the cloth has stopped touching the floor. 

All of a sudden there’s a knock on the door, I say “Come in” in a total daze, the wooden door creaks open and my brother is standing at the door saying, “Get ready faster", Father seems very serious about today’s guest, it’s almost 6:30, try to come down before 7.” I simply nod, not having the energy in me to reply, I go to my wardrobe, pick out my purple sweater with silver streaks matching my jewelry, and wear it on top. I dried my hair before stepping out of the bathroom, long thick brunette hair till my upper thigh, the same colour as my eyes, I tied it up in a ponytail, applied some light makeup on my face and concealer on my exposed skin, and went downstairs after taking in the longest breath to calm my nerves down.

-Mahek T.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

heated, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: An (innocent?) conversation about D/s dynamics accidentally leads to you confessing that you think about your childhood best friend while getting off. To your childhood best friend, Jeon Jungkook. Erm. This is after he told you that you would be “an awful sub”, btw.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, discussions about adult topics; reader is bisexual; smut (fem reader, dry humping, fingering, [tiny bit] m-receiving oral, penetrative sex); fluffy af; non-idol!AU; F2L; softdom!Jungkook x softbrat!reader; you kind of have a forearm kink and you never let Jungkook have his lovey-dovey moment, whoops

MMA 2020 ‘ON’ Jungkook? Yeah. That one.

--

“I could never be a sub.”

You clicked rapidly as you spoke, mashing the right button on your mouse. It was quite loud, paired with your mechanical keyboard.

“Why not?”

The music coming from Jeon Jungkook’s smartphone was a rhythm game, nearly as loud as you, since he was grunting angrily at it. It was very obvious when he missed a beat.

“I can’t imagine that being me, you know?”

You, on the other hand, were on your computer, playing with the new items in League of Legends from the latest patch. Using the practice tool, you had loaded up your favorite champion, Jhin, the Virtuoso, and messed with various builds, trying to find the best combination. So far, Lethality was feeling pretty good.

“Like why would I ever let my pleasure be handled by someone else?” you mused, reading the high damage numbers of each shot. Oh, the fourth shot felt nice. “That sounds stupid.”

Jungkook rolled over on your bed, growling in his throat as the level ended. He restarted it, trying to get a better score. “Maybe people like to let go sometimes. You know, not always be in control.”

You snorted. “I could never trust someone else with my body.”

“You got an alien body or something?”

“Shut up, Jungkook.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Anyway,” Jungkook continued, ignoring your outburst. “I didn’t ask if you could be a sub, I just asked what you thought of domination and submission as a dynamic in general.”

You shrugged, trying to see if you could do Baron alone. Welp, you needed lifesteal, of course. “I mean, I’ve tried it in various situations. I was never the sub.”

“Kinky.”

“Shut up, Jungkook.”

“No.” Jungkook suddenly sat up, excited that he achieved a higher score. “Look, look. I got ninety-eight.”

You craned your head to look at his phone screen. “Why isn’t it one hundred? You’re a disgrace to this family.”

He bopped you on the nose with his phone. “If I was part of your family, your family would be even more dysfunctional than it is now.”

You rubbed your nose and looked up at him. “How much gel did you use in your hair? You look like a wet dog.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows went up and he touched his long black hair. “It’s not crunchy though.” He grabbed your hand and lowered his head, placing your palm on his slicked back hair. “See?”

You pulled your hand back, staring at your palm. “Still feels weird though. I call sorcery.”

He shrugged, creaking the black leather jacket he was wearing. He wore a black t-shirt under it. The black jeans he had been wearing were on your bed, swapped for the black joggers he kept at your place. You weren’t really sure why he left the jacket on. Maybe he was cold or something. It was pretty cold in your apartment. You were wearing fleece green pajamas with Pikachu all over them.

“You want me to turn the heat up?” you said, gesturing to his jacket.

Jungkook looked down at his chest. “Eh. It’s fine. Saves you money.”

You shrugged, getting up from your chair, leaving the League client open. “You’re only staying a little while, right? Party to go to and all that?”

Jungkook followed you as you left your room. “Told you it was cancelled, so I was just going to sleep over. No reason to go back home.”

You turned around, walking backwards. “When did you say it was cancelled?”

Jungkook raised his dark eyebrows. “Literally when I walked in your apartment.”

“Hah.”

You turned back around and went to your fridge, grabbing an aloe juice. Jungkook went to your water kettle, hunting for hot chocolate among your tea packets.

“You’d make an awful sub anyway,” Jungkook said, returning to the original subject as he filled the kettle with water from your filtered sink faucet. “Like, probably the fucking worst.”

You took a large swig and glared at him. “Alright, first of all, you wouldn’t even–”

“You’re terrible with authority.”

You paused. “Okay, true.”

“You’re angry, twenty-four, seven.”

You walked up to him and slapped him in his very hard pecs. He gestured at his chest, as if to indicate, exhibit A.

“And you’re super uptight.”

“I am not uptight.”

“Control freak.”

“That’s–”

Jungkook turned around and placed the kettle on its stand. You swooped in with a Pikachu-themed kitchen towel and wiped the excess water away, scowling. Jungkook raised his eyebrows at you, brown eyes laughing.

“That’s literally a safety hazard!” you exclaimed, waving the towel at him.

Jungkook rolled his eyes and pressed the button to start heating the water. “Haven’t you ever just… not freaked out over every little thing? Done something spontaneous and stupid?”

You placed the kitchen towel back in its proper place. “No, because that would be spontaneous and stupid, Jeon Jungkook.”

He leaned against the counter, watching you perfectly fold the towel into three parts and hang it on the rail. He scratched his nose, shaking his head. “You should be more like me.”

“Having the police called on you because you were standing on a lawn chair tooting a party horn at four in the morning?”

“That was one time! Stop bringing it up,” Jungkook groaned.

You raised your hands in innocence. “Well, I was the one called to pick you up because you literally couldn’t remember any other number and I was very disturbed on New Year’s Eve, where I should have been peacefully sleeping and not hauling your drunk ass across town.”

Jungkook sighed exaggeratedly. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t drink that much again. Jimin made me do shots–”

“You always blame Park Jimin,” you interjected, smiling. “Jimin’s the kind of guy who only wears clothes to take them off.”

“Well, it gets him laid, so I guess it’s working.”

The kettle whistled noisily, cutting through the conversation. You took a sip from your aloe juice as Jungkook grabbed a mug from your cupboard and poured the hot chocolate powder into it.

“You want some milk?”

He looked up. “You have milk?”

You went to the fridge and took out a small carton. “Because you said you were coming.”

“Aw, what a sweetie.”

“Shut up, Jungkook.”

“No.”

That’s how it was with you two. Growing up together was the same conversation over and over of you constantly saying shut up and Jungkook always replying with no. If both your dads hadn’t been such good friends, you probably wouldn’t have been able to tolerate him. Since they were, you were forced to, which turned out to be okay, since it turned out you had similar interests in games and such. It drifted apart a bit when you two entered high school, but you two reconnected once university started.

The dysfunctionality Jungkook was referring to was your two older sisters, who both got pregnant out of wedlock and thus caused a lot of tension between them, your parents, and you, the one who hadn’t actually done that yet. And you were trying to keep it that way.

Jungkook poured half-water and half-milk, stirring it with a silver spoon he found in your drawer. You lived alone, having gotten a full scholarship to be able to pay for tuition, meals, and part of a small apartment. Your parents paid for the rest – another point of strain between you and your sisters. That’s why you kept your grades up and rarely went out.

“When was the last time you fucked a guy?”

You sucked the inside of your cheek. “Dunno. Maybe two years ago.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows and took a long sip. “So, only girls, huh?”

You tilted your head and sighed. “They don’t get you pregnant.”

“Neither does a condom.”

“That’s a ninety-eight percent chance, not one hundred.”

He licked the excess off his pink lips. He looked like he wanted to say something, but reconsidered, taking another sip before replying. “You don’t miss dick?”

“I mean, a dildo is a dick.”

Jungkook nearly spat out his hot chocolate. You snatched your Pikachu towel again and threatened him with it. He raised a hand, coughing.

“A dildo is not a dick,” he hacked out. “You insult me.”

“Hmph.” You turned back around and placed the Pikachu towel back in its place, making sure the graphic was perfectly centered.

“You tell your parents?”

You narrowed your eyes. ‘Why the fuck would I tell my parents that I fuck girls instead of guys to avoid getting pregnant?”

He shrugged. “Give them peace of mind?”

“You think too highly of the generation before us.”

Jungkook gave you a weird look. “So… you’re just using them?”

“No.” You paused. “Okay, maybe a little, but it’s not because they’re girls. I guess I haven’t found someone who understands me yet.”

He took a long, noisy sip of hot chocolate. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“No one can understand you if you only fuck once and drop them.”

“Wouldn’t you fucking know,” you replied irritably.

“Now, I fuck multiple times before I realize it’s not going to work out,” Jungkook countered.

You shoved your bottle of aloe juice back into your fridge. Suddenly, you weren’t thirsty anymore.

“Is that the only reason?”

You closed the fridge door.

“Reason for what?”

“Is fear of pregnancy the only reason you fuck girls?”

“I don’t know!” you shouted, throwing your hands up. You spun around, blowing hot air. “I don’t fucking know why I do it, Jungkook. I don’t know why I load up dating apps to only hook up with girls, I don’t know why I don’t try to get into relationships with them, I don’t know what is wrong with me and why I can’t give anyone a chance and I don’t know why you pop up in my head every time I try to fucking masturbate! It is annoying and I do not like it, so I try to get off with someone else!”

Your chest was heaving with exertion and annoyance, hand curled onto a fist and planted on your kitchen counter, glaring at the space past Jungkook’s head, muscle twitching in your cheek. Your heart was beating so fast it didn’t feel real.

Silence.

“Fuck you, Jungkook.”

And then you turned around, stalking back to your bedroom.

Or would have, if you didn’t hear the clink of the mug touching the kitchen counter and Jungkook grabbing your upper arm, yanking you back, slamming you against his muscular body. You hissed, staring into his chest.

“Let me go.”

“Hold on a second.” You watched Jungkook take a deep breath, his toned, tan skin rising and falling. The silver necklace on his collarbones flashed as he breathed. “Just hold on a damn second.”

Your eyes were on the low neckline of his black shirt. It felt weird being close to him. Not that you two haven’t been physically close, because you had. But it had never been like this. Since you realized he wouldn’t leave your mind every time you tried to masturbate. Since you started looking to other people to push him out. Since you were sure that it was not just a passing thought, not just your brain playing tricks on you. And being this close to him now, you understood.

And it scared you.

“You cannot dump all that on me and expect me not to react,” Jungkook said quietly.

“Shut up, Jungkook.”

“No,” he snapped. He grabbed both your upper arms and shook you violently, making you jerk your head up to blink at him. Jungkook furrowed his brows, his dark eyes glaring at you, jaw clenched tightly. “I will not shut up. Why should I shut up? I should shut you up.”

And then he kissed you.

Your eyes widened. Jungkook’s pink lips were on you. You. On your lips, pressed firmly against them, gripping you so tight you were losing feeling in your arms. You tore back, stumbling, touching your lips, shoulders shaking, not sure why your heart was beating out of your chest, not sure why your lips tingled and wanted more, not sure why Jungkook slowly opening his eyes and flickering to you made your knees knock together uncomfortably.

“What are you doing?” you sputtered. “You don’t even… what…?”

“I’m kissing you,” he growled, walking up to you and pinning you against the counter. “I’m fucking kissing you because you want me to.”

“I don’t…”

“Just shut up, please.”

And then Jungkook kissed you again, harder this time, pressing you against the kitchen counter, hands coming up and taking you by the waist, pulling you to him and his leather jacket, him and his black shirt, breathing your name into your lips, your hands grabbing his t-shirt and yanking him to you, gasping into his mouth. And you wanted to say, no, no, you weren’t supposed to know, but it was too late because you were shoving his leather jacket off, grasping his shoulders, fingers pressing into his hard muscles, sliding down his biceps.

You yanked your head back and his hand came up to grab it back, kissing you more, more, tongue licking your lips, hissing your name, grinding his hips against yours. Your hand came up in between you two, stopping him, stopping him and his insatiable lips.

“You have to s-say–” You moaned, feeling him harden against your fleece pajamas. “You have to say it.”

“Say what?” Jungkook muttered impatiently, kissing your hand, speaking into your palm.

“Say you’re okay with it,” you gritted out as he rolled his crotch into yours.

“Obviously I’m okay with it,” he grumbled. “Why else am I humping you in your kitchen?”

“You said I’m a c-control freak,” you groaned, throwing your head back as Jungkook slid his hands down to your ass and squeezed it, grinding against you.

“You are,” he grunted. “You can’t let go, you can’t enjoy yourself, you can’t even tell me you like me so I can fucking fuck you already, instead of me cancelling my parties so I can spend time laying on your bed and staring at you playing video games wondering when you’re going to fucking notice that I want to bang you.”

“What?” you replied breathlessly.

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “You’re so busy controlling your own life that you don’t even notice the people around you anymore.”

“What?” you repeated again as Jungkook hoisted you up by your ass and began to walk, forcing you to grab him by the shoulders and stare down his right arm, the fully tattooed one with flowers and script and the tiny circle with angry slits for eyes and a frown on the inside of his elbow, the one Jungkook said was for you and you had slapped him in the chest and told him to shut up.

“Let me take over for once,” he mumbled, placing his chin on your shoulder and nudging you with his head and his non-crispy but still not quite soft dark hair.

“You said I would be an awful sub.”

Jungkook dumped you on the bed, shooing you upwards. You didn’t move, frowning at him. He sighed dramatically.

“You would. You are,” he corrected, planting a hand on your chest and pushing you down, bouncing you against your Pikachu bedsheets. He sandwiched your arms at your sides and straddled your torso. The bed bowed far too low and you almost slid off. Hurriedly, you scooted upwards and Jungkook followed, unbothered.

“You said I’m terrible with authority.”

Jungkook wrestled your arms back down and pinned them with his strong thighs. “You are.”

“You said I’m angry, twenty-four, seven.”

He cocked his head, slowly unbuttoning your pajama shirt. “Still true.”

“And you said I’m uptight,” you added ruefully, pouting.

Jungkook shrugged, reaching in between his legs to unbutton he last few ones. “I’ll fuck it out of you.”

“Jungkook!”

“What?”

He paused, towering above you, eyebrow raised. His black hair curled around his ears, against his silver hoops and base of his neck. His dark eyes pierced down at you, tiny mole under his lips clearly visible from this position. You could see the bottom of his sharp chin, the black t-shirt clinging to his chest, the shape of his tan arms, one tattooed, one not, from below.

“Y-you’re pinching my right arm…”

Jungkook looked down, moving his left leg. “Sorry.”

You winced, pulling out your left arm to rub the other. He tapped your forearm impatiently with his finger.

“You’re ruining the moment,” he scolded.

“You ruined it by bruising me,” you shot back, backing up to your pillows on your elbows, grimacing as you soothed your arm.

“I’m going to bruise you more if you keep being a little brat,” Jungkook growled, following you on hands and knees, the neckline of his t-shirt hanging down, revealing way too much of his skin. Your eyes widened and you slipped, a white plush Poro bonking you in the head. He grabbed it and tossed it aside, the poor guy rolling on the floor.

“That’s very rude,” you muttered, but he was over your body now, breathing hard, staring down your now open shirt and the curve of your breasts into your black bra.

“Why do you get hotter every year?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I… don’t?”

Jungkook shoved the sides of your pajama shirt apart impatiently, reaching under your back and pinching the bra clasp, undoing it with one hand.

“Yes, you do,” he exhaled hotly. “Every year you get prettier and prettier and it pisses me off so much that I have to work out to look half as good as you.”

You felt your ears and cheeks get hot. “Well… you do look very, erm, good.”

“You’re very convincing,” Jungkook chuckled darkly, pushing your bra up and sucking in his lower lip as he revealed your hard, quivering nipples.

Your eyes shifted away from his hungry eyes. “I, uh… am very wet.”

A single, perfectly shaped eyebrow ticked. “Show me.”

“Um…”

He lifted himself off you, pointing down.

“Show me,” Jungkook commanded.

You tried to move your arms and found them tangled in your clothes. You frowned and shrugged out of your pajama shirt, chucking it and your bra aside, before gripping the waistband of your green fleece pants. You hesitated and looked back at Jungkook, who just flapped his hand downwards, giving you a neutral expression.

You puffed your cheeks and raised your hips, yanking your pants and panties down your thighs. You had to bend your legs a bit to fully take them off since Jungkook’s knees were on the outside of your thighs.

Now you were fully naked in front of your childhood best friend. And he was still fully clothed.

“Er, aren’t you going to–”

Jungkook cut you off. “You still haven’t shown me.”

You blinked at him. “What do you want me to do, become a fucking pretzel?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Any way you can prove to me you’re wet.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fucking…” You bent your right leg and slid it up between his thighs, brushing against his sweatpants and feeling his hard-on for a hot second before you jammed your leg into your chest and lifted it out, pressing your thigh against your torso and raising your calf into the air. You turned your head to the left, letting out an exasperated huff.

“There. You see it?”

Shit, this position was embarrassing for some reason. You could feel cold air on your dripping pussy. Maybe he couldn’t see or something. You lifted your right arm to wrap around your thigh, pressing it down against your breasts since Jungkook wasn’t saying anything.

“That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Jungkook breathed.

“Okay, going to put my leg do–”

You gasped, suddenly feeling Jungkook’s fingertips touch your heated core, smearing your juices around the lips, his hot breath against your ear as he touched you. You shuddered as he stroked your folds, your name on his lips, his lips kissing your ear.

“Had to touch you,” he whispered against your neck, tone desperate. “I’m sorry, I just had to touch that beautiful pussy, all wet and slopping for me.”

Your eyelids fluttered as his middle finger found your clit, pressing on it. “J-Jungkook… That’s my…”

He chuckled deep in his throat. “Yeah? That’s your what?”

Slow, lazy circles, pushing it around, moan leaving your lips. “My c-clit…”

“Want me to touch it?” Jungkook purred. “Want me to handle your pleasure?”

But he as already touching it, nursing the sensitive bundle of nerves and rousing your lust, igniting it and setting it on fire.

“Y-yes…”

He kissed down your neck, whispering softly, licking your collarbones. “You trust me? You trust me with this pretty, perfect, hot, sexy, fuckable body?”

You arched your neck, giving him more access as he ran his pink lips all over, rubbing your clit, mouth on your throat. Your whole body shook, hips rolling into his finger.

“Y-yes…”

His breath so electrifying that you could barely focus, barely speak as Jungkook’s other hand came up behind your head, long fingers burying into your hair, holding tight, so tight it almost hurt, teeth nipping at your skin.

“Want to mark you,” he mumbled. “Want to give you a big fat hickey you can’t explain, want to bruise you so bad you’ll be staring at it for weeks, thinking about my lips on you, remembering my teeth gave you that.”

He pressed another finger to your clit, increasing the pace, and all you could do was hiss out a yes, a burning yes, a pleading yes, please, Jungkook, whining as his teeth sank into the spot where your shoulder and neck connected, sucking hard, his tongue licking away the prickling pain. His hips rolled into your thigh, his hard cock pressing against you, straining against his pants.

Jungkook moaned into your skin, so hot, so intense, rubbing your aching clit faster, harder, more urgently. Sucking and humping your leg as the feeling of his teeth and his fingers overwhelmed you, one hand clutching his shirt and one hand curled into your sheets as your thighs shook, trying to close but unable to because Jungkook was so strong, so there, so overpowering that you could only lay there and take it, take it as his name poured out of you in a breathless wail, throwing your head back as you felt your pussy clench around nothing, your juices becoming slicker, thicker, the scent of your orgasm staining the air.

He shoved the two fingers inside you and unlatched his mouth, moaning with you as he felt you squeeze his fingers, pumping you in long, slow strokes, all the way to his knuckles. You whimpered, tightening your core and Jungkook moaned again, eyes closed, his hair in disarray as you fucked his hand, clamping your hands on his right forearm, gasping at the feel of his muscle. Pussy throbbing around his fingers, hips meeting his knuckles over and over.

His eyes opened, watching your fuck yourself with his hand, an almost bored expression on his features, but you didn’t care because you felt him flex his fingers and his arm, telling you to continue, telling you he liked it.

“I thought you were going to let me do it.” Jungkook’s voice was low, trying to stay even despite his shallow breathing. “Have to control everything, don’t you?”

You caught your lower lip in your teeth, eyes moving to his face, his handsome, angular face with his black hair curled around his forehead and his cocked eyebrow, smirk on his lips.

“I’m not in control,” you panted. “Your forearm is…”

Jungkook flexed it under your hand and you moaned pathetically, breath hitching.

His smirk grew wider.

“It’s getting you off touching it.”

You swallowed, close, so close and Jungkook was taunting you and for some reason you couldn’t tell him to shut up, because he kept tensing his arm and it was so fucking hot that you really were going to orgasm.

“Say it,” he purred, breathing your name. “Tell me you like my forearm.”

Your eyes shifted down to his arm in your hands, the tiny angry face tattoo in his inner elbow frowning at you.

“I fucking love it, Jungkook,” you gasped. “Fuck, I love your delicious, sexy-as-fuck forearms.”

He grinned and began to thrust his fingers into you, fast, so fast you couldn’t even fathom how he could be that fast like a fucking vibrator, sending torrents of pleasure through you and his arm was so hard and his skin so soft that your eyes rolled back into your head, moaning his name far too loud. Jungkook placed a hand over your mouth and you screamed into it, liquid gushing down your thighs, but he didn’t stop, he kept going until you felt it again, pussy throbbing, back-to-back, eyelids fluttering, nails digging into his arm as the crescendo slammed into you, taking your breath and senses away, lost only in the feeling of Jungkook’s secure presence above you.

He slowed, breathing hard. Gently, carefully pulling his fingers out of your pulsating pussy, gasping as he removed his hand. You vaguely heard Jungkook place his fingers in his mouth, sighing wantonly at your taste.

“You taste so good,” he whispered around his fingers. “Fuck, so sweet and thick and delicious.”

Your brain could not compute what the fuck was happening. Did Jungkook just give you three mind-blowing orgasms in a row after you exploded at him and admitted to thinking about him while masturbating?

Holy shit.

He pressed his face into your hair, inhaling your scent.

You swallowed thickly.

“Jungkook, do you, ah… want something too?” you asked quietly.

You heard him snicker. “If I take my clothes off, I’m going to want to put my dick in you.”

“… I’m cool with that.”

“I thought a dildo was the same as a dick?”

You cleared your throat. “Ah… Well, I didn’t think you’d want to put a dick in me.”

Jungkook laughed. “If I had five dicks, I’d put them all in you.”

“Erm… mathematically speaking, that doesn’t really work…”

“Shut up.”

Jungkook sat up, looking down at you with a smile. The same smile he always had, but a little different now, because he didn’t have to hide his attraction to you anymore.

“You really let me put it in you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “With a ninety-eight percent chance, only.”

His smile became mischievous. “That’s not one hundred percent.”

You puffed your cheeks.

“I’ll take the two percent chance for you and only you, Jungkook.”

He grinned and turned around, throwing himself to the end of the bed where his jeans were barely holding on. Fishing through the pockets, retrieving the foil packet from the back pocket. You blinked at him.

“How long has that been–”

Jungkook gave you a silencing look. “I bring a new one every time I come over, in hopes you become drunk enough to sit on my dick.”

You blinked at him. “What.” Not a question, just you stating it.

“Because you’re paranoid.”

You frowned. “I’m not–”

He launched himself over the bed and silenced you with a kiss, deep and longing. You leaned into it, breathing softly, tongue against his, pressing back against him. Jungkook drew back slowly, thumb on your cheek. Eyes looking into yours, careful and tender.

“I don’t want you to worry,” he said against your lips. “I’ll do anything you want. I know it’s not easy for you. I know you’re not ready for the million babies I want from you.”

“I can’t have a million babies. It’s not scientifically possible,” you interjected.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “Can you just let me have one romantic moment?”

“Erm, sorry.”

“You want me to have a damn vasectomy or something? Because I’ll fucking do it. That shit’s reversible.”

“No, that kind of requires more time and I’m pretty horny for your dick right now. Condom will do.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “You are a shitty sub.”

“I will do better after I’ve had the dick.”

Jungkook straightened and yanked his black t-shirt over his head. “No, you won’t.”

Your eyes roamed over his toned chest. Damn, he was ripped. Maybe he was insecure about you being hot or something, but you were certainly benefiting. “You never know?”

Jungkook sent you a pained look and pressed a hand to your chest, shoving you back into your bed. “I’ve known you way too long to believe those words coming out of your mouth.”

You were going to reply, but he ran his hand over your chest, inhaling sharply as he brushed against your nipples. He ran his fingers over them, squeezing a little. You whined, trying to get more, but Jungkook pressed his palm down on your breast, breathing hard.

“Listen, woman, I’m about to explode in my damn underwear. Stop sounding so sexy this instant.”

Your eyes found his, pupils blown wide, lips pursed, and jaw tight. Your lips parted a little, tongue peeking out, a soft moan of his name emitting from your throat. You saw a muscle in his eyebrow twitch. He looked like he wanted to throttle you, at least a little bit.

You grinned.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes.

“You are lucky you’re cute,” he muttered. “And lucky I want to be in this pussy more than I want to be alive.”

“Don’t you ne–”

Jungkook planted his hand on your mouth. “The only words I want to hear out of you are, “Fuck me harder” or my own name, you got that?” he snarled, pressing his hand into your face for emphasis.

You nodded quickly.

He sighed, almost in relief, and yanked his pants and underwear down, wincing. There was a large wet spot on his boxer briefs, strings of pre-cum clinging as he pushed it down his muscular thighs.

“You made me a giant mess,” he muttered, eyes flickering up to you. “What do you have to say?”

You blinked at him and gave him a thumbs up.

He grinned. “You do know how to listen.”

In truth, you couldn’t say anything because you were breathlessly staring at Jungkook’s thick cock, red head glistening with pre-cum, dripping everywhere. You slid down quickly, startling him, and wrapped your lips around the head, moaning as his strong taste invaded your mouth. He hissed, gritting his teeth as your tongue swiped around, licking his length all over, feeling the veins and contours, memorizing them.

“F-fuck,” he gasped. “You wanted to clean me up that bad?”

Your eyes traveled up his abs, his pecs, his neck, to his face, giving him your best imploring look. He smirked, placing a hand on your forehead, and gradually, with great effort, pulled out of your tight mouth. Tight because you sucked in your cheeks, not wanting to let him go, but Jungkook was stronger than you. You frowned, but he shooed you away.

“I allowed it this one time. Now back to your spot.”

You backed up, tsking as you watched him roll down the condom, groaning as it covered him.

“I’m actually glad I have this fucking condom,” Jungkook muttered, glaring at you.

You couldn’t say anything, so you spread your legs. His eyes dropped down and he bit his lower lip, crawling to you, grabbing your thighs. Placing himself right in front of your soaked entrance, staring down at your pussy as he guided himself, sinking into you.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

You moaned, feeling Jungkook’s cock stretch you out, so different from a silicone dildo or multiple fingers, because it was Jeon Jungkook praying for air as you clenched around his length, his cries of pleasure as he rocked his hips into you. Those long nights with your vibrator and his Instagram open on your phone were incomparable to his cock molding to your walls, his hard hips finally hitting your thighs, all the way in, and it was so good that you throbbed around him, shuddering.

“J-Jungkook…” you pleaded.

“I know,” he panted, hands gripping your knees tight. “I know, but give me a second to appreciate this pussy, holy fuck.”

He jerked his cock inside you and you cried out, definitely crushing your sheets, but Pikachu had seen a lot by now and there was only going to be more.

Jungkook finally began to slide out and push back in, groaning, starting slow and deep because quite frankly he needed to last more than five seconds and your pussy was not letting up. You had too much control over your vaginal muscles and he was too into you to not be hugely turned on by it, shoving your legs up higher so he could go deeper, feel more of you surround him and massage his length.

“H-harder…” you whimpered. “Please, Jungkook, fuck me harder…”

And how could Jungkook say no to that? Begging so perfectly, with just the right amount of desperation, and you didn’t even know it was driving him insane, because he knew normally you were so wound up, always worrying about being perfect, always worrying about doing the right thing, but now you were unraveling on his cock as he bent down and put more force into it, pounded you harder, watching the ecstasy in your eyes, your mouth opening and tongue peeking out, hot breath in his face. Knuckles white as you clutched the sheets, pleasure radiating up his length as you came with a cry, his name, his name on those perfect lips, lips he always watched with envy, wondering who had them, wondering who was so lucky to capture them.

And now it was just him, just him and you, and his hips slapping into your hips, pussy nearly choking his cock, but it felt so good, so fucking euphoric as you fucked him back, raising your hips to meet his, loud, wet, and lewd, probably causing a ruckus next door. But neither of you cared, your names mixing together, your eyes staring to Jungkook’s piercing brown ones, hot pleasure radiating up your stomach, your chest, to your head and there was no one else.

No one else but Jungkook’s name tumbling out of your mouth as the wave soared into you, pussy spasming as you came again, unsure at what number it was, but it was the one Jungkook wasn’t prepared for and he groaned, smacking into you one last time before you felt his cock throb and pulse against your walls, spilling into the condom. You gasped at the feeling, clenching around him, his right hand reaching over to grasp yours and hold it tightly, intertwining your fingers.

“W-wow…” you whispered breathlessly. “Nice cock.”

Jungkook burst out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.” He reached down and gingerly felt around in your dripping folds, finding the end of the condom and pulling out carefully.

“Fuck. It’s so much,” he gulped, brows knitted in worry.

You waved a hand. “It’s fine. I finished my period yesterday. Likelihood of you getting me pregnant is pretty low.”

Jungkook jerked his head towards you.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say that sooner?” he roared, slapping your leg. “I was scared shitless over here!”

You placed your hands over your ears. “So loud. Shut up, Jungkook.”

“No!”

--

masterpost

[alaskasmonsters]

Play Fights | Modern Levi Ackerman

requested by @windex-princess-gia​: HI! i absolutely love LOVE “patch-up” and was wondering if you wrote for modern levi? I love the idea of him and his s/o play fighting and being all cute and sweet <3 if you do write something tHANK TOU

pairing: modern!levi ackerman x gn!reader

w.c: 1.642

warning: none

a.n: hii, thank youuu!!! <3 i hope this is what you imagined and i hope you like it!!! i am so sorry it’s so short, i hope it’s still okay. :3

Your eyes drifted to Levi’s form, who was bent over the dishwasher to collect the contents, checking every single piece of tableware for remaining dirt. He never trusted the dishwasher to do its job, hasn’t since the two of you had moved in.

You found it endearing sometimes, his mania for cleaning. Your place was always clean, too, and it was cute when he scolded you for wearing a hoodie again, that he had already deemed ready for the washer (although it was your favorite hoodie and it’s so comfortable and it was just a little bit of dirt).

He would have that face, all emotionless and unblinking and you knew he had to hold back not to hit you on the back of the head for being an idiot. Then he’d force you out of it and instead throw one of his hoodies to your head, knowing that’s what you wanted.

It wasn’t fun however when you wanted cuddles, needed them actually (you were quite needy with physical touch most days) and Levi was rather ogling the plates that actually reached his high expectations of cleanliness with satisfaction, rather than already get it over with it and watch a movie with you, his significant other.

“Levi,” you whined for what felt like the tenth time already.

He barely turned to glance at you, already knowing what you wanted. Seemingly unimpressed he gave you an onceover before turning back to the teacup he was just inspecting.

Losing against the charm of clean tableware, you really should feel threatened at this point.

You let out a groan, falling back on the couch.

“Stop being whiny and help me with the dishes the stupid washer hasn’t done a good job with, if you want cuddles so badly,” Levi scolded and when you sat up again he was just placing the cup he’d been inspecting on the “not good enough” pile, glaring at it as if it had personally offended him.

It was his favorite teacup, one you had given him before you had ever moved in together, to the first birthday he had celebrated with you, and in his opinion the washer never did a good enough job on it.

It might have warmed your heart, but the thought of having to wash already clean dishes to get Levi’s affections, and probably not even doing a better job on it than the dishwasher...you could just hide beneath the blankets.

Instead you got up and made your way to the kitchen sink, because let’s be honest, if Levi did this all alone it would probably take another 20 minutes, with how thoroughly he inspected every piece of tableware and you wanted your cuddles.

You’d risk being scolded for not using enough soap or too much soap, you couldn’t really tell how he decided which one it was, but it didn’t really matter to you.

Levi looked up to give you a smirk, damn well knowing you had no desire to actually help him, that you only did it out of desperation. You stuck out your tongue at him, making him shake his head with a roll of his eyes.

Taking down the faucet sprayer from the attachment, you already eyed the several pieces of tableware with disdain.

“You know, I'm just doing this because I love you,” you teased, playfully shaking the faucet in his direction with a warning glare.

You weren’t sure what Levi would have responded, probably rolled his eyes at you again and told you he loved you too. Either way, his words died on his tongue the moment cold water hit him in the side of the face.

You noticed in horror that you had accidentally brushed the button at the bottom and activated the faucet sprayer, drenching Levi’s hair and upper part of his hoodie with water. He stood there, unmoving, frozen in shock, until he slowly turned to you. His eyes glaring at you with utter annoyance.

The water was trickling down his face and his hair was sticking to his forehead. Combined with the pissed off expression, he reminded you too much of your cat Mustard after you’ve given him the annual bath.

You couldn’t keep in the snort.

Clasping your hand over your mouth you looked at Levi with wide eyes, knowing damn well you were already toeing the line and it wouldn’t be long until he looked for revenge.

“Y/n.”

His voice was dangerously calm and you quickly threw your hands up signaling your surrender, biting your lips, trying to keep the laughter from spilling out.

“It was an accident. My finger slipped!”, you hurried to say, but you couldn’t suppress the giggles escaping your mouth.

Slowly, Levi put down the plate he’d been holding, fully turning your direction, eyeing you like a hunter eyed it’s prey. You froze in anticipation, mind already whirling.

He came towards you faster than you could process and with a squeak you pressed down the button again, spraying Levi once more, hitting him square in the face.

That wasn’t enough to stop his advances and you quickly threw the gadget into the sink and raced to your connected living room, jumping over the couch in your attempt to escape.

Laughing loudly at the top of your lungs, you slipped on the floor, scattering across the room. Levi was right behind you, it wouldn’t be long until he would have caught up to you.

He’s always been much faster than you have, so it was only a matter of time. Still, you always tried anyway. Whenever you and Levi were being silly and goofing around (which occurred quite often, despite him appearing mostly cold and distanced), you were aware that your boyfriend had significant physical advances.

It made it just the more satisfying whenever you were the one to win, if only due to luck.

Levi caught your arm and pulled you back until you stumbled against his chest. Before you could even attempt to wiggle free he bent down to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing at all.

You huffed dramatically, trashing in his arms as he carried you all the way towards the couch to throw you on top of it and pin you down.

Looking up, you saw the smug look on his face.

“Not fair!” you pouted, but Levi wasn’t done with you, yet.

The only warning you got was a single finger lifted in the air (he pinned both of your wrists down with one arm now) and a little smirk and then you were already squeaking and wiggling beneath his grip.

His finger dug into your side without mercy, dancing across your skin, then pinching again. You giggled and wheezed uncontrollably, helplessly trashing under his weight.

“No! Stop! Levi!” you whined out between laughs, trying to kick out with your legs, but he was sitting on top of them.

He paused for a second and you sunk back into the pillow, gasping for air. Your boyfriend was looking down at you with an eyebrow expectantly raised in the air.

“Pretty please, it was an accident I swear!” you pushed out between gasps, giving him your best puppy look.

He cocked his head to the side, motioned for you to go on.

“I’m sorry i splashed you with water,” you apologized and because the image of his similarity to your cat still lingered at the back of your mind you added, “And that you look like Mustard who’s just gotten a bath.”

Levi snorted.

“Do I now?”

You nodded, grinning up at him.

He scoffed, clearly bemused, if not a little annoyed at you.

There was a moment of peace, where the both of you just looked at each other, then Levi dove down, rubbing his wet hair against your face.

You squeaked at the wetness and tried to push him off, but he wouldn’t budge, rubbing against you like….well, a cat.

“Ew, Levi,” you laughed, huffing when one of the wet strands almost got into your mouth, “You win, wou win. Mercy.”

He removed himself from you immediately, a cocky half grin on his face as he let go off your wrists.

As soon as your hands were free you pushed against his chest, trying to wipe off the uncomfortable feeling of dampness on your cheeks that Levi had left there.

“Don’t you know I always win, darling?”, he teased, making no move to get off of you.

You rolled your eyes, a sly grin forming on your face as an idea popped into your head.

Before Levi knew what was coming you’d reached out and slung your arms around his neck, pulling him down so he was almost lying on top of you. He had reacted quickly enough, only thanks to his agility so he could catch himself with his arms before actually falling on top of you. Both of them were propped next to your head as he was kneeling between your legs.

He found your eyes, his face devoid of any emotions as he stared at you in complete silence. You chuckled at the sight of that face, your fingers dancing across the shaved hair of his undercut.

“I got you to get on the couch, though,” you explained, giving him a toothy grin, “Haha!”

Levi shook his head, but the soft smile on his face told you he didn’t mind as much as he would like to pretend. After all, your boyfriend liked it when you were cuddling on the couch and watching a movie just as much as you did.

That man was secretly the biggest softie.

“You’re a brat.”, he countered, voice free of annoyance.

You laughed, unashamed, then pulled him down the last inches to connect your lips to his in a short kiss.

“Love you, too.”

[seeuonadarknite]

pretty girl — yandere oikawa tooru x f. reader

warnings: angst, abuse, noncon, slight mentions of gore, grinding, choking/asphyxiation, blood, virginity loss, breeding kink, overstimulation, tears, exhibitionism, blackmail

“I'm so sorry, Oikawa. I just don't like you that way.”

When you had rejected the boy that had been oh so desperately pining after you, he felt his fragile heart shatter into a million tiny pieces. The only girl he had ever felt genuine interest towards was you. How could you do him so dirty?

Staring down at his trembling legs that were on the edge of bucking, his eyes began to water as salty tears started to form. Within seconds his face was absolutely drenched from the frantic stream of tears running down his face. His eyes were like faucets, and you had cranked the handles by rejecting his advances.

It wasn't long until his crying turned into ugly sobbing. The situation in itself was quite sticky, and you felt pretty helpless in terms of showing him comfort. After all, you were the initial cause of his breakdown.

In a desperate attempt to ease his nerves, you gently placed your hand onto his shoulder and tried soothing him with your voice. However, as soon as you had parted your lips to speak, Oikawa's sobs soon turned into silent, breathy chuckles. “O-Oikawa, what's so funny to you?” You looked at him as if he had two heads.

His reaction to your brutal rejection took a full 180; just a few seconds ago he was pathetically sobbing. The laughter emitting from his body sounded as shrill as a hyena's, marking your trembling stance similar to one of an antelope's, hopelessly waiting for their predator to devour them.

“Do you really think that you can just reject me like that? Do you have any fucking idea who I am?” He sent you an ear to ear grin that caused shivers to run down your spine. As much as you wanted to yell at him and tell him to get over himself, you were quite frankly scared shitless. He looked like he wanted to gut you alive and leave your rotting corpse for the crows.

However, the mischievous glint in his eye told you that he had other plans. Tightly wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, Oikawa forcefully pulled you into a nearby storage closet, slamming the door shut behind him. “Ugh! Oikawa, what the hell is wrong w—” He pressed his back up against yours in the process of shoving you against the wall, face first.

Tangling his fingers into your hair, he yanked your head back, forcing you to meet eyes with him. “Drop the formalities. It'd only be fair to start calling each other by our first names, seeing as I'm going to break you.” His hand released its grip on your locks, only to wrap it around your throat.

“You've lost all of my respect, pretty girl.”

Without another word, his soft lips attached themselves onto your shoulder as he began sucking away at the unmarked skin. Your skin began to ache at his vacuum like sucking, and his sharp canines digging into your skin. It was as if he wanted to mark his territory like some sort of predator.

As he pulled away, a chuckle erupted from his throat. Seeing tears quickly begin to brim your eyelids caused his cock to throb in his pants. “Not even gonna stop me? Were you just playing hard to get? Hah! How pathetic.” Was he seriously getting off to your tears?

Grinding his clothed cock against your rear, a wide grin began to cover Oikawa's features. Heavy pants emitted from his lips as his cock rubbed up against your panties. You must've been asking for it if you wore such clothing on the day he planned to confess, right? It was just too easy.

“Cry for me.” As soon as these words fell from his lips, he pulled his cock from the barriers of his pants and began rubbing it against your clothed slit from behind.

You didn't waste a spare second as you began ugly sobbing, shoving your forehead into the wall as if trying to protect yourself from the situation at hand. A hand was brought up to your face as it rubbed against your cheeks, picking up moisture from the tears falling down.

If you weren't so fucking terrified of your current position, you might have actually noticed the disgusting sounds of slurping coming from the man behind you. He was licking the fingers that he had swiped across your cheeks. He was licking your tears and enjoying it. “Good, good girl.” As he praised you for your natural compliance, he brought his hand up and shoved his digits into your mouth.

“Suck.” Without another word, you regretfully began doing as he instructed. After all, his fingers were a better alternative to what he could be shoving into your mouth.

As you swirled your tongue around his long digits, you felt his free hand push your laced panties to the side. “Wait!” You tried making him stop, but his fingers muffled your voice. Even if he could hear your voice loud and clear, he'd probably continue with his movements, regardless of how you felt.

Slipping the head of his cock against your hole, he wasted no time in forcefully pushing himself inside of you. You couldn't help but instinctively bite down onto his hand, causing a grunt to escape his mouth. He didn't even bother trying to ready you; he was fucking you raw.

“You're gonna regret that!” He cheered into your ear, rearing his hips back only to force himself inside of you with a rough thrust. “It hurts!” As you began crying once again, he dragged your hips back, allowing you to bend down and place your hands onto the wall for the slightest bit of comfort. Of course his reasoning was just to bury himself deeper inside of you.

His thrusts never really held any rhythm. They were sloppy and rushed. It really felt as if he held no regard for your own comfort; he just wanted to use you like a personal fucktoy. Leaning downwards just to get closer to your ear, he smirked. “I want to tear you apart.”

And it really felt like he did. With each thrust, you could feel your muscles tense and your insides ache. His cock had a lot of girth, causing your insides to painfully stretch. As he dug his short nails into the curves of your hips, he adjusted his stance and began drilling your hole with his throbbing cock.

A small amount of blood leaked from your hole, lubing up Oikawa’s cock in the process. Another tantalizing grin spread across his face, basking in the sight of your blood dripping down your leg. “Oh? Is [y/n] a virgin? How perfect!”

Without second thought, Oikawa flipped you over and pushed you onto the cold flooring, causing your head to bump up against the closet door in the process. Groaning in pain, you rubbed your throbbing head, not taking notice of the man on top of you carelessly throwing your trembling legs over his broad shoulders.

As soon as he aligned his cock with your aching cunt, he slammed himself inside of you, once again not even giving you a chance to adjust to his massive girth. You could feel your abdomen begin to tighten as his thrusts quickened. You were close, and by the looks of it, so was he.

“If you cum before I give you the okay, I’ll punish you, pretty girl.” Quite frankly, you didn’t want to know the repercussions of going against Oikawa’s orders. But you just couldn’t help it. The way his cock hit your cervix with such ease and the way his girth mercilessly stretched your clenching muscles had you aching for release.

So you deliberately went against his orders and came, releasing all of your juices onto his throbbing cock. However, as soon as he brought you pure euphoria with the orgasm of a lifetime, he soon brought you absolute pain. Wrapping two large hands around your throat, he carelessly began squeezing his hands, restricting your air supply.

“T-Tooru-!” It wasn’t as if he wanted to kill you, he just wanted to bask in your fearful expressions. Looking up at Oikawa with pleading eyes, you watched as his face contorted into a sadistic, bone chilling grin. It was terrifying.

“Don’t worry, doe eyes. I’ll let you go once I cum inside of you.” His thrusts rapidly quickened as he dug his nails into the skin covering your neck. Widening your eyes, you began pleading with him not to go through with his plans. There was absolutely no form of contraceptives you two had been using, and you sure as hell didn’t want this monster to knock you up.

However, your pleads went unheard as his hands tightened around your throat and his cock began shooting a thick, salty substance into your womb, painting your walls white. Whilst he shot his load inside of you, you couldn’t help but orgasm once more, milking any extra semen with the clench of your cunt.

After a minute or two of staying still, Oikawa eventually loosened his grip on your neck and hesitantly pulled his cock out of your aching hole. Leaving you to pant and cry on the floor, Oikawa pulled his pants back up with ease, leaving the storage closet with a few last words. “I’m so glad you accepted my confession. I was really worried I’d have to tell everyone how you came onto me in the closet at school.”

You really didn’t have a choice, did you?

[lady-z-writes]

Plaything (Heisenberg x fem!reader)

Chapter 4 (of 5)

Summary: Reader works for BSAA and is scoping out the village until you get captured by none other than Heisenberg who doesn’t take well to trespassers. Once he learns of your hatred for your job, he wants the information you have and he doesn’t have to try hard to get it. You find yourself drinking, fireside, with him and can’t help but let him touch you. Angie said he’d needed a plaything and, well, you’re it.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Smut with (some) plot, chapter 4 below the cut:

You can remember the feel of a scratchy washcloth against your skin. It’s warm and the movement against your nipples is gentle. You want nothing more than to sleep right now, but you open your eyes and note a very shirtless, very tentative Heisenberg cleaning you up.

A moan leaves you as you try to shift over, cover your tits, go back to sleep – but he grips your wrist gently and easily turns you back over.

He chuckles. “Wore you out, huh?” his cocky smirk makes you smile back. “Just…let me do this then you can sleep.”

You nod, eyelids feeling heavy, and you let him take care of you.

When he’s done, you watch him turn toward his desk but your hand juts out to grab his wrist this time. He halts, slowly glances down at you.

“Stay,” you hum, shifting on his bed. “Please?”

Before long, you feel the bed dip from his weight beside you and you let yourself rest.

•••

It’s night by the time you wake again and he’s no longer in the bed with you, but you see the moonbeams through the curtains and stare up at the stars for a moment.

The breeze makes you cold and you reach for a nearby shirt of his. It’s white and shows your nipples through it, but the warmth is a comfort.

An empty room greets you when you look around. There are journals and books you’d never really paid attention to before. A part of you is tempted to flip through them, but you’re reminded of the behavior Heisenberg clearly wants you to exhibit.

Instead, you grab your boots and decide to shower off the events from the other night.

The water is scolding but perfect as you wash with his shampoo. It’s lonelier than last time, but your mind needs some clarity.

What you stumbled into…it’s laughable. If you’d been on any other team with any other lord, Heisenberg probably wouldn’t have saved you. You won’t let your mind wander to the others for too long – how their carcasses are probably tossed away somewhere and forgotten about right now. Heisenberg has his moments, sure, but you’re alive and it’s a kindness he didn’t need to do.

Your fingers are macerated so you shut off the faucet, reach for a towel. Sleep did you good, food would do you better. When your eyes travel to the doorway, you can’t help but scream.

A Soldat stands in the doorway.

Wrapping a towel around yourself, you press your back to the shower wall, breath coming in rapid bursts. The Soldat simply attempts to shove its way into the bathroom, but it doesn’t fit and the drill hits the wall instead.

There’s no other way out and you’re pretty sure the thing is going to drill through the wall. It manages quicker than you expect and you’re still in the shower stall, holding onto the towel for dear life as it strides toward you.

Its one drill gets stuck on the stall door, the other reaching you and digging into your arm. Another scream and you’re cowering down in the corner of the stall, pressing your hand against the bleeding wound.

In a blink, the Soldat is tossed against the other wall and Heisenberg steps into the shower. His eyes take in the blood.

“Can you stand?”

You’re in shock, but you nod quickly and you don’t stop nodding until he’s got you out of the room.

He sits you in his desk chair and grips your wrist, turning your arm over to see if the puncture wound went all the way through. You dare to look at it and see the gouge in your arm, blood oozing onto the towel.

“Next time,” he growls, pulling the towel down and exposing your breasts. “You get me before you shower.”

It hurts when he presses the towel to the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. You grit your teeth, reminded of a recent mission you were wounded in. Pain is temporary, you remind yourself as he cleans off the wound.

He actually has gauze and it feels good once he’s wrapping the wound.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you find yourself saying. “I’m sure you were busy.” You notice his eyes take in your nakedness. “Thank you…for everything.”

“This place isn’t safe for you, clearly. Don’t leave my sight again.”

You convince him you need food so he lets you get dressed. You’re afraid to enter where the Soldat is, but you grab the shirt and boots and run back to Heisenberg. He watches you dress in his white shirt and your knee-high boots.

“You are entirely too distracting,” he hums, staring at your nipples through the shirt.

In an instant, you’re shoved to the nearest wall, hands above your head, Heisenberg pressing a palm against your fists. He kisses you deeply, body flush against yours. His hand travels between you two and he plays with your clit. You not wearing panties has proven to be very distracting.

His fingers arched inside of you, mouth pressing kisses to your neck, you’re once again so pleasured. It feels like a wave consuming you – distracting you momentarily from your hunger.

“I’ve got to finish up a project,” he mutters against your neck. “What should I do with you?”

“You want to keep fucking me, you’ve gotta let a girl eat,” you quip.

Heisenberg blinks at you as he pulls away. “What a mouth on you…” he raises a brow. “Fine. It’ll keep you quiet while I work.”

He doesn’t have anything spectacular to eat but you manage to scrounge together something simple – some bread, veggies, more fruit. There’s some granola bars and you’re wondering where he got them but your curiosity melts away when he demands you get done and follow him. Snagging one, you scurry off behind him.

You’re deeper into the factory than you’ve ever been and it’s a bit overwhelming. Heisenberg drones on about some projects and gives you more information on the ins and outs of the Soldats. He claims he doesn’t expect you to work on any today, but you find it hard to believe. The man seems like he’s always plotting.

Halfway through the granola bar, he calls you over to help him but loud growling and snarling nearby alerts you both.

“Shit,” Heisenberg is suddenly irritated as he meanders to a window. His hand slams against the wall. “That oversized, psycho bitch.”

He’s spinning on his heels and approaching you quickly as you swallow your last mouthful of food. Eyes wide, you stare as he strides toward you and pulls your arm. As he’s dragging you down the hallway, you’re struggling to get out of his grip and repeating, “what’s wrong?”

“Apparently since I haven’t checked in recently, I get to be dropped in on by my sister.”

Your mouth goes dry at the thought and you stutter out a, “what do we do?”

•••

“You overgrown waste of space, get out.”

You can hear them yelling somewhere up above, but Karl had specific instructions to take the elevator two floors down, walk through the doors to the left, and take off down the hallway from there. He said wherever you’d go, he’d find you but as your eyes take in the maze down here, you worry that isn’t true.

Still, what choice do you have? It’s either this or be skewered by his false sister once she finds out you’re still alive. The thought chills you.

Deep in the maze now, you hear the movement of the elevator and their raised voices stirring about. Metal clangs, screaming, and crashing sounds above and as you hear the shifting of the elevator again, you break out in a full sprint.

Adrenaline coursing through you, it’s like an electric shock to your senses. The metal clanging almost seems louder and you wonder if Karl is doing that just to alert you where they are.

You’re good and lost by now, entering rooms that attach to other rooms; trying to find a hiding spot before you realize they’re moving again.

Her senses are sharp, apparently.

Approaching a room deep in the maze of things, you see a few lights on; wonder what he uses this for – but your wondering is cut short by the shadow of a figure standing in the nearby doorway.

An almost-scream leaves your throat but you cover your mouth with both hands in attempt to silence yourself.

The beast grunts, approaching slowly. Both arms are drills – the same version of the Soldat that attacked you earlier. It raises its drills in a readying attack.

You run back the way you came, back to the parts of the factory you know these things aren’t. Karl had mentioned before to stay near him if you were ever to venture out, but given the current unexpected guest, you’d had no other choice.

The creature charges after you, its grunting loud. Of course you look back at it – its grey skin – it’s like you still can’t believe what you’re seeing.

You manage to find your way back to a main hallway and take it all the way down. Glancing back, you think you’ve lost it…and then a loud clanging noise greets your ears.

It feels like everything is in slow motion when you turn. The oversized woman from the church stands just off the elevator, her long claws reflecting light. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and as she charges at you, you see Heisenberg swing his hammer behind her.

With a flick of his wrist, he sends a bunch of metal scraps toward you with such power, you’re crashing against the nearest wall.

“I told you to stay out of it,” he’s yelling and it makes you hold your breath from on the ground.

“You kept her?” the woman screams. “I’ve known you to do some stupid things, but this?”

“Yack yack, go squawk to Miranda.”

“Do you know who they are?” she gasps. You notice Heisenberg is silent. “The others I brought to Castle Dimitrescu, they offered up knowledge: these people were meant to gather information on us,” she’s screaming at him. “And yet you keep this spy as a plaything? I knew you had intentions, idiot man-thing. You need to take care of this now.”

She clicks her tongue when she notices you pulling Heisenberg’s shirt down to cover yourself – feeling exposed.

“Oh, believe me, I will…” his voice is polished, mannerly. It stops you in your tracks. “You know how I don’t like anyone ruining my fun. This little slut has been sucking and fucking all night. I’m using her until I’m done and then I’ll string her body up for the Lycans.”

The tall woman lifts her chin with an inhale. You notice as she takes you in, Heisenberg is glancing down the hall you ran from, as if looking for his creation.

“Well, I…” the woman pauses. “I suppose I must honor Mother Miranda’s choices – though they may be poor at times.” A nod. She steps toward you, punctures the skin on your chest. “You disgusting harlot. I hope you rot.”

You cry out from the pain, try backing away, but are pinned to the wall suddenly by metal wrapping around your wrists.

“I’ll take it from here, dear sister,” Heisenberg sneers. “It’s my hour of need and…I’m sure you don’t want to be around when I take what I’m owed.”

The suggestive tone in his voice makes the woman sneer at him.

“Fine. Show me out.” She stands at full height and saunters over to the elevator. Just as you think you’re safe, she pauses, sniffs the air. “She’s not alone.”

“What?”

“There’s another.”

“What do you mean?” he’s spastic now.

“Did you bring another here?”

“No,” he quirks a brow at her. “Sure you aren’t losing it? Hat’s too big for your head – no time for big brain moments.”

She rolls her eyes and follows him to the elevator.

Heisenberg leaves you here, pinned up to the wall, crying and bleeding and praying to a higher power that thing doesn’t find its way back here or you’re dead.

And as the minutes tick by, you wonder just how honest he was being with his sister…was this all a ruse? His kindness just an extended roleplay to get what he wanted out of you before killing you?

The movement of the elevator startles you once again. A part of you is grateful for his return, meaning the monster may be kept at bay; yet you’re worried what his intentions are.

As he strides over to you against the wall, he exhales cigar smoke in your face.

“I like you strung up like that. My shirt, nipples hard, legs spread…” He kisses you then and you want to lean into it, but you’re frozen. He notices, pulls back. “Ah, I see the gears turning now…” he taps the cigar ashes off on your arm. “Not to worry, kitten. I’ll take care of you.”

The movement to your left makes your stomach drop. The monster from before lurches into view – loud and menacing.

“Should I let it repeat the scene from earlier? Your blood shed and my family won’t be forced to check on me anymore. No doubt Miranda’s about to find out about the fact that you’re still living…” as he rambles, the Soldat storms closer.

“Stop,” you whisper out, shaking.

He examines you then, “That’s real fear there, isn’t it, doll?” he huffs a laugh. “You truly think that I’m that much of a monster? To waste such a pretty specimen on such a gruesome death? No.” He snaps his fingers and uses his powers to urge the Soldat back down the hallway. “You’re lucky.” Another exhale of smoke in your face before he shifts his hands and the metal holding you to the wall loosens enough for you to slide to the floor. “Come on. Get up. No use wasting our time sulking.”

You’re hesitant to follow him to the elevator. Once again he’s acting so flippant and you’re afraid to let your guard down.

Still, what choice do you have? You follow wordlessly because you’re stuck here even if you find out he’s a bad man.

He chuckles at you as you join him on the elevator. “All that spunk is gone?”

You open your mouth to speak, close it, inhale sharply. He blinks slowly at you, crossing his arms.

“What the Hell was that? Are you planning on killing me, Heisenberg? Is this just some drawn out roleplay fantasy of yours? Fuck me, give me Stockholm Syndrome, then off to create me into some corpse of a machine?”

He smirks around the cigar as you raise your voice at him.

“There she is,” he hisses, grabbing you by the hair. “I wondered how long that fear would hide your attitude.”

When the elevator stops, he motions for you to follow him. You hesitate, but you do; slowly, cautiously. The maze of the factory takes you to his quarters in a way you can’t imagine memorizing. He’s silent as you walk together.

Barely into the room, he reaches for your shirt and rips down. The buttons go flying everywhere and the garment falls to the floor – leaving you naked minus your boots.

Heisenberg’s hands move as a collar and chains float behind you. You’re trying to maneuver away but it clasps around your neck before you can move too far. The chains are all connected, your wrists clasped behind your back. Heisenberg shoves you to your knees and you feel cold shackles around your ankles.

Eyes wide, mouth open, you’re too stunned to speak.

He’s in front of you in seconds, looking down at you like he’s inspecting his work. The way he licks his lower lip makes you shift your gaze to his erection right before your eyes.

“Too easy. Didn’t even put up a fight. You going soft on me, kitten? Or is it that you want this?”

He pulls a glove off, crouches down to your level, reaches in between your legs, and feels your wetness. A low groan leaves him.

“Wh-what are you…-”

“You so enjoy this, [Y/N]. Don’t act like you don’t, just embrace it. You like being my plaything – it’s the best job you’ve ever had.”

“Worst pay I’ve ever had,” you retort. It’s sort of a joke, you think.

His hand cups around your throat and he presses in warning.

“Real cute, huh?” He shoves you off, stands back up. “Mmm you have no idea how badly I want that mouth of yours on my cock…but I’ve got a few notes to take and a phone call to see if my dear brother knows of your survival yet. And you’re going to kneel and wait for me.”

He presses his hand to the back of your head, shoves his crotch in your face for a moment until you struggle against him, still unsure how to read the situation.

Finally, he pulls away, leaves you on the filthy floor, and sits himself at his desk.

“You should have just killed me on the bridge if this was all your plan.”

He doesn’t even look at you, which had been a hope of yours. You want to see his expression, see his eyes.

“Keep talking and I’ll bolt metal across your lips.”

Things go silent until he has to make his phone call – just pen scratches across paper and the normal metal clanging of the factory. You imagine more of those Soldats are stomping around somewhere and the image makes you shudder.

You barely notice when he’s picked up the phone, you’re too busy focusing on the pain in your knees.

“No, Moreau, this isn’t Miranda…” he sighs into the receiver. “Yes, I’ve heard that they were agents…no, I’m not worried…look, you globular piss baby: has Lady Gargantuan called you today?...”

You’re waiting for his response to continue but Heisenberg has gone silent. His back is to you so you can’t read his expression once again. You see his shoulders move with his breathing.

Suddenly, the receiver slams.

“This arrangement isn’t going to last long,” he growls as he stands, knocking over his chair.

Before you can respond, he uses his powers to lift up the metal chains around you and toss you to the bed. Face-planted, you struggle to sit up, turn over.

“If that weeping sack of mucus knows, you can bet he’s told the star of his Oedipus Complex.”

Heisenberg is unbuckling his belts, tossing off his shirt, completely undressing with each step toward the bed. You watch him from your awkward, uncomfortable position and your stomach flips.

When he flops down on the bed, he pulls the chains so you’re forced to straddle him. In ankle and wrist restraints, your range of movement is significantly reduced. He knows this. It’s clearly doing something for him as you watch his dick get hard again.

“Ride my cock, [Y/N],” he demands.

Your knees ache, but he helps pull you down onto him and the instant pleasure makes you forget about the soreness in your knees for a little while. Your legs can only spread so far with these ankle cuffs but that sort of adds to the sensation with how tight you are against him.

“Karl,” you whine.

“Mmm, yes, pet?”

“What are you gonna do to me?” your voice brakes as tears fill your eyes.

His expression changes for a fleeting moment. The ankle shackles are opened with a wave of his hand. You feel your knees buckle under you and you fall face-first into his broad chest. Heisenberg runs a hand through your hair, trace down your back. You feel him press his lips against the top of your head, a moan making his chest rumble as he thrusts up into you.

“Right now, I’m gonna enjoy you,” he speaks softly. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

It’s a soft moment and it catches you off guard. You lift your head up and meet eyes with him. It’s then that you realize his intentions, know in your heart that he was putting on a front for Lady Dimitrescu.

Suddenly, the position you’re in doesn’t seem so dire.

[liv-laugh-die]

||Admiring|| 💖Miya Osamu x Gn!reader

trope: strangers meeting in the park (ik its random bear with me😭)

warnings: its not proofread all the way through (im sorry im tired), so theres probably grammatical errors or typos but other than that none

genre: fluff pretty much just sappy stuff

pairing/s: osamu x gn!reader

wc: about 2.5k

a/n: oh my god idk where i came up with this but i think its cute so :p i hope you enjoy!!

You stared at your blank computer screen, hope of finishing your assignment before its due date at midnight slowly vanishing. 

     The clock on your desk read 11:27pm, the green lines wavering in your vision as your eyes slowly drooped, trying to drag you into the depths of slumber. You wanted to sleep, you really did, but you knew there was no way you could give up writing your essay, even now, knowing you weren’t going to submit it on time, because you would stress too much about it if you didn’t at least try to complete it before the due date. 

     Pushing yourself away from your desk, your chair squeaking against the floor ever so slightly in your dead silent dorm room, you tried to think of some excuse that your professor might believe. You doubted there was anything you could think of, but hey, your professor was better than what your roommates’ had mentioned theirs being, and you were grateful for that. Maybe you could tell him that you were exhausted from working extra hours at your job since you had had to cover your coworker’s shift and that’s why you couldn’t complete your essay on time? Or, maybe you could get away with a simple “I was lacking interest in the material, and couldn’t understand anything, and I didn’t ask for help because I knew that you are such a busy man trying to do so many things at once. Another hopeless near college drop-out wasn’t something I thought you needed on your hands.”

     ....Maybe not the latter.

    You sighed, running a hand through your tangled hair, practically feeling it screaming at you to wash it. You barely had time in the mornings to take showers anymore, and when you took them at night, you never had the strength to wash your hair, always knowing that putting a hat on overtop or throwing on your hoodie would make it seem fine on the outside, and that was good enough for you. As long as you looked at least decent and somewhat presentable.

    Your dorm room was fairly small, like every other one, but the lack of furniture made it seem larger than the rest. Nothing more than you and your roommate’s joint desk, the mini fridge in the corner, and the beds filled the space. You almost tripped over your backpack lying next to the bunk bed pushed up against the wall, falling to what would’ve been inches away from your roommate’s sleeping body.

    In an attempt not to disturb them, you tiptoed through the room, stepping over the occasional heap of clothes or homework, until you reached the bathroom. You fumbled over the door knob before almost tumbling into the small space. Glancing in the mirror, you didn’t fail to notice your messy hair, the dark circles tracing beneath your eyes, or the way you looked like you were seconds away from passing out. The sound of running water rang in your ears as you turned on the sink faucet, cupping your hands together and bringing your face down to meet them, rubbing the cold water all over you in an attempt to keep you awake for just a few moments longer.

     Your eyes returned back to the mirror as you sighed at your dripping wet face. There was no way possible you were going to finish your assignment on time. You knew it, your roommate knew it before they passed out, and you had noticed your professor’s wary glance this morning in class as a sign that he knew it too.

     An idea sprang into your head, part of you dreading the optimism that seemed to seep through your brain slowly. You didn’t feel like being energetic right now.

---an hour later---

You weren’t exactly sure how, when, or why you decided it would be a good idea to take a shower (you did end up washing your hair, thank god), get your things together in your bag, and head to the off-campus coffee shop (since the one on-campus had already closed), but you found yourself with a warm cup of coffee in hand as you exited the shop, the cold midnight air enveloping you in an unwelcome embrace.

     You shivered. The only thing your spontaneous brain had forgotten had to have been your jacket, the one thing your normal brain would’ve remembered if it weren’t already past midnight and if you weren’t majorly sleep-deprived.

     You most certainly weren’t done with your essay yet, nor was there any possible way for you to finish it on time since it was now approximately thirteen minutes past the due time, but you let yourself breathe for now.

     There weren’t many people out at this hour, and it made the usual busy city streets seemed like a ghost town. There were a few restaurants still open as you strolled along the sidewalk, their lights responsible for illuminating more than half the area in front of you. You passed by an onigiri shop your friend had recommended to you, but you just weren’t that hungry. Most nights, you’d kill for a midnight snack, but your single shot of espresso coffee was satisfying your needs for now.

     You decided to head to the park after seeing a rabbit hop its way across the vacant street and into the bushes in that direction. The fresh air was nice and cool against your dry and croaky lungs, and your ears needed a different sound than that of you miserably attempting to touch type quickly, your fingers rapping against the keyboard with vigor.

     A stream nearby flowed softly, the dripping of the water against the rocks complimenting the noise of the crickets chirping in sync just downstream. Your footsteps cut through the grass slowly, not bothering to follow the stone path. The park was a nice change of scenery. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been here by yourself in peace, it was always you and your rambunctious friends who ran through every now and then just to see the dogs running through the sprinklers, or the occasional poor cat whose owner dragged them out into the daylight for exercise. This was peaceful, though, and you appreciated that.

     A few more rabbits crossed your path, giving you that wide-eyed, side glance before darting off into the darkness, outside the reach of the lampposts emitting light. The sound of the stream soon faded out as you continued to walk through the park, sipping your coffee every so often. The warmth from your cup was soon dying out, and you figured you’d have to start walking back to your university sooner or later. Maybe you could crash at your friend’s house who lived just off campus, though you had forgotten your phone back at your dorm and had no alarm, no laptop to complete your work, and no contact with anyone else who might worry where you’d be. You had really no choice but to trek back to your dorm in the darkness, cutting your peaceful visit to the park short.

     You let yourself have a few more minutes of stress free relaxing as you sat down on a bench just before the ground let out into a downhill slope overlooking the rest of the city below. The trees around you swayed in the breeze, and for a moment, you thought it was the wind talking, and not an actual human being who had somehow made his way beside you without gathering your attention.

     “Didn’t think anyone else would be up at this hour,” the stranger mumbled. You glanced up, almost startled that, indeed, someone else was actually awake and strolling through the park.

     The boy couldn’t have been much older than you were, maybe the same age. He had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the wind tousled his dark hair ever so slightly, and the moonlight played along, illuminating his face just so you could actually see how gorgeous he was.

     You cleared your throat, averting your eyes back to the ground as you shifted over, creating more space on the bench in case he wanted to sit down beside you. “I decided to actually take care of myself for once and give myself some time to breathe before facing the wrath of my professor tomorrow when he finds out I didn’t turn in my essay on time.” You let out a low, breathy chuckle, not exactly sure of what would happen next.

     The guy sat down on the bench next to you, though he made sure to give you some personal space, which you were grateful for. He laughed along with you a bit, and you could tell just from his tone just how tired he really was.

     You gave him a side glance, raising an eyebrow. “So, what the stressful thing that brought you here in the middle of the night?”

     He smiled half-heartedly, eyes trained on the moon. “Work stuff. Jus’ been busy, I guess.” He shrugged. 

     You waited for him to continue on, but he stayed silent. You didn’t complain, though. Wasn’t your whole reason for coming out here in the dead of the night for some quiet? Plus, it wasn’t awkward either. You were comfortable sitting next to this stranger.

     “What do you do for work?” You waited a little longer than necessary to ask, but he didn’t seem to mind the long pause.

     “I own a restaurant a few blocks away. I love the job, it’s just tiring havin’ to deal with rude customers like my brother who won’t get the hint and get out sometimes. I got into an argument with him earlier today and he just wouldn’t shut it.” He rolled his eyes and took his hands out of his pockets, making eye contact with you as he went on about his day, and you couldn’t help but smile at his passion. “The guy thinks he can just walk in when I’m working with a new employee and just act like he runs the place! Quite stupid if you ask me. Such a jerk, he is. Thinkin’ about just banning him from the place, really.” 

     You snorted. “He really bugs you that much, huh?”

     The guy smirked at your laugh, admiring it, though you would never had guess that was what flashed across his face in a million years. He nodded. “Yeah, ‘course I love ‘im ‘cause he’s my twin and my best friend, but he really knows how to annoy the hell outta me.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just get a sign in the window that says “no shirt, no shoes, no service” and cross it out and write my brother’s name instead,” he reasoned, and the pondering look in his eyes made you wonder if he was actually considering the idea.

     You smiled. “You’re funny.”

     “You say that like ya weren’t expectin’ it.”

     A laugh made its way out your lips. “Well, when you’re approached by a stranger in the middle of the night you sort of expect the worst.”

     The guy glanced off in the distance, away from you, furrowing his eyebrows. “Sorry, didn’t think of that comin’ off that way.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m funny then, and not some creep, eh?”

     You nodded, the smile on your face not fading as he changed topics.

     “So, what’s your essay on? Any way I can help ya finish it?”

     You shook your head dismissively. “Oh, no. It was due thirty minutes ago.” You quickly explained the topic you were writing about in class before getting side tracked. “My professor had said he would allow it to be turned in the next morning, but I doubt he actually meant it.”

     He smiled a wide grin, making butterflies flutter in your stomach. “You go to the university nearby, right?” 

     You nodded in confirmation, raising an eyebrow. “If I’ve got any luck, there’s a chance you go there too?”

     He laughed a little, shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t, sorry. I’ve visited campus a few times because some of my friends go there, but I just usually focus on work.”

     His gaze was tilted upwards towards the sky, and you couldn’t help but admire how the exhaustion still shone in his eyes, but somehow that same passion gleamed there too just mentioning what he did for a living. You wished you were that passionate about something that would actually support you financially in the future and make you happy.

     When he glanced back at you, you were still taking his essence in, and he made a look of confusion. “What?”

    You shook your head, chuckling. “Nothing. I just admire that you can dedicate yourself to something and make it seem so easy.” He looked at you, interested to hear what you had to say, even though you were sure you couldn’t be the first person to tell him this. “I haven’t even known you for more than ten minutes and I can already tell you’re passionate about what you do and if you’re stressed about it, it must mean you’re dedicated to seeing your work through, and that’s more than enough to admire and appreciate, especially when that can be so difficult sometimes.” You finished your short tangent, looking back up at him to see him staring intently at you, seemingly in awe of what you’d just said. You felt a blush creep onto your face as you quickly blurted out, “Sorry- I didn’t mean to be so straightforward and weird like that- I sound like some crazy secret admirer or something...”

     The crickets chirped in the silence between the two of you, and it felt like it would never end.

     “Y’know, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a secret admirer. I mean, wouldn’t be so secret, but...” You saw the smile creep up onto his face. “It’s nice being appreciated. Nobody really tells me that kind o’ stuff, so... thanks, I guess.” 

     The heat on your cheeks didn’t go away by any means, but you grew more comfortable with it as you mumbled, “Maybe I wouldn’t mind admiring you.”

     Now, it was the boy’s turn to blush, and you smiled at how his cheeks grew redder with every passing second, and how his subtle grin spoke a thousand words he didn’t need to say.

     “Miya Osamu.” The boy’s hand came into your view as he extended it for you to shake. “I own Onigiri Miya across from the grocery outlet.”

     You smirked, grasping his hand in yours as you said, “L/N Y/N. I own an official license for being a horrible driver and an ID that proves I’m a sleep-deprived college student and that’s about it.”

     He laughed, shaking your hand and standing up, letting go too soon for your liking.

     Because for some weird reason, his hand felt right in yours.

     Osamu said a quick goodbye, mentioning something about how he should get going and how you should get some sleep before he disappeared down the stone path back into the darkness.

     You stood up not too long after he’d left, your coffee now entirely cold as you plopped the half full cup into the trash can on your walk back to your dorm, not needing the pathetic warmth anymore. Your heart was beating fast and the feeling of Osamu’s hand resting in yours lingered on your palm, and that kept you warm enough.

     Maybe you’d be visiting that onigiri place your friend recommended to you a little sooner than you’d originally planned, and maybe more often than you would’ve expected.

[i-make-questionable-choices]

When the Hurt Comes, So Does the Happiness.

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Torture, SPN level gore, mentions of rape/non-con, mentions of forced bestiality(nothing graphic), angst.

Summary: When Alastair disappeared after Anna’s death, he took you with him, holding you simply to torture the Winchesters. With the knowledge that angels are tracking him down, he sets out to hurt you as much as he can.

A/N: This kinda replaces the end of 04x15. Also my first work so please please please let me know how I did or anything else. Feedback is golden!

When Dean came back to life after 40 years in the pit, he had had trouble believing he was, in fact, alive. Paranoia followed him from hell, and it took a while for him to realize that his resurrection was not some cruel joke. It had taken some time, but slowly, he had accepted that this was real. That you were real.

But now you were gone. Plucked from his grasp like a child plucks a flower from the earth. It made Dean wonder if he ever left Hell.

—

Alastair hummed softly, relishing in the cries of his latest victim. It had been surprisingly easy to take his best student little pet away from him, and, though he was no where near either of the Winchesters, the knowledge that they would be driving themselves into the ground looking for you almost had him singing.

He hadn’t felt such exhilaration during a torture session as he was feeling since the righteous man had fallen onto his rack. And while he couldn’t use some of his preferred techniques, considering he wanted you alive, the knowledge that Dean was suffering at your mere absence was delicious.

Carefully selecting a pair cuticle nippers from his cart of tools, he turned with a flourish, grin falling as he realized you were unconscious. You were no fun unconscious, after all, he liked your screams.

With an aggrieved sigh, he dropped the nippers back on the table and, begrudgingly, snatched up a heavy leather collar. He sulked over to the rack where you lay unconscious and cinched it around your neck, far too tight for it to be comfortable, then stormed out of the room

—

When you flickered back into consciousness, all you could do was try and breath.

The still air chilled your bare skin, raising goosebumps along the paled flesh. The leather around your neck, though suffocatingly tight, was eerily comforting, and though it confused you, you lent into it. You needed all the comfort could could get.

Despite the freezing air and the chills that ran along your skin, the outside of your left thigh burned with a vengeance. Tears welled in your eyes as you recalled the moments before you fell unconscious.

The pain from the brand had cast all other thoughts from your mind when Alastair had seared what he called a ‘permanent reminder’ of himself into your skin.

It was all too much, the cold, the pain, your hunger, and the confusing comfort of the collar. You didn’t see it coming, but you barely had seconds before you passed out once more.

—

Alastair waking you up by pouring water on you wasn’t unusual, as a matter of fact, it seemed to be his preferred method. But each and every time the water had been icy.

This time, it was boiling.

You screamed as it awoke you, drowning out Alastair’s cruel laugh as you gasped and sobbed. Your body spasming against its restraints, desperately trying to evade the pain.

“Good morning, pet,” the sickly sweet tone of his voice sent shivers up your spine, “did you enjoy your bath?”

A slight pull choked you for a moment as Alastair undid the buckle before the collar disappeared.

“You fell asleep on me last night, quiet rude don’t you think?” He grinned as tears streamed down your face, tinting pink as they washed away bits of dried blood. “No matter, we have plenty of time for just us today!”

A flash a metal caught in the cold light as Alastair brandished the cuticle nippers once more.

Slowly, delicately, he lowered them to your face, tracing your features just as Dean used to in the wee hours of the morning. If Alastair knew this, he would rejoice knowing that the seat gesture was now ruined by his doing.

He reached your lips, then without warning, split your upper lip in half.

Your wail was music to his ears, the fading sound leaving him yearning for more. He forced you to count threatening you with harsh punishment should you refuse.

By the time they got to one-hundred, your body was shaking with sobs, voice cracking. To add insult to injury, your stomach, having gone four days now with out food, rumbled and groaned.

Humiliation flooded through you, your cheeks burning.

Through tears you spared a glance at your torturer,  furrowed brow widened as you perceived the look of sadistic joy upon his face.

“Pet!” He cried, the same way a mother or parental figure does when you do something unexpected. "You should have told me you were so hungry!”

He released the nippers, letting them clatter to the ground.

“I wasn’t going to feed you just yet but I suppose we could switch things around a bit…” The strap across your forehead prevented you from turning your head completely, but your heart dropped into your stomach when you saw the contraption Alastair selected; a long tube, open on one end with a funnel connected to the other.

In a desperate attempt at self preservation, you clamped your lips tight, ignoring the burning pain that spread across your face at the pressure on your cut lip. Alastair snorted, the corners of his smirk curling up further.

“Very well then, if you insist on being difficult…”

You cried out as he shoved the tube up your nose. It wasn’t a large tube, but good god was it to big for such a small space. You could feel it scraping away at the inside of your nose, could feel the blood trickle down to your mouth.

There was barely a warning before it entered your throat; a slight tickle at the top of your mouth, perhaps.

You coughed and gagged as he slipped it down you throat further, eyes leaking tears like a faucet.

Finally, after what felt like ages, the tube stopped moving. Sniffling, you sobbed, not bothering to muffle the sounds of crying.

“Bonne appétit, kitten.”

You couldn’t see what he poured into the funnel, part of you didn’t want to anyways. Your muscles tensed in anticipation, waiting for whatever pain you would feel next. You did not expect to feel a tickle in your chest before your body spasmed into a coughing fit.

“Whoopsie!”

Alastair’s voice sent shivers up your spine. “Wrong way. I’m so sorry, kitten, how careless of me.”

Pulling it back out was just as bad as him pushing it in, it was unnatural and you so longed to claw at your neck.

It took him a moment to actually get the tube into your esophagus, but with a sharp jab and a feel around your neck, he was pretty sure it was in the right place now.

He was halfway through, ignoring your gags in an effort to repeal the foreign device, when his head shot up, eyes gazing towards the door, before a smirk adorned his mug.

“Well, pet, it seems that we have a guest,” he reached for the collar, tightening it more than he ever had before. “You’ll be a good girl while I go and greet them, won’t you?”

With a slight bow, he disappeared from your vision, exiting somewhere behind you and slamming a door you couldn’t see. The only sounds now audible were your gags as your body fought to expel the tube from its system.

Tilted onto your back, it was excruciatingly hard for you to vomit up the tube and you needed up spewing several mouthfuls of bile onto yourself before you could spit it out.

With Alastair gone, you began to process your situation.

Naked, shorn, and weak, covered in cuts and burns and bruises, sticky with blood and bile and the filth of the dogs Alistair had set on you. Helpless. Alone. Collared, branded, and chained like an animal. For the first time in these two weeks, it hit you just how pathetic you were was.

It was the straw that broke the camels back. The loneliness. The time to think. With a shuddering gasp, you descended into tears

—

Dean sprinted through the halls of the warehouse. Slamming his hands into every door, yelling out your name. The desperation raw in his voice.

He reached the end of the hall and tried the door; locked.

At first, he backed up, trying with all his might to kick it down, and then to bodyslam it open. When his body couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed his gun.

Aiming it at the glass square in the door, he fired several times until he had a hole large enough to reach through.

Shards of glass still clinging to the door frame pierced his jacket at sliced his skin, he didn’t care, he had to check everywhere.

It was an awkward angle, and Dean could barely reach it, but he managed to twist the knob on the inside until the door swung open; revealing the carnage inside.

—

It took the Dean a moment to register that the form on the table was indeed the women he was looking for. No longer did you sport your gorgeous H/C locks, the hair barely dotting your shaved scalp as it began growing back. Your skin was so stained and burned and bruised it didn’t look human.  

Hesitantly, as if approaching a frightened rabbit, Dean paced forwards.

“Y/N?” His voice as hesitant as his steps.

Your eyes flew open, fearful as a rabbit chased by dogs. The relief that flooded them as soon as you realized who it was was immediate.

“de-an?” Your voice choppy and hoarse.

“Hey there, sweetheart.” Dean struggled to blink back tears.

“s-sammy?”

“He’s okay, I’m gonna get you outta here, okay sweetheart?”
 You hummed, eyes half closed as your head lolled to the side, a couple tears cutting through the grime on your cheeks and nose.

Silence hung between them as Dean fiddled with straps around your wrists, slick blood and bile. The straps had been locked so tightly that they had rubbed the skin raw and left it paled as blood smuggled to fill back in.

As the moved to your ankles he grimaced, noticing the sticky white mess that dripped down your inner thighs.

You didn’t make a sound as he adjusted your prone figure to sit forwards, letting you lean against his shoulder as he fiddled with the too tight buckle around your neck. He didn’t care about the vomit that dribbled down your chin, staining his shirt, nor did he care about the blood that seeped into his clothes.

His only focus was you.

The collar fell away from your neck leaving behind rubs and bruised skin. Dean had expected the removal of the collar to calm you, not for your breathing to speed up ten-fold, nor to be able to feel your heart pound against his chest.

“no.” It was barely a whisper, a hint of a word, but Dean stilled, pulling back as he gripped your shaking shoulders. His mind was scrambling for answers, what had Alastair done to you? Why were you wearing t-

Oh.

He pulled you tight against his chest once more, murmuring reassurances in your ear as he hid his own tears from view.

His rage burned as he recalled his time apprenticing under Alastair; the time that monster had shown him one of his more ‘refined’ techniques.

Conditioning.

Training the victims mind into associating the removal of a collar or chains or the opening of their cage with extreme pain. It was a technique so ruthless that Dean had never been able to bring himself to do it.

Not even at his worst.

It took Dean a moment, but, as he desperately tried to banish those horrid memories from his mind, he shrugged off his jacket. Gently as he could, he draped the fabric over your shoulders and carefully guided each arm through the sleeves.

It was a bit too big, your fingers still hiding in the sleeves, but it gave you a shred of modesty and you clutched at him tighter.

When his arm wormed its way under your knees, you stifled your whimper as best you could but you could not conceal the tiniest of squeaks that escaped your cracked lips.

Deans eyes filled with pity, mouth parting to apologize but you beat him to it.

“P-please, just get me out of here.”

He hesitated a moment then steeled himself and nodded, his other arm supporting your lower back.

“Sorry about this sweetheart.”

You gasped softly as some of your injuries rubbed against his shirt and fresh tears sprang in your eyes. As he lifted you closer to his chest, you brought your trembling arms up around his neck, leaning your chin over his shoulder.

The beat of his steps both jarred your injuries and provided comforting sounds, lulling you into a more restful state. You would have fallen asleep had Dean not stepped outside moments later.

The air was crisp, slight breezing chilling you to the bone. Shivering, you burrowed deeper into Deans arms and he tightened his hold on you. As he carried you away from the hellhole in which you had been trapped, the sky came into view. And with the sky, came the stars.

They twinkled, blurring in you teary eyes and you took in a long, deep breath of fresh air.

You couldn’t help yourself; sobs wracked your body as it truly set in that you were finally free. Free from Alastair and his pain. Free from his torture. Free.

Dean didn’t say a word. He knew exactly the emotions that were coursing through you. When he had first come back, he had been hesitant and as wary as a rabbit. Not daring for ages to believe that his resurrection was not some cruel joke.

As he reached the Impala. He had to shift his hold on you to reach the passengers side handle and even then he had difficulty opening the door, but he managed. Not daring to set you down and the unforgivingly cold concrete.

Slowly ducking his head, he lowered you onto your back onto the cool leather seat of the Impala. He made to pull away but your arms tightened around his neck, terrified of losing him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay sweetheart, I’m just gonna grab you a blanket, okay? I’m not going anywhere, okay?” He took time to check that everything he did was okay with you, letting you know everything so as not to leave you dreading something he would do, even if he knew he wasn’t going to hurt you. Gently he took ahold of your forearms, clutching them between fingertips, and lowered them to your chest. Pulling away quickly, he opened the door to the backseat, reaching up onto the rear dash to grab one of the thick blankets they kept there. He shut the door as quietly as he could, but that didn’t stop you from reflexively tensing at the abrupt noise. Though Dean noticed, he said nothing, it wouldn’t help you right now anyways.

Carefully, he worked the blanket underneath you, then laid you back down on the leather, wrapping you up nice and tight. He ducked back, about to shut the door when the rustling of feathers sounded behind him, alarming the both of you.

Quiet as a cat, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. His eye were stoic and matched Deans fiery gaze.

“What do you want now?” Dean snarled, turning completely and shielding you from the angels view.

For a moment, Castiel was silent, eyes dropping to stare at the road beneath him before he returned his gaze to Dean, stepping forwards.

“This hasn’t been easy for you.”

“Yeah no shit! What the hell do you want?”

“I’m here to help.” He nodded at you.

“Why the fuck would you do that. You’ve done nothing for us since you pulled me outta hell!” Deans voice was low and angry, yet cautiously quiet.

Behind him, you shivered as the night air crept in through the open door.

Castiel said nothing, lifting his chin to regard Dean. The look he sported was not judgmental, but perhaps slightly inquisitive. And not the type of inquisitivity that came alongside confusion, no he knew everything he wanted and needed to, but instead a type of inquisitivity that prompted Dean to stop and think.

For a few tense moments, only the stars dared to move, it seemed even the air around the angel and the hunter stilled. Then, slowly, cautiously, Dean stepped back.

“Fine, but hurry the hell up!”

Periwinkle eyes softened, a look of compassion that one might expect when they thought of an angel, and he leant over you.

At first you shrunk away, not willing to be near anyone other than Dean, but you had to trust Dean, trust that he wouldn’t let anyone he didn’t mildly trust near you.

Eyes glowing blue, Castiel pressed but two fingers to your forehead. The tenseness in your shoulders seemed to relax and the frown upon your lips softened. A wave of warmth, like a loving hug, washed through you, chasing away the pain Though the bloodstains and other substances soiling your skin remained, the physical damage was slowly washed away.

He stepped back, allowing Dean to approach you and examine his work. Though Dean still had his back to him, Castiel gave one last thoughtful comment.

“We’re not all so stuck-up, if you give us a chance.”

Dean had barely started to turn before Castiels wings rustled once more and he disappeared into nothingness.  

He stared long and hard at the spot where the angel had once stood, the let his gaze wander upwards. Overhead, a patch of cloud was slowly pushed across the sky, and the moon glowed brightly. She smiled down at the hunter as he gazed at her in return.

Dean lowered his gaze.

He stood there for only a moment longer then turned, shutting the passengers door behind him and walking across the front of the car. He pulled the door open and plopped down in the drivers seat, exhausted.

He hadn’t expected it, but a soft smile graced his features as you scooted closer to him, wresting your head against his thigh.

Starting the car he pulled out from the curb, placing one hand on your head. You murmured then nuzzled into the touch.’

It would take weeks, maybe even months, but, as he sped away from Alastair’s hellhole Dean knew you would be okay.

Both of you, would be okay.

[scullydubois]

Only the Light Ch. 20

20/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: mid-s3 (canon-divergent) | T | 4.7k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic <3

I now present to you a chapter that is filled with more angst than Chris Carter could ever dream of, and for that, I am truly sorry. 

Scully and Mulder's foray into domesticity with Emily is interrupted by the past catching up to them. Faced with despair, they cling even tighter to each other.

--------------------------------

Scully is granted maternity leave, though it’s only for two weeks, which Missy let her know is “a piss-poor bargain.” And she knows this is true, but she also has more incentive to stay at her job than ever, so she’d like not to lose it. The fact that advocating for herself and her child would mean risking her job is a mess in itself, but one lone woman can’t be expected to take down the patriarchy, and besides, she’s already tried and failed. 

As for she and Mulder, they hide their flirtation in plain sight. Mulder’s perpetually present in body or spirit, but his behavior never reveals anything more than it did before. Every morning he swings by to say hi, brings Scully coffee and a bagel with full-fat cream cheese, and checks if Emily’s picked up any new words. Personally, he’s working on “alien” and if you ask him, she’ll get it soon. She knows that it refers to her UFO stuffie, so sounding out the letters can’t be far behind, much to her mother’s dismay.

On Wednesday of the first week, he shows up at 6pm with takeout carbonara from a local Italian joint. His presence makes every Scully girl happy, but it makes one in particular the happiest, and Melissa realizes that there are definitely things her sister has failed to mention. She doesn’t question it, but watches with glee as the situation unfolds. 

After that first night, Mulder keeps coming back with dinner and refuses to let either sister shoulder the cost. On Friday, he stays for a movie too and gets to participate in Emily’s nightly tucking-in ritual (a tickle on the left foot, a tickle on the right foot, and a big smooch on the forehead). 

Saturday afternoon, he joins them for a stroller push through the park, earning some serious side-eye from Scully when he suggests that they stop at the playground because, according to the mama bear, “Em can only take six steps at a time, Mulder.” So instead they buy hotdogs from a vendor and eat them on a bench, Emily sandwiched between her mother, her aunt, and her...Mulder. They couldn’t ask for more.

That night, Mulder hangs around after dinner because what else is he gonna do? Go home and watch old baseball games until he falls asleep? A new leaf has been offered to him, and he’s gotta turn it. 

He’s baffled when, upon announcing that it’s Emily’s bathtime, Scully goes to the kitchen and switches on the sink. 

Scully raises an eyebrow at him. “What, your mother never washed you in the sink when you were a baby?” 

“Not that I know of...I have a hard time envisioning myself ever fitting in a sink.”

Scully scoffs. “I forget. You were a Vineyard boy.” 

Before he can come up with a smart response to that (as if there actually is one), Missy pipes up. “Oh, I bet you were the kid that took baths with your mother,” she teases. “Care to confirm or deny?”

“If I did I blocked it out of memory, thank god,” he testifies. 

Having spread a towel on the counter, Scully strips Emily down and perches the girl on her hip. She sticks her hand under the faucet. 

“That’s not too hot, do you think?” she asks Missy, who tests it as well.

“That should be fine.”

Mulder joins in too, and immediately regrets it. He shrinks away from the water, shaking droplets all over the room. “Jesus, Scully! Are you trying to boil her?”

“Babies lose heat quickly because of their body surface to weight ratio,” she says matter-of-factly. “They’re more susceptible to the cold.”

“I think the cold will be the least of her worries,” Mulder quips.

“If you really think it’s too hot, I’ll turn it down…” There’s a concerned crease beneath her eyes, and it makes Mulder feel bad about his joking.

“No, no, you know what you’re doing,” he assures her. “You’re her mother.”

As she lowers Em into the sink, Scully’s heart twinges. Her. A mother. How many times will she have to hear this before it stops feeling like news to her? 

One week and bathtime has already become routine. Missy fills a plastic cup and pours it gently over her niece, the water cascading down Em like she is nature’s own. Scully soaps her palms, then glides over her daughter’s skin with such care that its memory may blight any future affection Em is graced with. And then another waterfall, and the gentle brush of a wash cloth against eyes and nose. 

Scully squeezes a penny’s worth of baby shampoo into her hand, looks to Mulder. “Come on, get in here. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty, are you?” she says with a smirk.

He smirks back and shakes his head as she lifts his open palm and shrinks her accumulation to a dime. “Although, technically I am getting my hands cleaner…”

She boops him right on the nose with a shampooed finger. He laughs.

Missy smiles. Oh, to see destiny play out right in front of you. “Someone’s cracking dad jokes,” she points out, unable to resist. This observation is much too on-the-nose for the pair (quite literally for Mulder), who simultaneously blush but say nothing.

Mulder wipes the shampoo from his nose and plants it on Emily’s head, joining his partner in making soapy circles over the girl’s tuft of strawberry hair. Scully’s full attention is directed toward her daughter. As soon as the lather is sufficient, she dons the lifted lilt of motherhood. “Okay, time to rinse! Missy, will you do the honors?”

Missy turns the faucet, fills the cup, and lets it flow over Emily. Mulder and Scully wash their hands off in the stream. 

And as Scully leans for the towel, a splash of red dirties its fresh white surface. Mulder notices it first. He points at his partner’s porcelain face. “Scully, you’re bleeding.”

Her hand shoots to her nose. Sure enough, it stains her fingers. “Shit.” She turns away, goes for a tissue. “I haven’t had nosebleeds since I was fourteen,” she tells them, as if that invalidates this one. She wipes away a glob of blood, her stomach turning. “Missy--” her voice shakes involuntarily, “--will you dry Em off?”

“Uh-huh.” She nudges Mulder. “Will you grab a new towel from the linen closet?” she whispers, not wanting to further upset her sister.

Mulder goes off without a word, and Missy squeezes out Em’s hair as best she can. “What a pretty girl!” she gushes. “All clean!”

“Yee!” Emily throws her little fists in the air, injecting joy back into the room. 

“Time to put your PJs on, and get a tickle, tickle, smooch.”

Mulder scrambles back in with a new towel, skirting around Scully, who remains occupied with her own situation. He slides the soiled towel away and helps Missy swaddle Em. Mulder ruffles the little girl’s hair, and she laughs like a music box. 

“Mol-dy.” She spits it out in halves, as if she’s been rehearsing. 

Mulder’s eyes water with recognition. “Mulder? Mul-der? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Moldy,” the girl declares again, certain of herself.

Missy adjusts Em on her hip, smiles at Mulder. “Looks like you’re Moldy now.”

Mulder bites his lip to hide his overwhelming delight. “Yeah, I...I never thought I'd be so happy to be called moldy.”

Next thing he knows, Scully is at his shoulder with a tissue stuffed up her nostrils. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“Em called me Moldy,” he tells her, full of satisfaction.

“Oh.” It comes out relatively unimpressed, but really, she’s just distracted. “Missy, will you get a diaper on her before there’s an accident? I would but I’m still--” She gestures to her nose. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Missy smiles at the baby in her arms. “PJ time, Em!” They go off toward the bedroom, a happy pair.

As soon as Em is out of sight, Mulder spirals toward his partner, panic-stricken. The glee of moments ago has evaporated. 

“Are you okay?” He touches her hair, shoulders, and the familiar small of her back, unsure of where he should land. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine.” Her grip on his elbows--keeping his hands firmly placed on her waistline--suggests otherwise. 

“You’ve got to see a doctor,” he pleads. “This could be...”

“This could be what, Mulder?” The steel in her blue eyes is a death grip. She’s never liked being told the obvious. 

“Scully…” He sighs, rubs his neck, wills her to say what they both know. When she doesn’t, he takes his hands off her and wrings them together. “The Mufon women...they said it would happen to all of them eventually.” He’s careful not to lump Scully in with their group. 

“And what do they know?” she retorts. “One of them was sick. One.”

“Okay, well, don’t you think it’s better to be safe than sorry?” he reasons. “You have Emily to look out for now.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Don’t guilt trip me. It’s a nosebleed. Those happen all the time for completely benign reasons.”

“Yeah, but they don’t happen to you. You just said--you haven’t had one since you were fourteen.”

She clenches her jaw. He’s right, and she’s playing the fool. His position is the one she would take if this were anyone other than herself. She’s gonna have to lose this fight with as much grace as possible.

“Fine. I’ll get it checked out, but they’re gonna think I’m insane for coming in because of one nosebleed.”

“That’s a nice change of pace--you being the insane one for once.”

“Well, you’re the one who wants me to go, so you’re not out of the woods.”

“Good, I’ve finally got some company!”

Scully smiles in spite of herself. “Yes, yes you do.”

--------------------------------------

It happens very quickly, as most calamities of life can be said to. This gives it the unreal quality of a nightmare that might soon be woken up from, if there is any justice in the world.

Scully snags a doctor’s appointment for three days after the initial nosebleed. By the time she walks into the waiting room, one nosebleed has quadrupled into four, and her minor concern has snowballed into abject terror. 

Margaret Scully drove into the city to watch Emily so Missy could join her sister. Scully insisted that she would go alone, but Missy wouldn’t accept this. She threatened to tell Mulder the details of the appointment if Dana didn’t let her go, and that was enough to earn her a spot in the passenger seat. Scully can’t take the thought of Mulder witnessing the worst--let alone her reaction to the worst. 

And so it goes something like this: they are taken to an exam room, at which point Scully explains her situation to a nurse, including that she has recently learned she is at high risk for cancer. The nurse assures her that such a diagnosis is highly unlikely, but makes a note for the doctor. The doctor comes in with knitted eyebrows and listens to Scully describe the aftermath of her abduction experience with a heavy emphasis on the convoluted but substantial claims of the Mufon women. She asks if Scully has had any other symptoms, to which Scully replies that it’s hard to tell because she has an infant in the house and thus, a marked lack of sleep. 

The doctor laughs, but it’s not a haha laugh, more of an I feel your pain. She agrees that the women’s claims are concerning, but tells her patient not to fret. They’ll take all the precautions, run any test that might assuage her worries. There’s a quip about how it’ll be on the government’s dime since it covers Scully’s insurance, and then the doctor leaves to order an MRI. 

A full body MRI, which Scully has never had, and which she hoped she would never require. There’s no deeper sickness than one that cannot be pinpointed, and no greater fear than of the unknown turning into the worst case scenario. 

The MRI is completed that same day. As she slides into the machine, Scully thinks of Betsy Hagopian and wonders how she’s doing. It has been many months since she stood outside an exam room and watched Betsy enter one of these. Has fate been kind to her?

For a few minutes, her world is limited to the mere inches between her face and this life-saving yet life-ruining contraption. It is noisy and sometimes bright and altogether disorientating. She is glad when it’s over. 

The images return almost immediately, and maybe it would all have been okay if Scully weren’t trained in radiology herself, if she wasn’t able to recognize the glaring speck of light in her nasal cavity for what it is. But that one glance is all she needs to know that waiting by the phone isn’t an option. 

“It’s a tumor, isn’t it?” she blurts as the radiologist tries to escort her and Melissa from the room. “In the nasal cavity. I have a M.D. I saw.”

“Your doctor will call with the results,” the radiologist insists, standing by the open doorway.

“No, no, you can’t do this to me,” Scully sputters. “I know what I saw, and I don’t have any time to waste.” Her eye twitches in a combination of stress and anger. “I have an infant daughter.”

The radiologist sighs, pity on top of pity. “Perhaps your doctor will talk it through with you now.”

“Yes. Please.”

And it is talked through, though there’s no need to make it complicated: nasopharyngeal carcinoma. Inoperable, and just barely in the realm of treatable. That’s the kicker, the coyote in the pasture, the cloud covering the sun. In the words of Scully’s doctor, it is auspiciously rare. And in Scully’s brain, it is the bottom she’s been expecting to drop out from under since she held her daughter in her arms.

Melissa drives home. The sisters cannot fathom how they will tell their mother. Cannot fathom ruining her blissful time with the granddaughter she’s just met. When they turn onto their street, Scully swallows hard and coughs on her own spit. “Will you do something for me?” 

Missy looks over, eager to do anything she can, yet terrified by the possibility of the request.

“Will you take me to Mulder’s?” Scully mumbles. “I would just take the car but...I can’t face mom right now. I don’t want to risk it.”

Missy bites her lip. “And what am I supposed to tell mom when she asks where you are?”

“The truth,” Scully says curtly. “She doesn’t need the backstory.”

Missy drives past their building, though she’s not completely sold on her sister’s reasoning. “Don’t you think she might wonder why you aren’t coming home to your daughter?”

“I know she’ll wonder, Melissa, I know all of this,” Scully snaps because she needs to. “I don’t care.”

“Okay.” Missy’s voice is barely perceptible. I don’t care; she knows how low her sister has to be to say those words. 

They complete the drive in silence, Scully biting her nails--a habit which she has never possessed, and perhaps just acquired. The car idles as Missy pulls up to the curb of Mulder’s building. 

“I can pick you up when you need it,” she tells her sister as she pulls herself out of the car. “I’ll bring Em.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Scully says, closing the passenger door and edging toward the building. Missy hears a thanks float toward the car, then her sister is gone like a teenage girl embarrassed by her mother.

-------------------------------------

They sit on Mulder’s couch, muted. Words cannot fathom the injustice of this situation, nor can they suffice as empathy. Their hands are clasped together, a throughline of strength between them. This is what they need now; the most primitive language of all.

Scully’s watery eyes brush Mulder’s face. His own eyes, more pained than usual, look into hers. Without a word, she drapes an arm around her partner’s shoulders and scoots into his lap. He is surprised but not distressed. What else is left for them, now?

She is tiny, so tiny. And she is his. 

Their eyes meet once again, speaking in tongues. Scully nods, and then Mulder does too. This is it. This is it.

Permission granted at last, Scully’s lips travel to her partner’s jawline. The first time her lips have touched his body, and this is where they go. She is a constant box of wonders, a fortune he can never predict. Her lips are much like he has fantasized they would be: wondrously soft and silky, stroking him like they have always meant to be there. Yet he couldn’t have imagined the urgency with which they burrow into his skin. As if she’s making a mental map of his bone structure. He never expected that she would want him this much. 

His hands find her hips and grip the cotton of her shirt between his fingers. It is enough to tear her away from his flesh. Mission accomplished. His breath travels past her ear, hitting her neck. It is shallow and warm as he breathes her name. Her real name, the one her family calls her. She breathes his own back to him, like a bird responding to a mating call.

She feels his lips on her neck, wet and aching. It feels like God. This is the most blasphemous thought she has ever had. She throws her head back, exposing the whole of her skin to him. What is holiness, if not this moment?

He showers her in tattoo kisses, and she lets him, she lets him, she lets him. This is not just what she wants, but what she needs. No one will save her now, she knows this. So she has decided not to be saved. 

Her shirt ripples as he clutches it. “May I?” He is breathy, awe-struck. 

“Only if I can do the same.” Always about equality, his Scully is. He lifts his arms, lets her strip him first. He is fraught with the temptation to feel insecure, inadequate, but this is not about him--this is all for her. There is no time to dwell on this anyway. Scully takes in the sight, then puts her own arms up with a hint of impatience. He pulls her shirt over her head, and goosebumps adorn her as the air hits her bare stomach. 

It is unimaginable, the significance of this moment. All Mulder can do is keep going, lest the emotion hit him and he find himself blubbering all over her. His hands travel her body...it is slender and white, but so solid, so strong. Cartilage forming ligaments forming joints connecting bones. And her skin, stretching over her hips and framing it all. The masterpiece that is Dana Katherine Scully. 

He fears for the day she will cave in on herself. Already, one of his hands covers her whole rib cage. Right now he can cradle her body comfortably against his own, but the day will come when a single cautious touch will crush her, and his heart along with it. He wants her as she is now forever.

Seeing that he wants to pamper her, Scully lets herself be pampered. He showers the taut length of her collar bone in kisses. The vibration resonates throughout her bone structure, and already she can feel him in places she’s only fantasized about having him. He is going to heal me, she thinks. If anyone could heal her in any way, it would be him doing this. 

She shows her gratitude by kneading circles into his soft tissues, so tense from all their days chasing ghosts. The sinew relaxes beneath the pads of her fingers, and she feels like she has solved the most important X-File of all. 

Mulder traces his way along her spine. He has never touched her here, nor ever even fantasized about it, and there is an erotic tension--like a needle about to drop on a record--that neither one of them could have seen coming. Inevitably, his hands converge at the hooks of her bra. She arches her back in approval. He slides the hooks away from each other, and both of them feel the release. She shimmies off the garment before he can pull it out of the way. No secrets, not anymore.

Mulder didn’t expect to cry and is aware that most women wouldn’t take that as a positive sign, but seeing her, like this, knowing what they both know, tears feel like the least he could offer up. She is...beautiful is too weak a word to describe it. He needs to invent a new word to capture the essence of his emotions, the reverence with which he views her. He is not a religious man, but he will worship her until the end of time. 

He has known this, intuitively, for a while, and now he’s putting it into practice. He wants to do everything he can for her, give her everything she wants. Yet he doesn’t know how to, and this scares him. She has always slipped through his fingers, always turned on a dime just when he thought he figured her out. Tonight is no exception. How was he to know that he’d be on his couch with a half-naked Scully in his lap?

He fears the tears will offend her, so he nuzzles into her heartspace, his nose pressed against the heart that is--by the grace of that God she worships--still beating. His lips meet the plush of her left breast. 

Where does he go from here? The dusty routine he’s used with other women--the few who have given themselves to him or let him hand himself over--is not worthy enough for Scully. He could never touch Scully in the ways he’s touched the women before because she is not like the women before. There is no mere giving or taking here, no detached exchange of commodities or pleasure for the sake of pleasure. This is survival. They are symbiotically keeping each other alive.

A drop of water hits Scully’s skin, slides down the curvature of her breast. She shudders. A tear. That’s what it is, she realizes. Mulder is crying. It’s a baptism of unfortunate proportions. 

She cups her hand against his chin, tilts it up so his bleary eyes meet hers. She rests her forehead against his. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.” She kisses each eye closed, his lids fluttering beneath her lips. “It’s okay.” 

His breathing steadies. He is quite certain that it is not okay, that it never will be, but he listens to her, lets himself pretend. 

Hands still on his chin, she careens their lips together. His mouth on hers; a godsend. They caress each other for a moment, then Scully opens wide, and Mulder does too. They are reflecting. 

If Scully could compress herself, pushing every particle of air out of her lungs and into his, she would. As a sort of thank you, for everything. For what he has done, what is doing, what he will do...She will never have to live without him. She knows this now, and it makes this easier. But he will have to live without her, and so she must make sure he gets the memories he needs to carry on. This is how grief works, she’s acquainted with it. These moments, these feelings, these bated breaths and tender touches, will be his survival mechanism for awhile. Until the day when he can throw them off and go on without her ghost. It will happen one day, and she will be glad that he made it. 

She feels him pressing against her stomach, which is certainly not where she wants him. “Fox…” Her hands hover above his belt. She unzips his fly first, her hand warm against him. He is dizzy with want as her fingers curl against his belt buckle, loosening it with confidence. In a sweeping gesture,  she pushes his jeans off his hips, exposing him. The thrill she feels, seeing him big and bare in front of her, is a new kind of livelihood. She’s overcome with the desire to take him in her mouth--and that has never, never been her first instinct. She ducks down, but he stops her.

“Dana, no. You.”

She doesn’t need to hear it twice. She sucks in a breath, arches her back, and slides onto him. Slowly, gasping as they go. 

“Am I hurting you?”

Scully shakes her head, lips parted. It has been nothing like this before...nothing so fulfilling. She crosses her ankles, binding them completely together at last. 

Unity triumphs against the self, their union abolishing the world’s insistence on the solitude of the individual. This is what it’s about, isn’t it? Being joined, not only in spirit, but in body? Knowing that whatever horrors are to come, he will feel them as she does. Her dwindling will be his too, her losses an equally empty space within him. 

She is teetering on the edge of something she can never come back from. She is not afraid. 

She careens her fingernails into his back as the pressure builds. If it doesn’t come to a head, she’ll die right here, she thinks. 

She barely registers the cathartic noises coming out of her, though they give Mulder great delight. He thought she would be quiet, and the fact that she’s not trying to hold anything in--after holding everything in for so goddamn long--is the most moving part of the experience. 

And they want this to go on forever, but they want the release. Mulder swivels his hips into her, bringing them both closer to climax. Scully curls against him. 

“I’m sorry,” she cries into his ear.

“What?” He nearly pulls out of her, fearing that she’s hurt. 

“No, no--” She scrambles to stay with him. “This--” she pants “--is so good.” She lowers her lips onto his as confirmation, then speaks into his open mouth. “I’m just sorry to be the one to go.”

He frames her ribcage, thumbs arching toward her belly button. “Fuck, honey...don’t say that, don’t even think that…”

They won’t linger on the choice of pet name, the tenderness with which it settles over her, nor the absolute devastation of her words. There is simply no time. 

Scully hides her face in his neck as the wave breaks over both of them. There is no world anymore, only the two of them on this couch. They have forsaken the physical realm, ascending to heaven in time with their heartbeats. 

Mulder understands then what his reciprocal means when she says she needs proof to believe. Now that he’s been there and felt it, he knows that heaven exists, and holy shit, what does that mean for the life he has lived and the time he has left? What did it mean for Samantha?...What will it mean for Scully?

They collapse into each other, a melted mass of skin and bone. Two becoming one, becoming two again. Mulder strokes the back of his partner’s head, presses his lips to her temple. Her chest rises against him in jagged breaths.

“You are the only proof I’ll ever need that this life is worth it,” he murmurs. “Just you.”

Scully looks up at him, tears running down her cheeks. He kisses them away and wraps his arms around her. “I don’t know if you got the memo, but I love you, Dana Scully.”

She rests her cheek against his. “I love you too, F--Mulder.”

Mulder chuckles, his amusement shaking both of them. Scully closes her eyes and snuggles into him. He puts his hand over her heart, feels it beating steadily into his palm, and longs for it to stay like that forever.

[joshslater]

Grimsby pt. 7

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I was speechless and touched. I was too exhausted to figure out what this meant though. Did he expect something from me now? Before I could gather myself Jace picked up his bag and started walking towards the exit.

- We should of a pint.

I wasn’t audibly breathing heavily any longer, but I could feel I was still pretty wound up. Flush, sweaty, and definitely thirsty after this shock introduction to the gentlemen’s art of self-defense. I felt a pint was too far away and I needed to drink right now, so I stood up and started to walk towards the drinking faucet. “You’ll regret it,” Jace remarked, barely looking my way. He was half right. The water tasted of metal pipes, but it felt good to splash my face with cold water and cool it down. There were empty holders of a mirror pane mounted on the well. At some point the mirror must have cracked and never been replaced. I wondered how I looked after such a beating. I cupped my hands and brought water up to dump in my hair, and was quickly reminded of how little of it I had left. I could feel trickles down my shaved sides and neck. The sound of the door closing made me realize Jace wasn’t waiting, so I rushed out of the locker room, out through the main doors, and caught up with him slowly walking back the way we came.

It didn’t take long until he deviated from the path we followed to the club. I had no idea where we were, or really where he was taking me, but it was obviously a route as well optimized as the path we took going here. Mostly road, but a few shortcuts through people’s back yards. It looked kind of familiar, but I’ve only walked around these blocks very tired, hangover, drunk and/or high. Now I could add beaten up and exhausted to that list. As we rounded a corner I saw a painted sign hanging out from the building, stating “Fawn’s Head”. I'd seen that pub at some point earlier in the week, but never been near it.

For some reason it looked deserted on the empty street, not that you could really tell about a pub with its door closed. Looks were deceiving, sure enough, because there were quite a few people scattered around inside the pub. It was decidedly not a high-brow clientele. Everywhere I looked I saw track tops, worker's high-viz clothes, and quite a few paint-spattered sweatshirts. I recognized some people from yesterday evening, though not by name. A few people glanced our way, garnering no interest.

I followed Jace over to the barman and witnessed a play in gestures. The barman gave Jace a nod. Jace gave him a nod. Then he nodded sideways towards me. Then the barman poured two lager, and placed them in front of us. Jace was clearly a regular, though I wasn’t even sure he was 18 yet. Without a word we grabbed our beers and started to empty the glass. It was the best-tasting beer I’ve had all week. Not because of the beer, but because this was the end of a hard day at the end of a hard week. Whatever part of my body didn’t hurt after hauling ice and fish, Jace had made tender, either directly by knocking me out, or with the bag punching exercises. But this was the end of...

- HEY!

Jace had turned towards the room and shouted at the top of his lungs. It instantly became dead silent.

- Is Chayse innit!

Everyone shifted their eyes onto me. What the hell was Jace doing?

- Fuck with him, fuck with me!

There was a second of tense silence in the room. I didn’t dare breathe.

- On me. Cheers!

The room erupted in loud cheers, followed by an explosion of chatter. Some guy in blue carpenter trousers and a blue sweatshirt, both splattered with hundreds of tiny white dots of paint, jumped up from his seat and grabbed the first of the new beers. As he was turning to get back to his table, he stopped as if he realized he should pay for the beer somehow, and slapped my sore shoulder.

- Connor’s the name. Why don’t you lad join our table for a wee bit?

Before I could even agree to that, he started shoving me in the direction towards the table. I pulled an extra chair and sat down with his crew of builders. Conner, Kieran, Tommy, and Callum. To my surprise their work stories about bad shoes, early mornings, lunch places, all felt relevant to me, and I had a few insights that fit into the conversation. Once I’ve emptied my beer I excused myself for a smoke, but Callum got up and told me to follow him. We walked out on the back and there was a large smokers patio with two groups in either end talking. Callum brought me to one of the groups and the others there greeted me and introduced themselves.

It turned out that none of them actually knew Jace, but they had seen him around. They themselves didn’t know each other that well either. They usually sat with their pals and then just came together outside for a smoke. As they started to move back inside, a tall, hard-looking guy from the other group walked across the patio.

- Hey come here!

He was shaved bald, wore shiny, black Puma clothes with red zippers and details, and a pair of black Dr. Martens. He clearly worked out, but even if he hadn’t his height alone was intimidating. It didn’t sound like a request either. Callum got the hint and quickly stubbed out his fag.

- See you around. - Yeah.

While he returned inside the pub the shaved guy motioned with his shiny head towards the other two who silently smoked at the other end. They looked every bit as tough as this guy. A bit older but just as muscled, one with buzzed heads and tracksuits, the other with a mohawk, adidas top, and dark blue adidas joggers. As I started to walk towards them, the shaved guy walked behind me, like he was herding me. Dammit, I’m also shaved, although not completely. I must stop thinking of myself as looking so different than them. Anyone who stumbled out into the patio would assume we four were a group. As I stopped he pushed me in the back to force me uncomfortably close to the other two. The older of the two, standing just in my face, made a deep drag, and blew a cloud of smoke in my face. I’m sure it was intended as disrespectful and intimidating, but it took all my self-discipline to not inhale it, even though I had just finished a smoke myself. He gave me a nod and spoke.

- Jace new runner innit. - I don’t know wh... - Shut the fuck.

I could feel the color draining from my face. Apparently there was a reason why they all left me alone outside with these guys. He continued.

- I don’t give a fuck what you do, but stay out of our business. If you see any of us you do as you’re told. Got it? - Yes. - Good. Now lick my balls. - What? - You heard me mate.

A wave of fatigue washed over me. I had been shaved and punched and drugged and so much more. Everything was unreal. This was not me, this was not my life. It’s just that with a pint in my hand and nice people around I slipped and forgot. Like an emotionally drained whore on her tenth fuck for the day I silently went down on my knees in front of his crotch. He patted my head on the exposed skin.

- This is what we like, lads, innit.

And then he tilted my head back up and looked me in the eyes.

- Remember your place next time we tell you to do something.

Then he let go and looked up at the others.

- Let's go for another, lads.

He dropped his smoldering fag on the ground in front of me as they left, and I hated that my first instinct was to pick it up and put it in my mouth. Who were they? What did they mean by Jace's runner? They had already left the patio by the time I got up and looked around. A group of patrons just walked into the patio and nodded in my direction. I nodded back and headed back into the pub, past them. I needed to find Jace and ask him what the guys meant. It wasn't hard to find him inside the pub, despite it filling up in the moments he had been out. He was standing next to a table close to the entrance, towering over the guy standing next to him. He probably towered over most people. The guy next to him was passionately talking to him. Jace saw me, and reached out like for a handshake.

- Oi Chayse, be a minute.

I grabbed his hand and felt something small in my hand. Jace winked at me.

- First one's free bruv.

He handed me a half-emptied pint glass and turned back to the guy. I stepped away and looked into my hand. A small, white pill. I felt both neglected and thankful at the same time. Of course he should finish whatever this is, but I felt we needed to talk right now. I took a large swig out of the glass and realized as I swallowed that I had already put the pill in my mouth. I was just running on autopilot after everything that had happened during this week.

Something was moving in my peripheral, and I turned to see a few guys at a table waving at me. I went to join them to kill time. I felt like I was losing grip of reality again, because the man who waved me to the table came back from the bar with a fresh lager and sat it down in front of me, while one of the other guys at the table was talking about their day of road maintenance. I was jolted back into the present, looking up at the man, Rob was it? He was smiling at me kindly. I thanked him and took a sip of the beer, and a shiver of pleasure went through me. It was even better tasting than the one I had earlier. The guy who was talking was detailing all the problems with one of the stores next to the road where they had laid stones during the day. He was about my age, but more tanned and crow's feet by the eyes after having been outdoor so much. No, this was Rob. His pitch-black hair was gelled up, and his face was framed on the other side by a black T-shirt with a big, yellow "Powell Construction" logo. I realized I had stopped listening to him and was lost in his grey-blue eyes, when he asked me something.

- Sorry mate, I have to piss.

At the moment I said it I realized it was actually true, and somewhat wobbly got up and headed towards the gents. They nodded and smiled. Jace wasn't standing where I had last seen him, I noted on the way to the gents, nor did I see him anywhere else. I wasn't sure I could trust my senses fully. What had he given me? Molly? It must have been part of it, as everything and everyone was lovely. I double-checked the sign on the door and entered the gents. Two sinks, two urinals, and a door to a proper toilet. As I walked by the mirrors over the sinks I turned my head, almost like a reflex, but stopped in my tracks.

I looked horrible. It wasn't the brutal hair, or the eyebrows, or the piercings, or the clothes. I looked like a criminal mug shot. My face was subtly swollen and bruised from the pummeling I've gotten from Jace an hour or two ago. There wasn't any specific thing I could point out. Just that I looked off. I didn't look like me anymore. Fascinated, almost mesmerized by my own ugliness I touched and poked my face. Nothing hurt. Not specifically anyway. I'm sure it would look better tomorrow, but it was unnerving still.

As I reached the urinal I realized I had a stiffy. I hoped the black adidas joggers had hidden it from Rob and whatever his name was, but I couldn't be sure. Well, this wasn't the place to do anything about it, so I simply aimed forward and let go, pissing straight into the wall of the urinal. Despite me swaying more than I would have liked or expected, the only thing I got on me was a fine mist of back splatter. I was clearly more intoxicated or high or whatever than I thought, so I don't know how long I stood with my dick out and forehead against the wall, just waiting for the dripping to stop. I was kind of hoping to also get soft, but had to settle for a semi.

I was pulling my joggers up when someone entered. I didn't take any notice of him until someone shouted "Hey" in my ear, and pushed me into the room with the toilet. He shoved me down on the lid facing him, and locked the door. It was one of the goons from the outside patio, the one with the mohawk, adidas top and joggers. He had a week-old beard and looked a bit tired as well. I knew I should be intimidated by him, but somehow I just felt like I wanted to hug him. I had this unexplainable urge to touch him. He glanced at the ceiling, looking for a smoke detector, then picked a cigarette and a lighter from a pocket. While looking down on me he slowly put the cigarette to his mouth and lit it, inhaled deeply, and exhaled the smoke on me. To his confusion this time I inhaled deeply as well. Not only did I want to embrace him. I wanted to french kiss him and suck the smoke out of his lungs. What the fuck was wrong with me?

He regained his composure. He was also clearly a bit drunker than before.

- I want to be fucking clear with you. When we tell you what to do, you do it. - Sound, mate.

This wasn't going how either of us had expected. My eyes kept darting between his face and the chain he had around his neck. Somehow it looked so pretty, glittering in the fluorescent tube light. Everything looked pretty. He struggled with what to do next.

- Lick it. Lick the groin.

I looked down. The loose, dark blue adidas joggers didn't reveal much, but a little bump indicated where his dick was. For some reason, I don't know why, I did as he said, leaned forward, and let my tongue run up and down the fabric. It didn't taste like much. I moved forward and licked with a bit more pressure. I could hear him inhale from the cigarette again.

- Ok, alright. I need to piss.

He grabbed me and stood me up with one arm, and unlocked the door with the other.

- Share the fag? - What?

It took him a second to realize I asked for his cigarette. His intimidation ploy had not gone the way he wanted, though I was at the same time both zen and wondering what the fuck was going on. He handed me the cigarette. I stepped out and he closed the door behind me. I finished the cigarette and threw it in the urinal.

[owl-with-a-pen]

I would love to see a Valentine’s Day chapter with Brainy and nia. We didn’t get to see much of it on that one episode, beside that fact Brainy went to her party and gave her chocolates that Yvette ate later. Just a simple one where Brainy is super sweet and asks nia to be his valentine wether this is before or after they’re together. Thanks!

Anon also asked:  Hi there! would you ever think of doing a valentine's themed fic for brania? I miss them so much and I love your work!

- I know I’m a day late, but I hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for the prompts x

Valentine’s Day was going to be weird this year, Nia knew it.

After everything Brainy had been through over the last few months, the last thing Nia wanted was to push the most commercial of commercial holidays on him, especially considering they’d never actually had a Valentine’s Day together. She couldn’t exactly count the epic failure that had been their first Valentine’s party  on account of the fact that they hadn’t seen each other the whole night.

And, last year?

There was no use sugar coating it; they’d both been going through hell last year. The break-up had still been fresh in Nia’s mind and although Kara had tried to help her out of the funk she’d been in, Nia had still spent the whole day curled up on the sofa - her only hot date that night had been with an ice cold tub of Ben and Jerry’s.  

Now that Nia understood the reason behind their break-up, she knew that Brainy hadn’t been faring any better than her at the time, either. The only thing he’d had to keep his mind occupied were the asinine tasks Lex had kept him performing as placeholders whenever a new piece of his plan had yet to unfold.

Nia tried not to linger on that year. What mattered now was that the truth was finally out. Brainy was safe and healthy and, most importantly, he was finally starting to feel like himself again. 

Nia didn’t care that Brainy hadn’t so much as made mention of the holiday – not even after Kara had invited them to a lowkey Valentine’s get together at her place later that evening, an invitation that had only been extended as far as the Super Friends. Considering Brainy had been reluctant to hang out with everyone as a group since Leviathan, Nia was only glad that he’d wanted to go at all. Besides, she didn’t care about gifts or celebrations, she was just thankful to put the past behind her and finally have Brainy back in her life.

Which was why she was all the more surprised to open their apartment door that evening and find Brainy stood on the other side, a bunch of roses held tightly in one hand.

A grin lit up Nia’s face in an instant. “Hey,” she said, not even trying to hide the glee from her voice. “Are those for me?”

“Indeed,” Brainy said, taking a step forward. In the same motion, he removed his other hand from behind his back, revealing a heart shaped box of chocolates. “I – uh – appreciate we have never successfully completed a Valentine’s Day tradition before, so allow this to be the first.”

Nia didn’t think she could smile any harder if she tried. She took the flowers from Brainy, the fresh scent of their petals brushing against her nose as she brought them to her face. She felt a blush race across her cheeks. “Real flowers, huh?” she asked mischievously.

Brainy’s lips quirked into a small smile of his own. “That is the custom,” he said, offering the chocolate box out to her with a practiced flourish. “As is this.” He cleared his throat, raising his chin. “Nia Nal, will you be my Valentine?”

A blush flooded across Nia’s face as she grinned again, nodding hard. “Yes, Brainy, of course I’ll be your Valentine.” She accepted the chocolates from Brainy’s hand, juggling them along with the flowers until they were both cradled in one arm. 

“This is amazing,” she said honestly, closing the space between them so that she could hug him with her free arm. She ducked her face into Brainy’s shoulder, squeezing him tight.

The warmth of him spread through her face as she buried her head into his throat. A moment later, she could feel Brainy’s hands travelling around her waist, pressing firmly against the small of her back. His touch sent something electric dancing up Nia’s spine and she softened against him, pulling away just enough to press a kiss against his lips.

When they parted, Nia didn’t miss the elated glimmer behind Brainy’s eyes. It was such a soft expression, one that hadn’t adorned Brainy’s face for so long, Nia had almost begun to forget what it looked like. Now that Brainy had begun to relax into himself, that happiness had become far more commonplace, although it still warmed Nia’s heart whenever she got to see that expression and know that she was the cause of it. Impetuously, Nia reached for Brainy’s face, brushing her thumb along his jaw, hoping to preserve that smile for as long as possible.

She blinked suddenly, realising belatedly that they were still stood in the middle of the doorway. “I should really put these in water,” she said, hugging the flowers against her side. She ushered Brainy inside with her free hand, turning to the kitchen to find a vase. “And by the way,” she continued over her shoulder, placing the heart-shaped box on the closest counter, “this isn’t technically the first time you’ve bought me a Valentine’s gift.”

Nia didn’t need to turn her head to know the face Brainy was pulling. “Ah, yes,” he murmured apprehensively. “Although, I wouldn’t say our first Valentine’s Day necessarily went… according to plan.”

“Oh, I remember,” Nia said, selecting an empty glass vase from the top shelf. She headed to the faucet, filling it with water. When she glanced up, she found Brainy watching her from across the kitchen counter, his arms folded across its surface. She smirked. “Didn’t you spend most of that party hidden in my closet?”

Brainy offered a tight smile, ducking his head. “Yvette was certainly a force to be reckoned with,” he admitted lowly, glancing up at her. “Although, I do appreciate you talking with her about boundaries.”

Nia’s expression softened. “Any time.”

She’d known Yvette hadn’t meant to take Brainy out of his comfort zone by dragging him to the dancefloor that night. Considering Nia had made herself MIA for most of that party – a party she’d specifically invited Brainy to - Yvette had only wanted for him to feel included.

But, the party hadn’t been Brainy’s thing to begin with. She’d left him to his own devices in a room otherwise filled with strangers, and maybe at the time she hadn’t realised just how anxious Brainy got in those sorts of situations, but she knew better now. Still, it didn’t stop her from feeling all kinds of crappy that she’d allowed that to happen, even if her head hadn’t totally been in the game at the time.

Nia played with the roses’ arrangement in their new home, spreading them equally around the vase. She sighed. “I didn’t exactly make that night any easier for you, though.”

“You had a lot on your mind,” Brainy said softly.

Yeah, Nia thought. She’d been so obsessed with finally making strides towards her role as a hero, taking up the mantle her mom had so proudly left for her, she’d even dismissed Brainy’s incredibly sweet gesture the first time around, disregarding his gift of chocolates in favour of a new training regime. But, not anymore. This time, they were doing this right.

“Well,” she said decisively, setting the vase to the side, “right now, my mind’s totally clear.” She glanced again towards the box of chocolates, biting the inside of her cheek. “C’mon,” she said, snatching them from the counter. “We can share these.” 

As she walked around the breakfast bar, she took Brainy’s arm, urging him towards the sofa. Brainy followed curiously a pace behind her.

As Nia settled, tucking her legs beneath her, she popped open the box, reading the label on the inside. She grinned. “There’s coffee flavour ones in here, too? Okay, I take back what I just said. We can share any except for those.”

Brainy supressed an obvious shudder as he sat down. “They are… all yours.”

“What?” Nia prodded playfully, nudging his arm. “Not a fan?”

Brainy wrinkled his nose, gesturing vaguely ahead of himself. “I just don’t understand how two opposing flavours serve to compliment one another.”

“Oh, and yet apples and olives are just… a natural choice on pizza,” Nia scoffed.

“Either one would be far more palatable covered in chocolate.”

Nia rolled her eyes. “Hey, I’ll agree with you about the apples,” she said, already perusing the selection, trying to find the coffee flavoured truffle as advertised on the card. “But, I’m pretty sure chocolate covered olives are a crime against nature.” She beamed when she found her prize, taking a large bite out of the candy. When Brainy’s face scrunched in disgust, she laughed, covering her mouth before any wayward chocolate dribbled out. 

She held the chocolates out on her lap for Brainy to browse, which only fuelled the next twenty minutes’ topic of discussion with good natured jabs aimed towards each other’s preferred chocolate flavours. 

By the time they needed to head out for Kara’s party, the first layer had been all but demolished.

“We should probably get going,” Nia said as she spied the time on the kitchen clock. She pecked Brainy’s cheek before unfurling herself from his side, stretching out her arms.

When she stood, she realised that Brainy hadn’t followed her up. Instead, there was a reserved look in his eyes, a nervous twist to his lips as he remained sat on the sofa’s edge, toying absently with his Legion ring. 

“Brainy?” Nia asked, her voice softening. When Brainy looked up, she smiled gently. “Everything okay?” 

Brainy opened his mouth as though he might answer, but instead, no words came out. Nia sat back down, resting her hand on his leg. “Hey, you sure you’re up for this? You know there’s no pressure.”

Brainy shook himself a little, clenching and unclenching his hand hesitantly. “I do,” he said carefully, glancing back towards her. “I am. It’s just…”

“I get it,” Nia said, squeezing his leg. And, she did. Even though the gathering would be small, filled with the people Brainy cared about, on some level, Nia understood that that was what he was dreading the most. As much as he knew that his friends had forgiven him, the real issue was that Brainy hadn’t yet reached a place where he’d been able to forgive himself. It’d come in time, but if he refused every get-together or social gathering entirely, it’d only take him that much longer to reach the obvious conclusion.

That he was loved. And that was never going to change.

And, hey, what better time to remind him of that than on Valentine’s Day?

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” Nia assured him. “And, if you’re not feeling it, we don’t have to stay for long. What d’you say?”

After a long moment’s consideration, Brainy glanced down, taking Nia’s hand. He smiled, a little of his confidence returning as he nodded his head. “Okay,” he said.

Nia grinned. “Okay.” 

Maybe she’d been wrong, maybe Valentine’s wasn’t going to feel as weird this year. After all, with flowers, chocolate, and finally having the chance to spend the day with Brainy at her side, Nia realised that maybe this might turn out to be the best Valentine’s Day she’d ever had.

[guileheroine]

when the clock strikes midnight 

It’s almost fascinating, the way she only becomes more real under hands, more solid and more fervid, not a dream or just some brief flight of fancy. At least she hopes this isn’t that.  A long overdue coda to Blessings in Disguise 🤍🌇 / Korrasami / 4.6k / ao3 

If she were on earth it might have felt like the longest drive of Asami’s life. 

Instead it flew in a fuzzy rush, after Korra leaned over to give her a kiss and practically fell into her seat, giggling; and Asami spent the duration of the drive feeling its ghost on her skin, tamping it down just enough to guide her hands on the wheel and keep her eyes on the road. In the passenger seat, Korra sat with her head back and eyes closed, but her left hand lay in her lap, curled like it was just about to reach for Asami’s again.

Now, inside, it’s still only Korra’s hand on Asami’s shoulder blade, warm through her dress as she urges her through the door, that binds Asami to her body. The rest of her is itching to float. Once they’re inside, Asami pushes the door shut behind her and turns to face her.

She doesn’t get a second to breathe. Korra goes straight for her mouth. It’s a little clumsy but she finds the rhythm she’s perfected in barely an hour. Locked in, Asami hesitates momentarily, before slipping her keys in the seamless pocket of her dress instead of their usual hook. Then she can’t help the laugh that bubbles in her throat, and she pulls back, holding Korra’s face.

She doesn’t bother resisting the impulse to just—squeeze it. 

Asami should feel a lot less collected than she does; she’s vaguely aware of that, it’s probably just that she’s dumbstruck into serenity. When her mind feels out for an anchor, all she finds is an intoxicating rush of new memory, the evening that preceded all this as hazy as a past life, like she was embodied anew the moment Korra put her hands on her. 

“What?” Korra mumbles, muffled from her squeezed cheeks.

Nothing, Asami thinks, but forgets to say. For once, for the only moment in a good while, her hands are perfectly still. But as she stands with Korra in them, she worries they’re starting to tremble, to betray her, because the night— thrilling, surreal—crashes into her so suddenly. The impact makes her inhale, low but sharp, and it’s plain for Korra to see.  

All of tonight is teeming in the space between them.

All of every other day, that Asami has spent with Korra in the most secret corner of her heart, is on the cusp of spilling out. 

Korra’s eyes shift from still and serious to playfully questioning, two blinking spots of light in the dark room. Asami isn’t lost enough to miss that she’s becoming impatient, with this distance that’s closer almost than they’ve ever been until today. Yet she keeps… absorbing.

Eventually, Korra’s itch seems to pass. “Hey, I wanna take my shoes off. Will you let me go?”

“No,” Asami says finally. She pulls Korra into her arms and turns her as she does, so she’s no longer pressed against the cold door; curving around her until her chin is in Korra’s shoulder and her arms wrapped around her from behind. “Sorry, um, you forfeited that right when you agreed to be my girlfriend for the night? Do I need to remind you of our terms...? Did you write them down like I told you—”

There’s such glee in Korra’s laugh. It makes every stupid riff worthwhile. 

She kisses her again. Asami’s hand brushes her hair along the way to bare more of her skin, the low light of the landing catching the little studs she jabbed in earlier, a different day or year or universe it feels like. Even when Korra’s out of breath she doesn’t relent, showering Asami with little pecks, automatic but never perfunctory.

Asami needs to sit down, not for the first time tonight. The part of her that wants to run away for a moment is only outmatched by the one that can hardly keep her hands from Korra, guided by irresistible impulse. It’s almost fascinating, the way she only becomes more real under hands, more solid and more fervid, not a dream or just some brief flight of fancy. At least she hopes this isn’t that. 

“Okay, uh, I need some water. You?” Asami pulls away. She stops Korra with a thumb against the corner of her mouth.

That’s where Korra’s final peck lands. She takes a long moment to absorb the question. “Hum. I’m kinda hungry.”

Asami has to roll her eyes. She kneads Korra’s shoulder in her hand. “Wait a sec, didn’t you have like three desserts?” Korra’s face is blank, and Asami feels a smile twitch her own mouth. “I saw you.”

Korra shoves not too gently at her. “I had a long night, hey. Go get your drink!”

Asami almost stumbles over the edge of the sofa as she dashes away. She bites her lips to see if her giddy smile is as permanent as it’s starting to feel. Her heart remains in her throat all the way, no longer amenable to being swallowed back the way she has been doing since they first met each other in the bathroom today. She turns to catch Korra’s gleaming eyes, and they’re both covering their giggling mouths; the shyness beneath the slyness somehow betraying an open desire that has Asami inhaling the deepest breath once she’s in the kitchen. Korra’s… hungry, alright. And Asami’s on a cliff edge she doesn’t remember climbing to. 

The moonlight from the window above the sink guides her to the faucet, and she finds the nearest cup to take several gulps of cold water. From longtime instinct she senses lipstick on a corner of her mouth where it shouldn’t be, and the scent of Korra is there when she lifts her arm to drink. These little pieces of evidence without which it might be easy, now that she’s finally alone, to believe nothing at all had happened and Korra was upstairs in her room after this stunt gone okay, or maybe she’d been there all evening while Asami went to her gala. They keep Asami in a liminal state of mind as she pushes her body through the most mundane actions. There’s so much to feel, to think—to do, maybe. She can start at the beginning, start small. She fills another glass of water for her tired roommate; and she stoops to putter through the contents of the fridge.

“Korra!” She calls. “Cheese? Strawberries?”

“Strawberries,” comes the attempt at a hushed yell.

“Dumbass, you’re not hungry.” 

Korra gives her an unabashed laugh she’s heard a thousand times. Each time it strikes deeper, and tonight Asami once again feels bowled over.

When she returns from the kitchen, Korra has kicked off her shoes. She leans back on the sofa, her phone clasped lightly over her chest. She tucks her chin to gesture it when Asami comes in. 

Her brow arches. “It’s tomorrow, by the way. Am I relieved of my duties?” She runs a hand over her mouth, pensive. “What are you thinking? Overtime?” 

Asami giggles, gathering her skirt out of the way to sit. “You’re being such a tease today.” She expects to perch on the corner, but Korra immediately sits up to make space when Asami approaches. 

“Me?” She says, taking the strawberries. She looks almost jittery the moment she replies, and Asami is reminded of all her quiet lulls through the evening. Korra has been… thinking about her. That much is out of the way. 

Korra eats in a comfortable silence, with her free hand periodically rising to give Asami’s hair an absent stroke. She pushes one of the strawberries into Asami’s mouth, while Asami continues to catch up to the sensation of being under her full, eager attention. Once Korra has had her fill she slumps back into the sofa, resting her cheek against her palm so she can face her.

“Would you believe I kind of had fun today?”

Asami scoffs gently. “I mean, I did hope it would at least be kind of fun. It was for the last half hour.” 

That earns her another kiss, full-bodied. There’s enough nervous energy in it—the first kiss in fifteen minutes, after all—that Asami feels both emboldened, and a dizzying lurch in her own stomach. She rides the exhilarating sensation out with her mouth on Korra’s. It lasts a pleasant forever. 

It’s quieter here than the hotel; the road, too. The droning heater is off and Naga must be asleep in the other room. When they kiss again, never really having pulled apart,  slower and softer than ever, all Asami hears is the joint rise and fall of their breath. The smell of Korra, mixed in with the party wine and now the strawberries, is heady. Before she knows how, Asami’s hands are deep in Korra’s hair, tugging at the roots—Korra’s clutching at Asami’s neckline with a sweaty palm and, unmistakably, moaning. 

Korra swallows and huffs when they pull away, smiling.  “Girl, wow.” 

Giddy, and not a little self-conscious, Asami lets her arms fall and tighten around her. Her eyes trail with leisure over Korra’s face, the bare shapes under the little light: the eyes a little drawn from the long night, yet lit deep by an unnameable spark. Then Korra’s head dips from her view and into her shoulder. Like her eyes, all Korra’s movements are somewhat dreamy. She did have several drinks… But this is palpably different, there’s a verve beneath it, an absence of actual dullness that’s too new and arresting to do anything but feel out, relish. Asami cups the back of her head. When she held her at the dinner table today, it didn’t feel so different. It was like Korra had come there to roost.

Asami’s breath skims between her teeth when she feels Korra’s lips against her cheek and jaw, lingering, deliberate. It’s apparent now that Korra isn’t dazed in any way she doesn’t want to be— but she’s utterly dazed by Asami. All of a sudden, Asami’s unsure what to do with the immensity of this knowledge. It would threaten her stance if she was standing. Never had she let herself imagine this might happen, and it’s left her pretty unprepared for the situation.

When Korra’s mouth plants on her neck, there’s nothing to do but swallow a moan, and then several more. Asami holds her waist tightly, almost stiffly. Her other hand grasps for purchase and finds the hem of Korra’s dress, threatening to ride up as Korra leans further into her. She’s warm there, like everywhere; the backs of her thighs are silky, just as much as the weight of her arms is delightfully solid. The way Korra smiles against her skin when Asami does emit a little sigh tells Asami she has no idea how monumentally serious all this really is. 

Eventually, it’s Korra that pulls back. Her mouth is wet and her eyes are dark. Asami doesn’t move her hands, but looks at her with reverent attention, feeling almost polite about it.

“Wait, Asami. Can—do you want to…?”

Asami squeezes gently with both her hands. “I—” She wraps one of the hands over Korra’s shoulder, the thumb stroking her neck. “Korra, seriously, you had a lot of wine tonight. I noticed.”

Korra wipes her mouth discreetly with an aborted sound in her throat. “Only because you sent me into crisis mode,” she says laughingly, but she does sit back a little. 

Fuller now, her voice has that lovely late night edge, rougher round the edges—from the sleepiness, the drink, the drunken fumbling. Asami feels the loss, when her tone shifts from the hushed almost-pleas of just a moment ago. It stokes something like regret.

“Crisis-?! Drama queen. I told you, you were amazing with everything. Felix—”

“Oh, no, you’re really gonna bring that up with your hand up my skirt?” 

They both laugh long. Asami makes a circle with the hand around Korra’s waist, and discreetly pulls the one arguably on her ass down to the back of her knee. It helps her pull Korra in. “I just mean you don’t have anything to be worried about. Not a thing.” She says it with meaning, and Korra understands immediately.

Indeed, Korra takes the invitation to kiss her again, on the cheek this time. “Serious question, did you really have faith in me? My stupid idea—at the beginning…”

A dangerously stupid idea, maybe, but only because Asami couldn’t maintain a facade so heart-achingly close. It was sheer luck that Korra had… embraced the task the way she had. Maybe that made it a brilliant idea, whether either of them knew it. “It worked out, didn’t it?

“—Because I was hanging off you from the word go. I was, like... spiraling. Oh my god, Asami.” Korra’s so matter of fact about it, burrowing for a kiss again. “But not like—it was like, wow, this is nice. This is us! Did you know that might happen, or just hope I’d keep my shit together…” She’s blabbering between her kisses. Asami leaves her mouth free to do it, smiling, playing with her hair. “Maybe you figured it might end like this...” Korra nuzzles below her ear again, her breath warm as spring, her voice molten and tender. “Huh? Is this what you wanted?” 

It would be silly to deny something like that right now, but Asami can’t help anticipate how bare she would be, if she did admit to it. The door that admission would unlock, and the next one. 

Korra locks her fingers around her waist and puts her cheek to hers, suddenly chaste. Her voice is different. 

“It’s okay if you did, you know.”

read the rest on ao3

[passivenovember]

@coffeeandchemicals (I’m doing all three because ily) asked:  For the drabbles, 55 or 60 or 72 with harringrove! Please and thank you!! 💙

60. Before you decide to murder me, let me explain. 

Strain Through a Clean Napkin.

The tiny wicker cabinet is all but hidden from view because, well. It’s hideous.

Turquoise, and like. 70s vibrant. Janky and scuffed, covered in glued-on seashells and so not what Mrs. Harrington allows to orbit their perfect world. It clashes terribly with the cheerful pink walls of the powder room, and.

It’s handmade--has Steve written all over it from the way the wicker door on the left hangs a little bit crooked. He imagines Harrington sat on a wooden bench, googly eyes and pipe cleaners littering the table in front of him as he constructs a treasure chest. The contents unknown. Some of the seashells have fallen off over time and leave wax stepping stones in their wake.  

Billy almost misses it the first time he jerks off before their study date just to be safe and instantly falls in love. 

He washes his hands in the sink, not bothering to dry them before wrenching the doors open and snooping through its many shelves and hidden corners. 

He expects to find, like. Q-Tips, maybe. Nail clippers. Lube if it’s a good day, but. Instead comes face to face with lotions and potions and little bottles full of magic.

Glass jars with handwritten labels stretching as far as the eye can see. 

Billy wipes his hands on his pants before lifting them to eye level, because. The labels, they.

Say things. Cute, disgusting things like, “Hair Milk: Lavender and Honey,” things that Billy can’t even begin to understand on a good day.

He gives the first jar a quick shake, watching mesmerized when the contents float and swirl in the pale yellow liquid. Dried flowers, maybe? Rosemary and something softer, something like--

Billy pulls desperately at the cap. Yanking and tugging gently, so as not to shatter the jar or like, spill Steve’s potion on the ground and burn a hole halfway to China. “Come on, useless piece of shit.”

He bites down on the pretty round topper.

Pulls at it with his teeth until the bottle gives way. The yellow liquid sloshes down his chest, tangling with the wiry patch of hair he’s got going, and--

“Fucking, shit.” Billy grabs a wad of toilet paper and scrubs. It smells yellow. Summertime peaches, melted ice pops, vanilla and orange, and fucking.

Steve. 

It smells exactly like Steve. Billy lifts the bottle to his nose, eyes falling shut in a crescendo of soft, breathy sighs as he takes greedy gulps of this fuckin. Steve concentrate. 

And okay. He jerks off in this bathroom two times a week before settling in for three torturous hours of Steve’s thigh pressed against him and Steve running his hands through his hair while he reads over the notes and Steve licking his pretty pink lips. 

And, yeah. Billy just came, but. He’s is holding Steve in a bottle, and like.

Billy will take twelve.

He can’t get his hands in his pants fast enough. Billy gets the zipper down, wrapping his hand around himself, and. Yup. Works himself over with the vial shoved up under his nose like a fucking. Insane person. Considers sneaking it home, this bottle of magic. 

Storing it in his pocket for safekeeping after tacking the pretty round cap back on, nice and snug so it doesn’t look like he’s pissed his pants when he sits on the overstuffed couch in Steve’s den to go over their chemistry homework. 

Billy startles at that, hand stalling mid-stroke.

He’s been helping Steve with Chem for fucking. 

Months. 

Twice a week, Stetson’s orders, so the kid’ll actually pass this time and here Steve is. Mixing chemicals in his bathroom like some kind of.

Scientist, or. Witch. Something. 

“Little shit,” Billy murmurs, but it doesn’t. Burn, doesn’t. Sizzle like it usually does. He thinks about taking his hand from his pants. Thinks about, like, pulling them all the way off. Bending over the sink and switching things up a little when someone knocks on the door.

Bangs on it, more like.

Billy starts, pouring half the bottle on his dick from fear. It’s cold. Colder than it was before. 

Steve clears his throat from the other side. “Billy, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m--”

“You sure? Was worried maybe you fell in.” Bambi jokes, and fucking. Jiggles the handle. As if Billy would be stupid enough to leave the shit unlocked. 

With his pants around his ankles and Steve’s name burning through his tongue on every stroke. 

“Yup, hold on a sec and I’ll be--”

“It’s just. You’ve been in there for a while and I. Need help with this equation?”

Billy scrambles. Turns on the faucet, soaps up his dick to get rid of the Steve which burns because. “Who has peppermint wash in their restroom after Christmas, fuck.”

“My mom likes the smell--”

“Jesus Christ--I know, Steve.” Billy must make some kind of noise. Must wince in pain, or swear or bang his fist on the counter because Steve’s jigging the handle again, voice tight with worry.

“Bills?”

He winces. “Yeah, just gimmie a minute here, I’m uh. Allergic.”

Silence. Steely and cool, and. 

“I’ll be right back.” And then he’s gone.

“Oh shit.” Billy swallows around something. Fear, or like, arousal from the fear of Steve barging in here while he’s got soap dick and a bottle of Steve wetting his skin from sternum to groin.

He waddles around the room.

Tries to pull his pants up, winces because yeah. The mild allergic reaction, kinda. Makes it impossible to slip in and out of skintight denim. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Billy waddles some more. He searches the cabinets for a robe, maybe. Settles on a towel hung loosely around his hips just as the door swings open and Steve’s there with a packet of oatmeal and a little white pill in his hands.

Looking windswept and pretty, and.

Pissed. 

He takes in the room. The peppermint soap, and the open cabinet in the corner. The three additional seashells that fell off when Billy was tearing the place apart looking for a robe, and. 

The empty jar of lavender honey hair milk. 

Those brown eyes finally settle on Billy. On the towel poorly concealing his erection, because. Anaphylaxis be damned, apparently. 

Billy shows his palms. “Before you fucking murder me, let me explain--”

“You didn’t think to read the bottle?”

Which. “Huh?”

Steve shakes his head, “The soap. You didn’t read the bottle before. Doing whatever it was that gave you a reaction?”

He shoves the pill into Billy’s open palm before he can say anything else. Stalks over to the sink and fills a cup with water. “Here,” Steve says. “Drink it, dumbass.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” 

Billy swallows the pill, wincing as the rough fabric of the towel grates against his erection. 

Steve hasn’t stopped staring, and.

Billy hasn’t moved to hide it, so. “Sorry about your bathroom.”

“Eh, is what it is.” Steve starts putting the place back together. Wetting a hand towel and scrubbing at the water on the carpet. His head is bent over the sink when he says, “Wanna tell me why you were digging around in my cabinet?” 

Like Billy wasn’t just relaxing into the hilarity of the situation. Billy sits on the edge of the tub, opening the packet of oatmeal with his teeth.

“No, not really.”

“Don’t think that information’s important if I have to drive you to the hospital?” Steve leans against the counter, a pretty soft smile tugging at his lips, and.

It does nothing to help the tenting of Billy’s towel so he turns on the faucet in the tub. Dumps the oatmeal in and like, goes to town on trying to make sure the temperature won’t burn his dick off. 

“Don’t wanna tell me why you were taking a bath in my hair milk?” Steve leans over, trying to catch Billy’s eye. He grins when Billy ducks his head. “I use that stuff everyday. Got an extra tub whipped together, so. I can forgive you this time.”

“I know, I.” Billy’s cheeks are on fire. He shrugs his shoulders. “Smelled good.” He says, because. It’s the truth.

Steve blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yup. That’s it.” Billy says. He runs his fingers through the water, mixing until the surface turns murky from the oats.

Steve hums. Pushes off the counter and digs through his little wicker cabinet for a knife, or maybe that nightmare bat Billy’s seen tucked in the corner of every room in this house at least once.

Billy pretends to be interested in filling the tub to the right level, eyes sharp on the give and take of the water when---

“Not allergic to aloe Vera and Chamomile, are you?”

Billy shakes his head. Steve hums again and settles in next to him, thigh pressed against Billy’s as he removes the cap from two short vials and dumps the contents into the water.

Steve leans back. Billy leans forward, because.

He turns on him, eyes narrowed on Steve’s face. “How does everything about you smell so fucking good?”

Harrington’s face lights up. “Oh, I smell good, huh?”

Billy holds out a palm. “Lemme see that shit.” The vials, when Steve hands them over, are lime green and pink with residue. The liquid is smooth, silky like it was spun fresh this morning. Billy makes a face. “How’d you get it like that? You a witch?”

Steve chuckles, soft and sweet. He leans in close, watching the water fill the tub with dainty pink bubbles. “Nah, just. Strain it through a napkin, is all.”

Billy tosses the bottles at Harrington’s head. “You don’t need my help in chemistry, do you.”

“Nope.”

“Then why am I wasting my two nights off stuck here with you, Harrington?” 

Steve turns to look at him, tongue swiping along his bottom lip. “Because you’re cute. And I like having you here.”

Oh.

Billy feels like he’s on fire. Searing a hole through the carpet, already halfway to china when Steve cups his cheek and fucking.

Pulls him in. Separates Billy’s lips with his tongue and makes soft noises that almost get drowned out by the roar of the faucet next to Billy’s head. 

When Harrington pulls away his cheeks are pink. Like bubbles, like secret potions. He grins. “Got lots of stuff in my cabinet.”

“Oh yeah?” Billy sounds out of breath, even to his own ears. 

“Yeah.” Steve tugs at the towel hugging Billy’s waist. Doesn’t even notice the hives, which. Okay. Billy forgets all about it when Steve leans in close. “Mind if I join you?

[zenosungs]

laughable/lachrymose

Danganronpa V3 | Kokichi/Shuichi | Rated T

Toast is easy to make, right? Easy to make. You put the bread in the toaster and you wait and you spread honey on it when it’s done. Shuichi likes toast with honey. It’s easy. Kokichi needs easy. He can do this.

Ignoring the voices that have started screaming at him again he fumbles with the bag of bread, barely managing to fish a slice out, hands latching onto it in a seizing grasp so tight it almost crumbles in his hand. Flashes of hot and cold ravaging his body, he practically shoves it in the toaster, aching, hurting, shattering.

(OR: a fragmented road to recovery)

note:

drv3 spoilers!!

tw // suicidal thoughts tw // kokichi's death, miu's death, gonta's death (not directly stated but vague details) tw // unhealthy coping mechanisms

this entire thing is a bit heavy in general so please proceed with caution. it's not so shippy because my goal isn't to romanticize any of this, shuichi isn't a magical being who can heal kokichi with his words and touch, and he's also on the path of recovery as well

this was all written as a word vomit vent thing in one sitting so just lmk if you spot mistakes

i care about you, please reach out to someone when you need to

READ ON AO3! 

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He should be asleep.

Kokichi should, but then again, there are a lot of things he should be doing—healing, resting, blocking all memories out—though night terrors and bubbling trepidation and the inability to close his eyes without feeling the cold metal beneath him has proved to be a hindrance. He stays awake more often than he doesn’t, which is something entirely beyond his control; no matter the soothing words Shuichi mumbles in the dead of night, or the way he always keeps Kokichi close by in a loose yet comforting hold, he can’t sleep.

He doesn’t anymore. He’s stopped trying, anyway.

(It goes deeper beyond the label he hides behind as just insomnia. If insomnia can be defined as “persistent problems falling and/or staying asleep,” can it really be just insomnia if he’s the one who’s forcing himself to stay awake? If he only faces more sickening memories when his eyes are closed, what’s the point? Or maybe, just maybe, he’s lying to himself again, something like youdon’twantanyofthoseoptionsyouwanttodisappear—but as he always does, he lets the lie bleed into him until it is him. Until there’s nothing left to call a lie.)

He could be a zombie now, he’s sure of it. With the way he’s roaming around the apartment at—a glance at the clock—4 in the morning, and the way he certainly feels undead, calling himself a zombie doesn’t seem too far off. Shuichi’s grip on him, however loose it may have been, was getting too suffocating anyway.

He sits on the couch. Stares at a TV that’s playing nothing.

Deep breath in—

(...shut up, you asshole! the whizzing of an arrow through heavy air—kaito, can you hear me, please drink this antidote sorry, but i can’t die here… since i’m the mastermind of this killing game—redwhitehotsearingmetalcold—)

He scrambles to turn the TV on.

It’s so funny. The way they never stop fucking talking like a mixtape of voices ringing in his head even though everything is over and done with, oh god, he shouldn’t be dragging this out like he is, because none of it even happened. If none of it happened, why does he always feel the phantom pain of arrows digging into his flesh, or the descension of metal onto someone so petite—it all certainly felt so real, still feels so real—

—It’s not, and he knows that. He woke up from the simulation. Fought until there was no fight in him left. Until his lungs turned to ashes and pretty amethyst hair was yanked out of his scalp (by his doing, everything bad is always by his doing, so it seems) and so many eyes came to check in on him each day he spent recovering slowly in the hospital.

Is he supposed to feel relieved?

Happy? Glad that he’s awake from all of that? It’s alarming, really, that he feels nothing of the sort. What is he supposed to feel? Even if Saihara-chan had told him that any of his feelings were valid—anger, bitterness, resentment and horror—why does he still feel like nothing? Not numbness, but akin to it, certainly, because numbness is where you feel nothing, but simultaneously he feels like nothing. Like everything. Like death. Like life he doesn’t want breathed into him.

The TV drones on, white noise in the back of his head. He could make this work. That’s right. He’s adapted before. He can make himself feel okay again, or lie himself into thinking so, because that’s how it always ends, doesn’t it?

On shaky legs, he blocks out the voices; abhorrent Maki’s, strained Kaito’s, harsh Shuichi’s, tearful Gonta’s, desperate Miu’s, all of them cherry-picked from every single corner of his mind that he can’t ever find a way to escape anymore.

He stumbles, wandering without a purpose over to the bathroom, a trembling hand pushing open the door and flicking on the light. Headache-inducing fluorescent light flickers overhead, until it floods the capacity of the room, bearing enough light for him to be able to survey himself in the mirror.

He looks dead. Or, more so, like he could die. Right now, and maybe put an end to everything. An end to nothing. How does he fucking escape? How can he live like this? Or with this, the knowledge of everything he did in the killing game, his sacrifice, the hatred in everyone’s voices that he doubtlessly deserved?

Kokichi giggles, low and empty, as he turns the faucet on with a squeak and splashes cold water on his face. He could totally die right now. The way that brings more relief to him than anything else ever since the simulation is so laughable.

I could die. Right now. It’s as simple as using the sink or smashing my head against the bathtub. How hilarious.

Giving one final splash of frigid water onto a pale face, he turns the sink off, and allows himself a small moment of breathing. He’s been so bad at that lately, both him and Saihara. Everyone, really. No one is near being the textbook definition of okay, but they all didn’t expect to be either, although the one stark difference between them and him is that they’ve accepted that they’re going to recover slowly and reach okayness once again.

So why does he feel so stuck? Whenever he runs away from the echoing whirr of the hydraulic press it clutches him in its grasp again, and whenever he embraces it it makes him relive the entire scene over and over and over again in ways so sickening he feels like he just gets worse with each damn passing night—gasping for air even when he doesn’t sleep, awakening in cold sweat if he does manage to doze—maybe there’s nothing for him left here, fuck, why didn’t they just let him stay dead—

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. He could do the anxiety coping technique, or he could listen to music as a distraction, or he could go back to bed and pretend none of this is happening, or he could do the breathing method (in for four, hold for seven, out for eight), anything.

He could eat something. He could do that.

Shuichi’s been reprimanding him for his neglect of food anyway (even though the bluenette isn’t all that better at it) so in a way, this could serve as an apology for his inability to be a good person, boyfriend, living human being, all of that. For causing him so much trouble. For interfering with Shuichi’s own recovery process, even though it’s the last thing Kokichi wants to do. Unfortunately, the universe has a lovely addiction to just screwing him over.

Swallowing past a gag, because all of this thinking is so overwhelmingly nauseating, Kokichi stumbles out of the bathroom, not bothering to turn the light off. Everything is always so loud at night, everything is doused in so much more clarity, to the point where he can see them clearly. Miu’s face, terrified and contorted, even though it was just her avatar he still recalls so clearly the look of utter anguish on her actual corpse. Gonta’s baffled and horrified look when Kokichi wouldn’t stop yelling and yelling and yelling (“I’m sick of hearing you say you don’t know! God, why are you so dumb?”). They haunt him in ways unexplainable, although both of them had already made clear they’re on the path of forgiving him, but why does he need to be given undeserved forgiveness—

He finds himself in the kitchen, hands so shaky and cold he’s barely able to even turn on the light, panic emanating for no fucking reason, because he’s all messed up and gross and mutilated in ways that can’t be seen with the naked eye. He can’t cope. Everything fails when he tries. He laughs again, choked and nervous, opening the pantry and letting his eyes mindlessly glance over the food on the shelves; he reaches with invisibly scarred arms and takes out the glass jar of honey.

Toast is easy to make, right? Easy to make. You put the bread in the toaster and you wait and you spread honey on it when it’s done. Shuichi likes toast with honey. It’s easy. Kokichi needs easy. He can do this.

Ignoring the voices that have started screaming at him again he fumbles with the bag of bread, barely managing to fish a slice out, hands latching onto it in a seizing grasp so tight it almost crumbles in his hand. Flashes of hot and cold ravaging his body, he practically shoves it in the toaster, aching, hurting, shattering.

why are you like this it’s so easy to live why are you having so much trouble with it? is it because you can’t stop hearing iruma’s pleas or maki’s harsh words or kaito’s yells or saihara-chan’s confusion whenever you hung out and played games? is it because it would’ve been easier to stay dead, easier to be crushed and leave it at that, all cracked bones under unforgiving metal? or maybe it’s because—

Stop, fuck, just—

He’s crying—why is he crying?—by the time the toast pops out, golden and hot but he picks it up anyway, he’s been burned worse before, by words and by poison, so he holds it and puts it on a plate on the counter that they must have forgotten to put away.

With a strangled sob he clumsily takes the jar of honey again, tremulous fingers barely letting him even keep his hands on it, glass smooth and cold against calloused skin, worn and too ruined and bitten to be attached to someone as youthful as he is. He can do this, he has to do this, because he doesn’t feel like he’s getting anywhere near better but if he sticks to routine and does everyday things he should be doing easily—he could trick his mind into thinking so. It works, it always works, please work this time…

(Why is something as simple as this so goddamn hard, why is it all so hard, why was dying easier than all of this, why is existing so easy but settling down so difficult, why is waking up so simple but finding reasons to let it stay that way so unbearable, why, why why why—)

He bites his tongue and curses brokenly when the glass jar slips from his hands, falling to the floor without an ounce of grace, fracturing into uncountable glass shards at his feet.

Immediately he steps back, before sinking to his knees with a pathetic sob, the same sinful hands reaching out, hovering and unsure of what to do. Broom—yeah, the broom, he can sweep this up, he can fix it, he can fix all of this, he can fix himself, he can live, he can make himself feel okay, he can exist, he can do this, he can breathe, he can—

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. His lungs quiver and shrivel up and cease to work whenever he tries sucking in air, body failing him, mind overrun as his vision blurs. If he could just get up and get a broom or something, he could get this all over and done with, or he could stop thinking of the worst possible ways to end this, end him.

Arms wrap around him gently before he can even try to stand up. Kokichi trembles, clawing at the hands of the person as he blubbers and cries and bows his head, unraveling again just as he always does, sick to his stomach and wondering why he’s subjected to this form of torture that he’s incapable of enduring for any longer.

The person gently turns him around in their arms, cups his cheek. The hand is cold. Shaking, too.

He wants to laugh again, but all that leaves him is another mangled cry, idly pressing his forehead against Shuichi’s chest, ringing in his ears so loud he can’t hear whatever the other boy is trying to tell him. Kokichi’s fingers dig into his back, into his soft sleeping shirt, moments away from tearing the fabric. He could throw up. He could die.

A kiss is pressed to the top of his head, and Shuichi is too nice for someone who had found his very pathetic boyfriend sobbing on the kitchen floor with forgotten toast on the counter and a shattered glass jar with honey pooling at his feet. This time, Kokichi does laugh, the noise interrupted by hiccuping sobs but near-hysterical at the exact same time, the sound oddly resembling the way he had laughed in the killing game, though lacking the malice it had at the time. Tired this time around.

He laughs until it gives way to screaming sobs, Shuichi trying his best to stop his own disturbed trembling, merely speaking softly and low into the shell of Kokichi’s ear, no doubt trying to reassure him. Or get him to cope (and fail). Or help him breathe.

why is this happening why am i like this why are you doing this to me, shuichi, it just hurts more whenever you try and i’m trying so hard to feel okay again and make things easier but it just gets harder every single day and—

—Kokichi giggles softly.

Shuichi shushes him gently, but Kokichi basks in the ridiculousness of this all. He switches between laughing and crying, screaming and chuckling, breaking down. Perhaps he’ll never get back from this. Shuichi had told him that all his emotions are valid, but how can he describe how he’s feeling into words? Crying is supposed to help. How amusing.

(Is he supposed to feel better? Relieved? He stifles a noise halfway between a sob and a chortle. It’s uproarious, he decides, that he feels anything but.)

[artificialqueens]

Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me, Chapter 3: Skin (Gottrosenali) - Writworm42

A/N:  Next up is skin!! A skin orgasm is one that is brought on by stimulation to skin somewhere other than the genitals. Thank you x100000 to Holtz for beta-ing <3 As always, this fic is NOT sex ed. Check out Scarleteen if you're looking for resources, they're fantastic!

Mik truly, truly regrets telling Denali that his new year’s resolution is to get penis lines. Besides the fact that her and Rosé will probably never let him live down his nickname for v-lines, he had forgotten that Denali is an absolute fitness nut, one who had been overjoyed at the prospect of finally having a workout partner.

Unfortunately, her idea of even just a warm-up is beyond what Mik had ever thought an entire workout would be. And even though he’s only three days into her regime, he’s pretty sure that even one more session with her will actually kill him.

“Ew, don’t come over here!” Rosé swats at Mik with the book she had been reading as he collapses onto the bed, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “You’re gonna stink up the bed sheets.”

“Everything hurts and I’m dying,” Mik groans, not moving despite another swat.

“Well, die in the shower, then. Some of us don’t like hanging around sweaty stinkballs,” Rosé sniffs.

“Hey!” he protests, looking up to turn a pout towards his girlfriend, who just crosses her arms over her chest.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she huffs. “There’s a reason I don’t work out with her, you’re the fool who said yes.”

“Because she seemed so excited about it--”

“Who seemed excited about what?” Denali ambles into the room, taking a swig from her newly-refilled water bottle before tossing Mik one, too.

“Mikky-mouse here was complaining about your generous offer to be his personal trainer,” Rosé grins, and if Mik’s water didn’t taste as good as gold right now, he probably would have spit some at her to retaliate. He looks over at Denali cautiously, hoping with all his might that she’s not hurt by the comment, doesn’t feel betrayed or taken by granted by the idea that he’s anything but grateful, that he hadn’t had the time of his life.

Luckily, if there is any hurt, Denali isn’t showing it; instead, she looks almost… amused?

“Well, well, was it that terrible?” she teases. “Too hard for our noodly boy?”

“Hey, I’m not noodly!” he protests, but Denali just laughs.

“Relax, I’m just kidding,” she grins. “I know my workouts are a lot. But they really will get you ripped, I promise.”

“Yeah, ripped in half,” Mik snorts, but Denali just rolls her eyes before extending an arm out to him, pulling him up off the bed.

“Hush and come with me,” she winks as she begins to lead him out of the bedroom. “It’s time for your post-workout reward.”

Mik frowns, trying to rack his brain as to what the reward could be--he knows Denali’s been getting into baking lately, so maybe it’s something of that nature, or maybe a gift, something to commemorate him getting through his first workout?

When she starts to drag him towards the bathroom, though, everything clicks. And apparently it does for Rosé, too, because he hears her get off the bed and try to follow them without missing a beat.

“Nope,” Denali sticks out her tongue back at their girlfriend as she opens the bathroom door. “Sweaty stinkballs only, babe. No pain, no gain.”

She pulls Mik inside and closes and locks the door before he gets a chance to see Rosé pout.

They make quick work of their clothes before hopping into the shower, shivering when the still-cold water hits their skin. Mik has to admit, it’s kind of refreshing--they wind up losing themselves in the business of actually getting clean as the temperature reinvigorates them, scrubbing each other until all the sweat and fatigue of their workout is washed away.

Or at least, that’s how it goes for a little while. The conditioner is barely rinsed out of Mik’s hair when he notices Denali’s hand creeping towards the faucet again, a sly grin spreading on her face. Warm water hits Mik’s skin a moment later, the sudden change in temperature making him jump as Denali giggles at his shock.

“What?” He rolls his eyes after he regains composure, but comes closer to Denali nonetheless, stepping straight into her outstretched arms.

“Nothing,” she boops his nose, winking as she adds, “Just thinking about how cute you are, that’s all.”

“I look like a drowned rat,” he snorts, but Denali doesn’t seem perturbed.

“A cute drowned rat,” she winks.

He’s about to protest again when she makes her move, connecting their lips at the same time that her hands come to rest on his waist. Denali pulls Mik flush up against herself without any resistance as he deepens the kiss, and he can’t help but smirk as she lets out a barely-audible whimper when he does. This is the dance that they always do, when they’re alone--matching each other’s steps, tit for tat, ante raising with every move they make until they’re both too worked up to keep toying with each other. They can’t help it; without Rosé’s voice of reason, foreplay becomes a competition, and neither of them are in the habit of losing.

Besides that, it works . Denali only has to bite down on Mik’s lip for him to respond with a hand traveling to her ass, squeezing lightly.

“ Behave ,” he hisses, but they both know it’s not actually a warning.

Instead, it’s a challenge, one that Mik is sure Denali will pursue relentlessly until they’re both satisfied. He’s proven right less than a moment later when one of Denali’s hands shift towards the small of his back.

“I could tell you the same thing,” she purrs, and he’s suddenly jolted by the realization that he’d been so tied up in the way Denali had been touching him—is still touching him—he hadn’t noticed what his own hands were doing.

“You didn’t waste any time, did you, baby?” she winks, a shit-eating grin spreading on her face. “My ass really that nice?”

“You know it is,” he punctuates his sentence with a spank and eye-roll. “Don’t blame me for wanting to touch it, gorge.”

“Who said I was?” Denali raises her brow cockily, and God, Mik is going to wipe that smirk off her face, she’ll see—

Denali has him turned around in an instant, again pulling him up against herself so that his ass is directly against her front. He can feel her breath on his neck and her hands on his skin, nails scratching his waist.

“Rosé’s gonna lose it when she sees you all beautiful and scratched up, baby,” Denali presses down a little harder as her hands travel up to his ribs, and he doesn’t even need to look down to know what she means.

It happens every time Denali manages to get any sort of control—Denali can never resist taking advantage of Mik’s paleness, knowing that all she has to do is grab him a little harder than usual or scratch him lightly to make her possession apparent. And the worst part?

He can’t get enough of it. So just like every time, he keens into her movements, wordlessly begging for more. But she doesn’t give it to him; no, of course not. It’s too early for that. Instead, her touch lightens as her fingers travel up over his ribs, gently ghosting along the grooves and ridges of his scars.

“What does that feel like?” Denali’s voice tickles at Mik’s ear, an air of curiosity in her voice as she continues to explore the faded lines along his chest.

“Weird, to be honest,” he shrugs, but doesn’t pull away. “Just… weird, I guess. Don’t really know how to describe it.”

“Is it a good weird, at least?”

Mik pauses, letting the muted, yet still sharp prickles that come with Denali’s teasing continue while he considers the question. It’s not bad—as a matter of fact, he finds himself tracing his scars sometimes, too. But it’s more the fascination, the pride and satisfaction of even having them, that feels good. The comforting pattern of the pale pink marks, every dip and bump he traces over somehow soothing to notice.

“It’s not bad,” he finally shrugs. “You can keep doing it, if you want.“

But Denali doesn’t; her hands drop from his chest, her touch searingly light as she resumes tracing over his stomach.

“I don’t want ‘not bad,’ angel,’” she plants a slow, firm kiss to his neck. “I want you to feel fucking amazing.”

“ Fuck ,” he answers with a breathy sigh as Denali continues kissing him, nipping and sucking along the curve of his neck.

He can feel the smug curl of her lips against his skin as she moves her way up to his jawline, hear her barely-audible laugh as she grazes her teeth against his ear. It’s exactly what he’d expect from Denali; one touch, one look, and he’s under her spell, falling deeper and deeper every second.

“Feels good, baby?” Denali begins to scratch again, down over his hips and his lower abdomen.  He has to hand it to her; the bitch definitely knows what she’s doing. It’s no secret that the area right under Mik’s navel is his most sensitive spot, and he can’t help but squirm as she strokes over it.

“Silly me, did I hit your sweet spot?” Denali’s voice drips with mock innocence as her hands move from his belly to his hips in a flash, holding him firmly in place. “ Aww , how precious. You’re cute, baby,” she strokes her thumb along the top of his hip, “But don’t move too much, now--I can’t play with you properly if you’re wriggling around, can I?”

Mik says nothing, only grits his teeth and tenses, forcing himself to stay rooted to the spot.

“Good boy.”

Mik lets his eyes fall closed as Denali resumes her teasing, exploring all the parts of Mik’s body that she knows excite him the most. She takes her time, dipping down and ghosting over his pubic mound before tracing up to run her fingers over his happy trail. Scratching over his hip bones, traveling down his thighs. And then, as if to top it all off, her touch becomes almost non-existent, searing in its lightness as she inches towards the inside of his thighs.

“Please, Nali,” he pleas in a hoarse, desperate whisper, “ Please .”

“Not yet, baby boy,” Denali’s answer comes with a touch that’s a little firmer, a little more present. “Be patient.”

A flash of irritation runs through Mik’s chest at the words--at the whole situation, really. Because it’s not fair; this is supposed to be his reward, and hasn’t he been through enough at this point? He’s worked up, and wet in a way that isn’t from the shower--how much more sensitive can he get? How much more of a mess does Denali want him to be?

“Stop playing around,” he growls. But apparently it’s not enough to put Denali in line; instead, he feels her slot her fingers into the curls of his hair before she jerks back his head with a low, quiet chuckle.

“I said, be patient .”

The warning comes with a harsh slap to Mik’s ass, making him cry out in a mix of pain, pleasure, and surprise. Arousal curls in his belly as the sting of the hit lingers on his skin, and he can’t help but push his ass back into Denali’s body, wordlessly inviting her to do it again.

“How many more?” she murmurs as her hand migrates up to his flesh again, rubbing and soothing the reddened spot where she’d just smacked.

“As many as you think I need.”

He doesn’t have to look back to know that Denali has started to smile.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Mik likes to get right down to business when he’s horny, but Denali likes to take her time. She likes it when Mik is pent up and desperate, and when he is, she knows exactly how to put him over the edge even without touching him. It can be with a crop or a cane, or just the well-angled hit of her hand; as long as he’s already as worked up as possible, the right amount of impact can be all he needs to come.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Denali’s hold tightens around Mik’s waist, rooting him in place as she continues to rub over the curve of his ass.

“I’m yours,” he swallows hard, shivering as anticipation crawls through him, practically giving him goosebumps.

“Louder.” The first hit comes gentle, a mere warm-up to test just how ready Mik is to take what they both know Denali is truly capable of. And Mik knows that if he wants to see that side of Denali, then he has to deliver, so he does.

“I’m yours!”

“Good boy,” Denali gives him another smack, this time hard enough to send a jolt of electricity through Mik’s body. “Now stay still, take it, and count.”

When they had first discovered Mik’s love for impact play, Mik used to brace himself, flinching and tensing at the possibility that things might go too far. Back then, anticipation had always seemed to mix with just a tinge of anxiety; after all, he had still been figuring out how much he could take, much less how much his girlfriends could give. Now, though? Nothing courses through his body except pure adrenaline, pleasure creeping in with every hit that stings at his flesh. And before he knows it, Denali is going full force, the angle and weight of her hand hitting exactly how Mik likes it, how he needs it.

“Fuck, Nali, I’m--fuck, fuck, shit, I’m gonna--”

“Let go, baby,” Denali punctuates the command with her hardest hit yet, one that Mik knows will leave beautiful bruises. “I want you to.”

He does, crying out loud enough that he knows Rosé will be able to hear what’s going on above the still-rushing water. Denali holds him firmly as his orgasm hits him fast and hard, coursing through his body like a bolt of lightning and leaving him reeling just as quickly. Before he knows it, he’s struggling to catch his breath while Denali starts to touch him again, slowly caressing and soothing the flesh of his ass. Faint stinging lingers on his skin, making the feeling of Denali’s hand rubbing over his bruises a strange mix of comforting and painful, numb but prickly, that he’s a little too used to feeling.

“Does that feel good?” she asks hesitantly.

“It feels weird,” he acquiesces. “But… a good weird. Y’know?”

“Mhm,” Denali gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek, rocking him back and forth in place a little to settle his senses. “I’m glad.”

There’s a knock at the door that makes them both jump, jerked out of their world by the sound of Rosé dramatically clearing her throat from the other room.

“Are you lovebirds done? You’re going to use up all the hot water again!”

“Jealous much?” Denali flashes a bemused smirk to Mik as they separate, but they’ve gotten the message. In less than a minute, they’re emerging from the bathroom, still drying themselves off even as they walk right into an unimpressed Rosé.

“You two better not have made a mess in there,” she pouts, but Mik just rolls his eyes.

“In the shower?” he snorts, taking off the towel he was using to dry his hair and smacking her with it.

“ Hey! ” she jumps back, glowering. “If anyone would be able to, it’s you two clowns, so don’t even.”

“If you wanted to join us that bad, then you should’ve braved the workout, babe,” Denali grins, breezing past the both of them to walk towards the bedroom, but not before dropping her towel.

“If you want to come in for round two, though, you’re welcome to join us.”