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fatherbrat · 4 months ago

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ONE LAST TIME, R. SUNA

sum. two months into your relationship with your current boyfriend, your ex-fwb finally sends you a voicenote to let you know exactly how he feels about it.

feat. rintaro suna

cw. ex-fwb!suna, cheating, mutual masturbation (kinda lol), jealousy, dirty talk, anal mention, pillow humping, possessiveness, degradation

wc. 1.2k

When you posted your first official pictures of you and your new boyfriend, you had expected Suna to react…negatively. You basically braced for impact the moment you hit post, but all you got from him was an Instagram notification and two texts.

sunarin liked your post.

rin ;)

lmk if you want me to delete our pics. and hmu when you two break up :p

You never bothered replying, initially not sure how to reply, and then forgetting about the texts entirely. The two of you barely have any contact for a few weeks after that, but he's obviously keeping up with your socials; liking every post and viewing every story. It doesn't bother you, but it's weird going cold turkey on your relationship like that. You had expected him to reach out for some sort of closure. You wanted him to.

Halloween swings by in no time, and (much to you boyfriend’s dismay) you dress up as a sexy nurse. You don’t remember much of the night, but you do know that you posted a picture of you and your friends all dressed up on your story before getting blackout drunk.

Your phone dies early on in the night. Your friends take good care of you up until it’s time to bring you back home, and you don’t wake up until the afternoon. You don’t check your phone until a couple hours after that—long after it's been turned on and charged to 100%.

When you finally check it, two particular notifications catch your attention.

sunarin liked your story.

rin ;)

Voice Message

The voice message is 12 minutes long.

You exit your texts immediately, opting to distract yourself by tending to your other notifications. It doesn’t help much. Your mind races, wondering what he was talking about for so long and if it was really so important that he reached out after almost four months of near-silence.

You toss your phone onto your bed, shaking your head. You try to ignore it, cleaning the bathroom and folding the laundry and vacuuming the living room all in an effort to forget about the lengthy recording sitting in your phone.

But it doesn’t take long for the curiosity gnawing at you to win.

You practically run back to your bedroom, grabbing your phone and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. Your fingers move quickly across the screen, hitting play without hesitation.

The first 8 seconds are nearly silent, and you start to wonder if it’s possible that he sent such a long message by mistake.

But then you hear a heavy sigh.

“I like your costume.” His tone is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. “You look hot.”

There’s another moment of silence, like he’s giving you a chance to change your mind and stop listening.

But then Suna moans and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head.

“You never answered my text, y’know. When I asked if you wanted me to delete our pictures. So, uh, I kept ‘em.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“I’m looking at one right now. It’s from last Halloween. When you-“ His breath hitches. “When you went as a Playboy Bunny.”

You remember. Suna dressed as Hugh Hefner and the two of you went to a party together. Then he took you back to his apartment and fucked you while you were still wearing the bunny ears and bowtie.

You’re pretty positive you’re not wearing the bodysuit in the picture he’s looking at.

“I don’t know how much of this night you actually remember, but I can describe the picture for you.”

You tense, anticipation sending goosebumps up your arms.

“You’re kneeling on the ground, looking up at the camera, and you’ve still got those bunny ears on your head.”

This voice message is going in the last direction you thought it would. Is he—?

“You’ve got cum all over your face, baby.” He laughs to himself before continuing. “And you’re sticking your tongue out like a fucking whore.”

Suna takes a ragged breath, a sound you're all too familiar with. It confirms your suspicions—he’s definitely jerking off.

“That was a good night. We had a lot of good nights.” He sounds miffed all of a sudden. “I seriously doubt the boyfriend is fucking you as good as I did.”

You suppress a shiver. A pang of guilt heats your chest at the mention of your boyfriend. You should stop listening. Delete the message. Tell him to delete the pictures and then probably block him.

Or you could let the message keep playing.

Suna inhales sharply, followed by a shaky moan. You swear you can hear the sound of his fist stroking his dick.

“I hope you’re not letting him put it in your ass like you let me. That’s our thing, okay?”

Under different circumstances you would have laughed.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “And I hope you’re not letting him spit in your fucking mouth. Or–shit–doing that thing where you’d suck me off with your head hanging upside down off the bed.” He falters at the end of the sentence, groaning into the phone.

“I’m not gonna��” he interrupts himself, sighing deeply. “I’m not gonna pretend I’ve been happy for you. I miss you.”

You feel hot all over, a heady combination of annoyance and arousal and embarrassment. There’s a dull throbbing between your legs and in the back of your mind you wonder if this is what Suna wanted when he sent the message.

“Just–just let me fuck you one more time. Okay princess? I’ll make it sooo good for you,” he whines. You can hear his hand picking up speed.

“It’s still early. Two months is nothing, it won’t even count as cheating.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “God, just one last time. Please?”

Without thinking, you grab a pillow and position yourself over it in a straddle. You won’t let him fuck you, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make you come one last time.

“I promise I’ll do that thing you like with my tongue. And you can pick all the positions if you want to.” There’s a tremble in his voice. “Or just lay there. I’ll do all the work.”

You grind into the pillow beneath you, picturing the expression you know he’d be wearing if he were in front of you–batting those dark eyelashes with raised eyebrows, just barely able to control the smug curve of his lips.

Heat pools in your gut and a whimper falls from your lips. Suna keeps talking.

“I know you miss me. You have to. You’re probably touching yourself to this right now.”

You gasp softly and rock your hips faster.

“Such a fucking slut.” You hear the telltale quiver in his voice that tells you he’s getting close. “My fucking slut.”

You moan, his words giving you flashbacks.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, I’m coming,” he rasps, before letting off a series of moans and whimpers that almost make you concede. You grind harder into the pillow beneath you, imagining Suna in his room, chest heaving, talking into the phone and making himself come to pictures of you.

That does it. A tsunami of pleasure washes over you, forcing your body to tense before you go limp, collapsing onto your bed with a shudder.

You and Suna breathe in tandem, both of you catching your breath.

You hear another laugh through the phone. “Damn, that was a lot.” There’s the sound of sheets rustling. “Kinda made a mess, princess.”

He’s silent for another few beats before clearing his throat. “Text me, okay?” he says quietly. “Please.”

The voice message ends.

part two

#suna smut #suna x reader #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarou smut #haikyuu smut #hq smut #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #fatherbrat ♱ library #sunarin #hq #tw cheating

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criminalamnesia · 5 months ago

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Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

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theshitpostcalligrapher · 11 months ago

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oh my god i figured it out

okay so it took an accident of me not checking on it, but I FINALLY figured out why I wasn't getting enough loft on my bread:

I was NOT giving enough time for yeast/bacteria production.

So if I do my other bread recipe's 4 hour levain development, then follow the pullman's recipe and do about an hour and a half initial rise (with stretch and folds) with a one hour final rest and rise, I get something like this:

okay that rose in the oven but like. not a whole lot, yknow?

tried again, a little longer on the levain, but this time I tried to do the final rest/rise in the fridge overnight like when you have an overnight ferment on a classic sourdough

oh that's a lot better! but the recipe is for a PULLMAN'S loaf, it should be square as possible, am I using enough ingredients?

NO I WAS. I JUST WASNT GIVING ALL THE TIMES ENOUGH TIME

this time I let the levain (40-50g starter, 35g whole wheat flour, 35g AP flour, 70 mL water) develop for like six and a half hours in a proofer or a slightly warmed oven.

pour levain into a stand mixer if you've got one, bowl if you dont. Mix in sugar (35g) and warm water (400mL). Let that sit for the usual half hour in proofer.

add flour (600ish grams total, i often do about a third whole wheat to two thirds AP), 5g salt, 80-90g fat of choice (butter, margarine, etc). I put it in the stand mixer for around 10 minutes on low. (this is a REALLY old stand mixer so it CAN go real slow- do 7-8 min on lowest setting on a modern mixer, 15 min if you wanna do a hand knead)

cover and put in proofer. As usual I did 4 stretch and folds at half hour intervals, but on the final interval I forgot about the timer- it was left in the bowl for around a full hour after the last fold rather than the planned half hour.

by the time I checked on it, it rose WAY more than i was expecting it to. Decided to roll with it (lol), greased the pullman's pan (butter if no one's allergic, margarine otherwise), flattened, rolled up the dough, plopped it in and slid on the lid.

Did the final rest for two full hours in proofing temps, then baked at 350-60ish for a half hour with the lid slid on, 15 min with the lid off.

so, all in all: the ideal loaf of pullman's sourdough starts when you wake up and comes out around dark lunch.

not practical but hey! an interesting study to be sure

#food #bread #recipe #oh my GOD

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luvergirl-866 · 2 months ago

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what about a one shot where azzi gets hurt (nothing too serious) and paige just worried about her and takes care of her tons of fluff and maybe some smut at the end? just paint bring the ultimate gentle gf

not a lot, just forever

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 3.6k

content - illness/menstruation, language, implied sex, azzi having everyone wrapped around her finger

a/n - a little smth to tide yall over for sll chap 8!! this took me like all day, idk why lol. obviously i went off prompt, that’s my bad 😭 azzi doesn’t get injured but like close enough, and no smut sorry 😔. very much inspired by the fact that azzi has been sick lately and the injury scare last night, just thought we all needed a little fluff after that bc whew! anyway, i hope yall enjoy!!

Azzi is smack in the middle of a perfect dream—in which she and Paige disagree about something and Paige is completely silent while Azzi explains all the reasons she’s right—when her alarm brutally awakens her.

“Nooo,” she groans into her pillow. Her voice comes out all croaky and the word scratches painfully at her throat on the way out. Two warning signs of what she knew was coming—she’s sick.

To be sure, she tries to take a deep breath in through her nose, and fails. She must’ve been breathing through her mouth all night with how congested she is.

Suddenly overtaken by an aggressive coughing fit, Azzi fishes under the pillows for her phone, alarm still buzzing annoyingly.

Somehow, her phone must’ve found itself under Paige’s pillow because after a quick search, Azzi realizes it’s certainly not under her’s.

Sighing, Azzi shoves at Paige’s shoulder, trying to move her but the girl is dead weight when she’s asleep.

“Paige,” Azzi whispers, shaking her now. “Move your big-ass head.”

Paige groans similarly to how Azzi did a few minutes ago, then rolls onto her stomach, unhelpfully clutching her pillow closer. “Turn it offff,” she whines quite babyishly, for a girl who claims to be the ‘masc’ in the relationship.

Azzi rolls her eyes. “I’m trying, it’s under your pillow.”

“No it’s not,” Paige whines.

“Yes it is,” Azzi says, shoving Paige over. “Seriously, it’s getting annoying, you have to move so I can turn it off.”

“Ughhh,” Paige says dramatically, but then she turns onto her side, giving Azzi access to the pillow, and promptly falls back asleep.

“Why, thank you, your highness,” Azzi grumbles, finally finding her phone and turning off that god-awful alarm.

It’s in the silence of the room that she realizes a headache has started to form at the base of her head. Perfect.

She’s already been in bed for too long—if she wants to get dressed, do her hair, and have enough time to drag Paige out of bed and get her ready so they’re both on time to practice, she needs to get up now.

Doing her best to ignore the searing pain in her throat, head, and lungs, Azzi climbs over Paige—who doesn’t move, nothing more than a lump under the covers—and crawls out of bed, turning on the bedside lamp. The warm light illuminates the room and Azzi goes to the closet, trying to find comfort in the monotony of her morning routine. But as she bends down to reach inside the drawer which is dedicated to her underwear, she feels an aching soreness in her legs and pelvis—partly to do with the suicides Coach made them run yesterday, but mostly to do with the fact that Paige was insatiable last night, not stopping until Azzi tapped out after their fourth round.

At the time, it was hot and felt so, so good. Now it makes her groan when she straightens up, and she glares at the lump sleeping peacefully under the covers.

“All your fault,” Azzi grumbles to no one as she gets dressed, because if she can blame her sore legs on Paige, then why not blame her sickness on her, too? “So damn horny all the time. ‘Azzi, it’ll be fun. Azzi, I’ll be gentle. Azzi, just one more, we haven’t even used the strap yet.’” Azzi laments her girlfriend’s convincing tone from last night, that sly smile looking up at her from in between her legs, those hands that bent her over the bed after making her legs shake so much she could barely stand, and pummeled into her so feverishly Azzi was pretty sure she could feel it in her guts. “Damn,” Paige had sighed after they were finally done, “good thing we’re both girls. Because you’d prolly be pregnant with, like, triplets after that.”

Last night, in her fucked-out haze, it had made Azzi laugh. Now, the memory just makes her roll her eyes, kneeling down to check that both she and Paige’s gym bags have everything they need in them. “Not even how that works,” Azzi mutters bitterly. “Dumbass.”

Once that’s done, Azzi leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her because she may be sore and annoyed but she’s always going to make sure Paige gets her sleep.

When she gets to the bathroom, the door is closed, and Azzi knocks lightly. “‘S me.”

“Azzi?” comes Jana’s equally exhausted voice on the other side of the door.

“Yeah.”

The door opens, and the glare Jana directs toward her once they’re face to face startles her. “What—“

“Sounds like you lost your voice,” Jana remarks, quite sassily if you ask Azzi.

“Yeah, I—“

“Probably from all that screaming last night.”

Azzi freezes, then bites her lip sheepishly. “We tried to be quiet.”

“Paige was quiet,” Jana says, stepping to the side to let Azzi into the room. “You, on the other hand…”

“Uh, oops?” Azzi responds, flashing an apologetic smile.

As usual, it works, and Jana shoves her affectionately as Azzi steps into the bathroom.

“Wait till y’all are alone if you’re gonna be trying to make babies,” Jana teases. Then she studies her face and says, “You don’t look too good, Azaray.”

Azzi nods, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she wets her toothbrush, seeing herself for the first time this morning. Her cheeks are flushed, bags heavy under her eyes, lips pale. “Think I finally got sick.”

About two weeks ago, a couple of the girls got sick with some kind of flu. Of course, with the team spending all their time together, the rest of the girls followed soon after. Paige was one of the last to get sick, last week, and as soon as she did Azzi knew any hopes of staying away from this virus were out the window. Considering the fact Paige and Azzi would live inside each other’s skin if they could, if one of them gets sick, both of them do.

Paige got better over the weekend. Now it’s Tuesday and Azzi becomes even more annoyed at the thought that Paige gave her this illness.

“You’re still going to practice?” Jana asks, watching as Azzi brushes her teeth.

Azzi nods.

“Why?”

Azzi shrugs her shoulders, then says around the brush in her mouth, “Can’t mish it.”

“We all skipped when we got sick,” Jana says.

Shrugging again, Azzi spits into the sink, rinses off her toothbrush. “Season’s starting soon. And I’m already not cleared to play right away, I don’t wanna get pushed back even further.”

Jana raises an eyebrow at her. “And you think Paige is gonna let her precious princess go to practice with the flu?”

Azzi looks at herself in the mirror, and is reminded that she is, in fact, a grown woman. A grown woman who is independent and knows her own limits and can make decisions for herself.

“Paige can’t let me do anything,” Azzi replies, sure of herself.

Ten minutes later, she walks back into Paige’s bedroom to test that theory.

The room is still dark, as expected, and also as expected, Paige is still snuggled up in her purple fluffy comforter.

The sight of her girlfriend, wrapped like a burrito in bed with only her face uncovered, blonde hair splayed over her pillow, makes Azzi soften a bit. She’s honestly like a baby when she sleeps, and it gives Azzi cuteness aggression.

Finding it a little harder to be annoyed at her horny, sickness-spreading girlfriend, Azzi flicks on the light, smiling when Paige grumbles faintly.

Azzi sits on the edge of the bed, brushes her hand through Paige’s hair like she does every morning. “Hey,” she whispers.

Paige snuggles further into the comforter. Now she’s only visible from the nose up.

“Time to get up,” Azzi continues.

Paige doesn’t respond. Not a good sign.

“You only have twenty minutes to get ready, babe,” Azzi insists, brushing her fingers gently over the face she has touched and kissed too many times to count. “You really gotta get up.”

Again, there’s no response, but when Azzi leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek, Paige finally cracks her eyes open, sleepy smile gracing her features.

“Oh, good, you’re not dead,” Azzi says sarcastically.

Paige wriggles out of the blankets just enough to free her arms, wrapping them around Azzi’s neck and pulling her down for a kiss.

She only manages a peck before Azzi wrestles out of Paige’s grip, pulling away. “We can’t.”

Paige closes her eyes against the overhead light and pouts. “Why?”

“Because I’m sick,” Azzi replies, brushing her thumb over Paige’s bottom lip, “you big baby.”

Paige’s eyes miraculously fly open at this, and though she’s still squinting, she looks incredibly more alive than she did two seconds ago. “For real?”

“Yeah,” Azzi sighs. “Could only avoid it for so long, I guess.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Paige pushes up onto her elbows as if to get a better look at her. “Why’re you up right now? You gotta rest.”

Here they go. Azzi preps herself for an argument, and desperately wishes for her dream from last night to come true. “I can rest after practice.”

Paige scoffs as if she’s just told a joke. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s not a big deal, I feel fine,” Azzi tries, but then her body betrays her and she coughs so hard she nearly doubles over.

Paige is wide awake in an instant, shooting up to rub her back, not even complaining about how she doesn’t wanna get up or it’s so cold in here. “Az, you’re definitely sick.”

“Thanks,” Azzi coughs into her elbow, “I didn’t know.”

“Sassy, too,” Paige remarks. Azzi tries to glare at her but it must not pack a punch because Paige just gets this sympathetic look on her face. “Aw, baby. Just lay back down, lemme call Coach and tell him what’s goin’ on.”

“No, Paige,” Azzi croaks, grabbing her wrist to stop her from reaching for her phone. “Don’t tell him I’m sick. He won’t let me come in.”

“Yeah,” Paige says, using her free hand to grab her phone despite Azzi’s protests, “that’s kinda the point.”

“You don’t get it,” Azzi replies, trying to reach for Paige’s phone but Paige stands up, holding it over her head and out of Azzi’s reach.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, looking down at her. “Try me.”

“I wanna play,” Azzi says emphatically, the bright light of the room and the stress of talking making her head full-on pound now. “And if I miss practice I might be…”

“Pushed back further,” Paige finishes, lowering her arm when Azzi nods. Azzi doesn’t make a reach for the phone, though, and Paige kneels down in front of her, resting her arms on Azzi’s knees. “Your head hurt?”

“No,” Azzi lies.

Paige licks her lips, reaches a hand up to cup Azzi’s cheek. “I’ll grab some Ibuprofen, okay?”

Paige is up before she can respond, throwing some clothes on and leaving the room while Azzi sits helplessly on the edge of the bed. She glances at her phone—they only have fifteen minutes to get ready now.

When Paige comes back, she has two pills in one hand and the thermometer in the other, a worried frown playing on her lips.

Azzi stands up, trying her best not to let show how dizzy it makes her. “You don’t have to take my temperature, it’s okay.”

Paige only hands over the medicine, watches Azzi swallow the pills down.

“Okay, we’re good,” Azzi says, gently pushing Paige away by her chest. “No need for the thermometer. I’ll get through practice fine.” Even though she’s pretty sure she needs something a lot stronger than Ibuprofen to cure the aches and pains all over her body.

“If you have a fever, you can’t go to practice,” Paige says, stepping toward Azzi with the thermometer clutched almost menacingly in her hand. “It’s not allowed. Those are the rules.”

“Well, I don’t,” Azzi says, though she’s sure she does. And that’s exactly why she shies away when Paige lifts the thermometer to her forehead.

“Az, stop it,” Paige says when Azzi grabs her wrist, ducking away from the object. “You gotta let me.”

“Did you not hear me, earlier?” Azzi asks, and then there’s a cramp in her abdomen, sudden and painful and all-too familiar. “Oh, my god. No way.”

“Wha…? Azzi,” Paige says as Azzi rushes past her, following her on the way to the bathroom.

She tries to go in with her but Azzi shuts the door and locks it, rushing to the toilet and pulling her pants down to find exactly what she feared.

She started her period. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Az?” Paige calls through the door. “Yo, you good?”

Azzi nearly cries. This is it. She gives up. She’s going to sit here and melt forever and Coach will never let her play basketball again and Paige will leave her for some other girl who isn’t sick and gross and bloody.

“Did you die?” Paige asks. “Baby, you gotta respond so I know you didn’t die.”

“Didn’t die,” Azzi responds weakly. Though she might as well have.

“Okay…” Paige says slowly. “So, can you let me in?”

Azzi gets the strangest sensation then—in which she both wants to yell at Paige to go away and simultaneously feels as if she needs to be curled up in Paige’s arms within the next five minutes or else she might…well, die.

This is basically how she feels every time she starts her period. She’s sure it’s very fun for Paige.

Situating herself, Azzi stands up, clutching at her stomach, head pounding—it’s like the Ibuprofen doesn’t exactly know where to help. She washes her hands and then hesitates near the door, unsure whether she wants to emerge, but that need for her girlfriend wins over her annoyance at the world and she opens the door.

Paige doesn’t have time to react before Azzi is walking directly into her chest, arms limp at her sides while she resists the urge to scream into Paige’s sweater.

“Uh…” Paige says, wrapping her arms tentatively around Azzi’s shoulders, “you okay?”

“Started my period,” Azzi says, voice muffled in Paige’s shoulders

“Oh. That’s early,” Paige notes. Azzi can nearly hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Least you’re not pregnant.”

There’s another thing about Azzi on her period: her patience for Paige, which is usually plentiful, dwindles into nothing. And suddenly her stupid jokes and tendency to poke fun don’t seem endearing anymore.

The fact that every major organ in her body seems to be fighting for their life right now doesn’t help, either.

“It’s not funny,” Azzi says, pushing away from Paige’s grasp.

Paige reaches for her. “Hey, sorry, I—“

“Call Coach,” Azzi grumbles, sentence interrupted by a painful cough as if to taunt her, “don’t even care if I can’t play anymore.”

It’s the farthest thing from the truth, of course. The thought of this little flu being another thing getting in the way of her playing makes her stomach turn. But she doesn’t say that, just marches right past Paige and into the bedroom, shutting off the light before jumping into bed, where she plans on pouting for the remainder of the day.

Paige doesn’t follow her in, and Azzi can hear the soft noise of her talking out in the hallway. Probably calling in, telling them Azzi won’t be at practice. The faint sounds of her voice turn that switch once again, and she wants Paige by her side more than anything else.

A few minutes pass before Paige is coming into the room. She comes to the edge of the bed and leans over it, placing her hands on either side of Azzi’s head as she hovers over her. “Baby, I gotta go to practice. I asked Coach if I could stay here but that was a hard no.”

Azzi would be shocked if otherwise. Even so, she dreads spending the next couple hours without Paige by her side, because Paige is the only person who can ever really make her feel better.

Still, she nods, doing her best to manage a smile up at her girlfriend. “Okay. I’ll just go back to sleep, it’s okay.”

Paige nods, leans down to brush their noses together. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Paige.”

Paige presses a kiss to her lips. Azzi doesn’t have it in her to protest about germs. “You’re not mad at me?”

That gets Azzi to really smile, a little. “No. Just cranky.”

“Mm.” Paige gives her another kiss, then one on her forehead, before straightening up. “I’ll be back soon, mama. I’ll bring some stuff back for you, okay? Just lemme know what you want.”

Azzi nods. She almost watches Paige leave in slow-motion, like a sad scene from a movie. She can almost hear the background music.

Rolling over, she tries to relax, hoping for some more sleep. But her eyes stay wide open.

——————————————

Two and a half hours later, Paige comes home to find Azzi unloading the dishwasher.

As soon as Paige steps through the front door, Azzi freezes, a guilty look on her face. Paige’s mouth drops open as if affronted.

“Yo, what’re you doing?” Paige asks, kicking her shoes off.

Azzi steps away from the dishwasher. “Uh, just thought I’d do some cleaning up…”

“Bro,” Paige says. It’s perhaps the most disappointed bro Azzi has ever heard.

“I’m sorry!” she says, leaving the kitchen fully to meet Paige at the door. “I couldn’t get back to sleep and I needed a distraction.”

Paige walks past her to set the two bags of groceries she brought home on the counter. “You need to rest,” she corrects. She rounds back on Azzi, taking her by the hips and walking them toward the couch. “You won’t get better if you don’t rest.”

“I took DayQuil,” Azzi pipes up, as if it’ll earn her brownie points.

Paige gives her a look and then sits her on the couch. “Lay down.”

Dutifully, Azzi does, allowing her body to relax as much as possible even while everything hurts.

“Can’t believe you did chores,” Paige goes on as she walks back to the kitchen. “‘S not even your dorm.” She sounds almost as if she’s muttering to herself now as she goes through the grocery bags. “Walk in and my sick girlfriend’s doing the dishes. The fuck.”

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” Azzi says, lifting her head up. Paige gives her another look and she lays back down.

Usually (that is, outside of the bedroom) Azzi is the one who tells Paige what to do. But today, she’s too weak to argue.

“It’s a big deal because I told you to relax while I was gone.” Pulling out a tray, Paige arranges all of the groceries on it. She carries it over to Azzi, and it’s a little haphazard with snacks and medicine and a glass of water but it’s also perfect because Paige did it.

“Thank you,” she says when Paige sets the tray on the coffee table.

“Uh-huh,” Paige replies nonchalantly, already leaving the room on the hunt for something else. When she comes back, she has a heating pad and the blanket that Azzi has dubbed as her favorite in hand. “Which one? Heating pad, blanket? Both?”

“Both,” Azzi says without hesitation.

Paige is already plugging the heating pad into the wall.

She places it on Azzi’s lower abdomen, exactly where the cramps hit her the worst, and then throws the blanket over her.

“And here’s the remote,” she says, passing it over once Azzi is situated. She pushes her hand into Azzi’s curls, scratching gently at her scalp as she kneels by her. “What else you need, baby? I can go make you somethin’, or if I forgot anything from the store I can run back.”

Azzi shakes her head, reaching her arms out for her girlfriend, who is quick to pull her into her arms and hold her there. “My girl,” Paige murmurs in her ear, rubbing her back soothingly. “I’m sorry you’re not feelin’ well, baby.”

Azzi hums into her shoulder. “Feel a little better now.”

“Yeah?” Paige kisses her temple, then pulls away. “You wanna turn on the TV?”

Azzi nods, and Paige sits down, laying Azzi’s head in her lap, one hand stroking her pulse point while the other flicks through Netflix.

Azzi stares up at her girlfriend, wonders how she got so lucky. (She has no idea Paige thinks the same thing every time she wakes up to Azzi’s gentle voice in the morning.)

“Paige,” she says, and Paige looks down at her immediately. “I love you.”

Paige smiles down at her, leaning over for a sideways kiss. “I love you, mama.”

“You should stop kissing me.”

Paige kisses her again. “I already got sick, you cant give it to me.”

“I don’t know if we should rely on that.”

“You could have the black plague or some shit,” Paige says, pulling Azzi’s head up now to kiss her a little more deeply, “and I would still kiss you.”

Shaking her head fondly, Azzi scoots up, Paige’s legs opening to make room for her as she sits sideways between them, resting her head in the crook of Paige’s neck. She smells good, freshly showered, hair still a little damp. Paige picks a movie before hooking her arm around Azzi’s back, using her free hand to hold the heating pad in place over her tummy.

“Getting sleepy?” Paige asks after a few minutes.

Azzi nods, hums into her neck. “Little bit.”

“Go to sleep, pretty girl,” Paige says, hand soothing up and down her back, and Azzi is finally right where she belongs, safe and secure and at home in Paige’s arms.

For the first time all day, her body stops aching. And finally, with Paige’s gentle voice whispering sweetly in her ear, she gets some much-needed sleep.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi #pazzi fics #wcbb #uconn wbb #wbb #fluff #pazzi fluff #wlw fluff #established relationship #no effort was put into this #no beta we die like men

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lightseoul · 13 days ago

Text

CHAPTER 7 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 5.3k (jesus. this is the longest one yet)

tags. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), lots of cussing, some minor timeskip manga spoilers, slightly nsfw themes, mentions of food, bakugou katsuki is bad at feelings, feelings—lots of 'em, the true calm before the storm, shit's about to go down!!!

a/n. we're so back, y'all!!! this one took me a while, i have to admit. it even got to a point where i thought i'd just leave this series unfinished for a plethora of reasons. but after clawing through a few sessions of barely being able to write anything, i was struck with the vision of how to get the chapter going in the middle of a massage lol. the rest was history. that said, i'd love to know your thoughts so far, so please don't be a stranger <3 (comments keep me going. btw. not to sound like a slut)

links. masterlist, ao3

You ended up not getting home until past 8 PM that Monday.

After you successfully used your quirk on Kirishima and Hiroto, resulting in the transfer of that fated scrap of paper containing the attack’s details, Kaminari insisted that you hang out after lunch and make the most of your day off until everybody relented. Bakugou was uncharacteristically quiet—you noted—even as the electric hero whisked the six of you away to the nearest mall where you shopped and visited a KTV spot afterward.

You didn’t expect to spend hours watching the four goof off and sing their hearts out while Bakugou sat silently to the side, although time passed by faster than you thought it would anyway. The group eventually parted ways at around 6 PM, after which you and Bakugou decided to eat at a ramen restaurant where you sat yourselves by the counter so you wouldn’t have to force conversation.

Hiroto shadowed the two of you the entire time, up to the instant when you and Bakugou entered a darkened spot in the outdoor parking lot to wait for the twin to message Kouki and have the old man teleport you back to headquarters. You didn’t have to wait for too long—you were gone and right back at the front of your bedroom in a matter of minutes, bug-less and cameras covered another minute after.

And only as you stripped off your going-out clothes for the day in the privacy of the bathroom did it sink in—how you actually did it.

You actually transmitted the message.

And as much as it fucking sucks, the most you can do now—at least until D-Day—is to put your faith in Kirishima and the rest of the pro-heroes who will be tasked with stopping this act of genocide altogether.

Easy enough…

Right.

The next day—Tuesday—starts typically as the others have transpired in the last two weeks-ish of living in the headquarters: violently woken by a twin’s knocking, then scrambling to seem like you were sharing the bed, to promptly getting ready for and having breakfast at the mess hall.

Just like how every day’s been in this supremacist hellhole, everything goes by like clockwork.

That is, up until Omiru walks up to your usual table just as you are about to take your last chug of water after downing your substantial plate of pancakes.

You peer at her from over the rim of your glass, cautious—and rightfully so. Beside you, Bakugou puts down his utensils and straightens up in his seat. Neither of you says anything, opting to let her speak first instead.

And when she finally does, she’s looking straight at no one but Bakugou.

“Follow me.”

At that, you glance at the pro-hero in question, who only shoots the twin a stern look before nodding curtly. You watch him as he gathers his tray and stands up, and you’re about to move and follow suit when Omiru’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“Not you,” she spews pointedly. “Just him.”

From where you are half-sitting with your ass frozen mid-air, you blink at the woman. “What?”

“Masaki-san needs him at the private training facility, pronto,” comes her terse reply, sounding more impatient by the minute. “He’s not to be disturbed.”

Your face contorts in displeasure before you can think better against it. Then, schooling it into a more neutral expression, you shake your head as you finally straighten up, willing your voice to stay firm. “Whatever you have to say to him you can say to me, too.”

Omiru opens her mouth to most likely snap at you for wasting more and more of her time, but she doesn’t get to do that because you’re both silenced by a sudden hand on your forearm. You whip to look at Bakugou, and his lips are pressed into a thin line as he nods again—only this time, at you—as if that was all the explanation you needed.

“It’s okay,” he offers, his voice low. “I’ll come and look for you by the time we’re done.”

You can only stare at him, tamping down the incredulity that’s creeping up your throat.

Since when did he decide to be Mr. Calm and Collected?

As much as you want to, you don’t question him, though, knowing it will cause more harm than good. You’re so close to the day of the operation, and the last thing you need is to blow your cover.

So instead, and with a wary heart, you nod back at him, before leaning in and pressing a quick peck on his cheek.

“Take care, babe,” you say timidly, grateful he took the kiss just now like a champ—with little to no faltering.

“I will,” comes his weirdly soft response, before he steps out of his seat and trails behind Omiru, leaving you and your tray of empty plates.

You move to tuck the stretchy fabric into the rest of the contorted arrangement you’ve got going on—folding your panties was the most you could think of doing to keep your mind off the anxiety that’s been gnawing at you the entire day, after all—and plop it on your pile of fresh undergarments.

Or at least, you were going to do that, when the door to your bedroom suddenly bursts open, and you startle so badly, that the neat stack of underwear crumbles like a poorly built Jenga tower on top of the bed.

You scramble to hide them behind you just as Bakugou emerges from the hallway, and the very first thing that registers when your eyes land on him is that he’s fucking drenched.

In sweat. Drenched in sweat.

And, to your chagrin, he must’ve noticed you gaping at him because his gaze drifts over to meet yours after he closes the door behind him. “What?”

You blink at him, suddenly yanked out of your dumb stupor. “Nothing—it’s just…” you trail off, now trying to ignore the weirdly scandalous way his wet shirt is clinging to his muscled torso. You knew his hero costume accentuated and therefore showcased a built body from the chance encounters about him in the news, but seeing it through an almost translucent cover-up…

“Just what?”

You gulp, bringing your eyes back up to meet his unnervingly scrutinizing ones.

…Why is he looking at you like that?

Instead of dwelling on the thought, though, you manage to voice out the question you and the imaginary mouse in your pocket are wondering. “W-why are you so… sweaty?”

Now, if he’s offended by how that came out just a breadth’s hair away from sounding disgusted, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he crosses the short distance between him and your small wardrobe and flings it open.

“I thought you were smarter than that, princess,” comes his casual reply, and you find yourself stiffening—not just at the nickname, but at what came before that.

You frown, although he doesn’t see it with his back turned against you. “I don’t get how you’re being so nonchalant today,” you say so honestly you shock yourself, voice lowered out of instinct despite having made sure that there are no extra bugs in the room.

Whatever Bakugou expected for a response—it must’ve been anything but that—because he stops rifling through his clothes and whips to look at you, a mild expression of surprise written across his features.

But before he can say anything to that, you beat him to it. “What did they make you do, Bakugou?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but pauses before he can get a word out. You watch the man as he stands there for a second, the metaphorical gears in his head spinning loud enough that you can practically hear them. You can tell they’re still turning a beat later, even as he closes the wardrobe behind him and turns to fully face you.

“I—” he starts, hesitant, “I thought you would’ve figured.”

“Figured what?” You’re getting impatient now.

“That I was called on to start making the bombs.”

Oh.

The realization dawning on you must be evident in your profile because Bakugou nods as if in confirmation. “I was anticipating they’d call me in sooner or later, so I wasn’t surprised when that twin approached us during breakfast.”

Fuck, you feel stupid.

How you’re feeling is none of Bakugou’s business, though, so you will yourself to dip your head to show you understand. “I totally forgot about the bombs,” you admit.

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you,” he turns again and resumes busying himself with the cabinets. “They did their research and found out my bombs are more explosive the fresher they are. Explains why they waited ‘til the last minute.”

Huh.

“I guess that also explains why you look like an over-glazed doughnut.”

That makes him bark out a laugh. “More like a wet dog, but I’ll take that.”

You’re about to say that no, he definitely looks more like an over-glazed doughnut, but then you remember you’d rather fail this mission and cause massive destruction before you go off admitting he looks…maybe just a tiny bit delectable in this state.

You’re back to avoiding the sight of…him—altogether—in silence, when Bakugou glances at you over his shoulder. “Can you pass me my towel?”

“Sure,” you say as you fetch it from where it’s hung across the couch’s backrest before padding back toward him.

You hand it over. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

Now it’s your turn to stand somewhat awkwardly behind him as he finishes up gathering his change of clothes for the night. There’s one more thing you need to ask him.

Anytime now.

You take a sharp inhale just as he whirls to face you, expectant. You muster a small smile, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I was just gonna ask—they didn’t hurt you, did they? You were treated okay?”

Your stomach instantly drops when the expectant look just now morphs into a smirk. “I think you underestimate my ability to protect myself, princess.”

You feel yourself flame. “I—” you stammer, wildly caught off guard, and his grin widens. You then frown, resigned. “Come on, man, not cool.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, sounding far from apologetic, “‘m sorry. Though, you should’ve seen the look on your face.”

“That’s it,” you raise your hands in mock surrender, spinning to gather your folded underwear that are still scattered on the bed. “They can go ahead and snip off your balls, for all I care.”

“Damn, that escalated quickly.”

You only toss him a sarcastic smile as you take up the spot beside him, opening your tiny drawer and dumping the articles into them before he can get a closer glimpse. The last thing you need is for him to see your threadbare, granny panties.

Bakugou chuckles again, the indication of his mirth the last sound that echoes in the room before a quiet envelops the two of you, the atmosphere taking a sudden shift.

“How about you, huh?” he suddenly asks, almost making you jump. You raise an eyebrow at him, still not quite past his earlier teasing.

He doesn’t react with hostility, though, only shrugging in response. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” you parrot lamely, shocked at his query.

To your disbelief, he doesn’t roll his eyes or shoot you a derisive quip, only nodding—an unmistakable, serious glint in his crimson gaze. You gulp despite yourself.

“It was pretty much the same for me, I guess. Except there weren’t as many people around…”

You falter, debating whether or not you should tell him the more incriminating truth. But then you make the mistake of meeting his penetrating stare and then suddenly, it all comes tumbling out.

“I—I was worried about you.”

That takes Bakugou by surprise, his brows shooting up in a profound display of bewilderment. An abrupt pang of embarrassment shoots through you at the sight, and you scurry to save face.

“Looks like there was no need, though, considering how you’re joking around and being an ass and all,” you jest, taking the hoodie you were meaning to get from the rack and closing your side of the wardrobe.

“I—”

“Good night, Bakugou,” you cut him off, plopping yourself on the couch with your back turned against him, effectively shooting the conversation down.

Needless to say, you struggle to sleep that night.

As if she knew you fell into a fitted slumber and needed more goddamn sleep, Omiru was already up and banging at your door five minutes earlier than usual the morning after, ripping you out of your sluggish haze. It didn’t help that it was your turn on the couch that night—which, even after all this time of dozing there, still proved to be quite unforgiving to your neck and lower back, especially. Once you were all ready and had opened the door, though, your usual routine was done but not before a rundown on what was to happen that day. You were to pack your things and prepare to leave the headquarters by the time Bakugou was done producing the last batch of bombs.

She conveniently didn’t say when that was, opting to whisk Bakugou away instead.

So without any idea as to when you were making the move, you tried your best to keep busy—a task that proved to be herculean, seeing as how the number of people present had dwindled significantly, you could count them with just your fingers and toes.

It didn’t take you long to figure out why that was. The people who’ve gone—they were all teleported to their posts to prepare for tomorrow’s attack.

By batches.

Because, as it turns out, you were right. Kouki’s quirk does have a limitation.

He can only muster enough power to teleport a certain number of people—across a certain distance—a handful of times a day. It all depends on three factors: number, distance, and frequency.

And because Bakugou’s got important business as the organization’s very own human-bomb factory, you two will be transported later in the day as part of the last batch.

You mull over this newfound information—again and again, mainly because there really isn’t much else to do other than pack—until, unbeknownst to you, the clock on the wall strikes five. You jump from where you are seated on the sofa when, as if on cue, the door bursts open, revealing a yet again sweaty Bakugou, with Kouki and the twins tailing closely behind him.

“Just let me take a quick shower and finalize my stuff,” Bakugou offhandedly says, eyeing you as he picks up his towel, not wasting even a modicum of a second. “Then we’ll get going to my place.”

His what?

“Sorry?” you manage to ask, acutely aware of the panic that’s rising in your throat—fast.

Bakugou peers at you for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. But then he’s chuckling—oh so naturally, like your reaction was adorable to him rather than potentially detrimental to your covers—as he walks toward you.

And then he’s leaning down and into your space, a warning look in his eyes. You barely catch a glimpse of it before he leans even further and kisses your cheek, smiling as he pulls away.

“My place, baby,” he coos, “Where we’ll stay the night.”

“Here we are,” Kouki announces just as the floor beneath you rematerializes, light and markedly spotless as compared to the nicked, hardwood floors you’ve grown to be familiar with over the past weeks. You look up, a faint trace of dizziness clouding your mind still, although it’s quickly replaced by awe as you take in the rest of the room.

Dropping your luggage to the side, you make quick work of what can only be Bakugou Katsuki’s living space.

Well, it’s just what you’d expect from the guy. Purposively designed, no-nonsense, and exceptionally pristine.

And closer to the Prime Minister’s Office. At least, as compared to your more modest home, which is why you’re even here in the first place.

Regardless, you were about to compliment the man for being an outlier of the male population when you suddenly remember that you’re supposed to be well-acquainted with his high-rise apartment unit. You know, as his girlfriend?

You slam your mouth shut, just as Kouki steps forward and turns to face the rest of you like a commander in the military. You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“Big day tomorrow,” he declares, his trademark haughtiness heavy in his tone. “The four of you, review your assignments and be ready by 6 AM sharp. I’ll pick you up here.”

Then, a pointed look toward you and Bakugou. “Don’t be late.”

And just as quickly as you teleported into the pro-hero’s unit, Kouki vanishes, leaving the two of you with the twins.

Silence.

“That man’s got a bug up his old ass, that’s for sure.”

You whip to face Bakugou, surprised and equal parts amused. He only tosses you a smug look, as if daring you to question him.

You don’t, similar to how you don’t dare spare either of the twins a worried glance.

“We should order,” Bakugou says not a minute later, effortlessly picking up your belongings and transferring them to an empty spot beside a door. “I cleared out the ref two weeks ago. ‘m out of groceries.”

“Sure,” you reply, seating yourself comfortably on his sofa like you’ve been here countless times. You sense all three pairs of eyes studying you as you burrow into the plush cushion, willing every neuron in your system to relax. “How ‘bout from that restaurant we went to with the squad? I’m craving some curry.”

“Aha,” Bakugou smirks as he walks over and throws his butt down way too close beside you. “So you did want to switch.”

You bristle, if not at being unceremoniously caught then at how he just slung an arm over the backrest behind you. “T–That’s beside the point,” you argue, before swiftly turning to Hiroto. “Can we have our phones for just a sec, please? We need to order.”

If Bakugou noticed your smooth segue slash redirection just now, he doesn’t point it out, instead letting you take your smartphones from the absurdly tall man without much of a hassle. You quickly place your orders—even asking the twins what they want despite how badly they’ve treated you since your first meeting at that dingy club.

You’re not a monster, after all.

They seem to think you are, though, because they blatantly ignore your kind offer.

Well, then. If they have a hard time falling asleep because of hunger later then that’s not your problem anymore.

Not even thirty minutes after ordering, your food arrives, and the twins end up allowing Bakugou to go down the lobby by himself to fetch the delivery. You almost groan when he walks through the door with the goods in tow, the strong waft of curry sauce filling the air and making your stomach churn in budding anticipation.

“You’re not helping your case, babe,” Bakugou teases as you excitedly pore over the takeout bag, reaching into it to grab your share and then his.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over this glorious smell,” you quip, which grants you a chuckle.

No more words are exchanged as you get started on your feast, too wiped out from today’s activities—Bakugou and his bomb production and your…well, trying not to go crazy—to even start, let alone maintain, a steady conversation. The room is silent aside from some slurping and quiet chewing here and there, with neither Omiru nor Hiroto saying anything to break the monotony.

And you think it must be that—the quiet—that spurs the abrupt observation mid-spoonfeed of how domestic everything is. You wouldn’t have ever thought you’d be eating a meal with Bakugou in his dining room—high schooler you definitely wouldn’t have—but as it turns out life’s got a funny way of pulling the rug from underneath you and messing with your head.

Just like these muddy ass feelings.

No, you think to yourself. Now’s not the time.

Not when you’re barely able to stomach your food, anyway. You were—are hungry—if the incessant rumbling of your abdomen since late afternoon was any indication—but you forgot you’ve been sickeningly nervous the entire day. Still, you force each bite down. The last thing you need is to be frail tomorrow.

“Here,” Bakugou reaches out from across the table a few moments later, “Give me your plate.”

“No,” you say as you lift the empty ceramic further from him, “Let me help.”

Your plea falls on deaf ears, however, because Bakugou leans closer and snatches the dish from your hands before you can even scream a strangled wait! You must be looking stupefied, because Bakugou only smirks at you as he quickly gathers the dishes, beaming with pride as if having a ridiculously wide wing span is something he earned rather than was unjustly given.

“Unfair…” you mumble as you resort to gathering the trash instead, collecting it in the bag that the delivery came in.

“Just leave it there,” he calls out from the kitchen a few feet away, scraping the scraps off the platters. And when he’s realized you’re not listening: “Babe.”

You lift your hands like you’re a contestant in Master Chef and Gordon Ramsey just called time’s up, a petulant frown on your face. “Jeez, I’m just trying to help.”

“And I’m trying to be a gentleman,” comes his snarky retort. You bite back the urge to snort. “Go unpack in the bedroom while I finish up here,” he orders, “I’ll be quick.”

Please don’t be is your visceral reaction, although you manage not to say it out loud. You need at least ten minutes—give or take—of being alone in his bedroom to come to terms with this precarious situation you’ve been dealt with. You manage to reply with a small ‘okay’ before heading over to grab your things, very much cognizant of the ticking clock.

But then it dawns on you that you don’t have any idea where his fucking bedroom is.

You pause mid-bend, pretending you’re studying the hard case of your luggage for non-existent scratches. You know that there are three doors, not counting the one Bakugou went in and out from to get your food. One has to lead to the common restroom, another to his home office slash gym that you’ve heard him talk about once during your lunches at the headquarters, which leaves the last one as his bedroom’s entryway.

Hurry up, your brain tells you. You’re getting suspicious.

Wait.

You let your mind flash back to a while ago, a few moments after you arrived here. ‘We should order,’ was what Bakugou said, as he conveniently hefted your bags to this spot here, which must be right beside…

The bedroom door.

Bingo.

You repress a sigh of relief when you’re greeted with the sight of a massive mattress upon turning the knob, wasting no time as you squeeze into the threshold with your belongings. You were about to shut the door behind you when a female voice calls out your name out of nowhere, and you startle. Turning to face who must’ve been Omiru, you’re quick to put on a nonchalant facade, as if she didn’t just scare you in your metaphorical boots.

“Your tracker,” she says flatly when you don’t move an inch.

“O–oh. Right.”

You stand in place as she goes over the motions while Hiroto does the same with Bakugou. You’ve gone through this so many times that you don’t even wince when she rips out the device, instead only giving her a quick thanks and a rare good night when she steps away.

She doesn’t say it back.

You take that as your cue to go back into Bakugou’s sleeping quarters, and only when the weighty slab of wood is closed behind you do you let out a heavy exhale, suddenly feeling the fatigue that’s been looming over you since last night in its entirety.

But then that’s immediately booted out with a shot of adrenaline when you see it.

The couch.

Or the lack thereof.

You're still standing there—mortified—by the time Bakugou enters the room with his stuff, shutting the door and consequently granting you your first semblance of privacy for the day.

“What,” he says more than asks a minute later, when you still haven’t said anything.

“There’s no couch,” you croak-whisper.

You were not about to sleep on the floor.

You were not about to share a bed with Bakugou, either.

Not after you’ve spent the last two weeks slaving over your high-maintenance sleeping arrangement.

“Relax, dumbass,” comes his fluid retort. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the man is finding this shit funny. “I have a futon.”

Turns out, he wasn’t lying—what feels like a huge burden lifted off your shoulders when he opens a cabinet to his right and pulls out a moderately thick cushion. You waste no time in assisting him, taking two corners while the pro-hero handles the other two, coordinating as you place the futon perpendicularly, right at the foot of the bed.

“Thanks,” you tell him when you’re done, dusting off your hands. “Do you have a blanket I can—”

“Too late,” he cuts you off, lightly diving into the mattress.

You gawk at the man. “Wha—”

“It’s your turn on the bed tonight,” he says as a matter of factly, not even bothering to look you in the eye. You splutter, but ultimately relent. As much as you want to argue, you do need some proper rest, especially after last night’s sorry attempt at recharging.

Thankfully, though, Bakugou doesn’t rile you up any further as you each go through your nightly routines and take turns in the built-in bathroom, careful not to invade each other’s spaces. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes and you’re already both plastered and tucked in your respective beds, the occasional noises from the traffic tens of floors below you the only thing filling the otherwise empty air.

But as it turns out, the getting ready for bed part isn’t the problem.

By the time it’s 10 PM, you’ve already tossed and turned roughly twenty times, agonizingly nowhere near asleep despite the luxurious bedding beneath your limbs. It’s after the 21st time, though, that you finally let your mind wander to the man on the floor and whether or not he’s asleep. He must be—having been tuckered out from producing explosives for two days straight. Still, your mind refuses to let go of the thought—brimming with boredom-fueled curiosity that’s begging for visual confirmation.

Sitting up carefully, you strain to peek at Bakugou. He’s been awfully quiet, you think to yourself.

Just a little bit more—

“Can’t sleep?”

You freeze. Shit.

“Uh, no,” you reply, aborting mission and lying back down as silently as possible. “Not really.”

“No shit. I heard you, the last twenty times.”

“Twenty-one,” you correct him. “But who’s counting?”

That earns you a laugh. “What, you scared?”

Your face reflexively contorts in offense, although it’s quick to fall when you realize you’ve actually no right to be offended. “If I told you I was, would that make me a loser?”

To your surprise, his answer is instant. “Nah.”

At that, your brows furrow. “That’s it? Just nah? No what do you think, princess, or some other equally lame taunt?”

“Oooh.” Jesus, you can practically hear him smirking. “You want me to call you princess?”

“There it is. Welcome back, Bakugou.”

A chuckle. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

You snort. “So I’ve been told.”

Then, a pause.

“Hey,” you start again a few beats later, gaze fixed—unwavering—on the gray ceiling, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

You gulp. “Are you scared?”

This time, the answer is not as instant, but it appears to remain the same. “…No.”

“Really?” you ask, voice inadvertently teeming with incredulity.

You hear some rustling, like he’s shrugging against the bedsheets. “I’ve gone through much worse.”

Oh…

Right.

He did die and came out as one of the most important heroes of the Great War, alongside formidable people—the very people you tapped to help you just a few days ago. Maybe he’s right not to be scared.

“Is it my turn now?” he pipes up suddenly.

Huh? “Your what?”

“My turn to ask a question.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were taking turns.”

“Well, we are now.”

You roll your eyes, comfortable in the knowledge that he can’t see you. “Okay, then. Go ahead.”

Now—don’t go ahead, is what you would have said, had you fucking known what he was going to say next.

“That day before winter break—” he begins, and you find yourself instantly tensing.

Fuck, no.

He huffs. “—You were gonna confess to me, weren’t ya?”

Fuck.

A deafening silence falls upon the room.

A silence that goes on for what must be a decade.

Then—

“…Is this some hidden camera prank or something?” you laugh dryly.

“No,” he says so seriously your eyes widen. “I was just…thinking about it.”

Well, fuck. Now he’s done it.

What are you supposed to do? Or say to that? Deny it and say, dude, no, you’re delusional? Or ask him where he got the motherfucking audacity and call it a day?

But then the strangest thing happens and an inexplicable feeling washes over you, one that is too nostalgic it’s almost painful.

Ah, yes.

You remember this one.

It wasn’t the first one to show up in the scene, but it was quick to envelop every other emotion afterward, lingering with you until the soothing balm that is time did its magical work and helped you forget.

The regret of not being able to admit your feelings.

And now, a full ten years later, you’re suddenly thrust with the opportunity to finally do what you failed to do then.

You don’t even have to think about it.

“Yes,” you rasp out, heart thrumming frantically against your chest. “I mean, the answer is yes, I was going to. Luckily you didn’t let me get to the embarrassing part, though, huh?”

“Look, I—”

“If you’re gonna apologize,” you cut him off, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Bakugou. That thing’s in the past now. I’ve moved on, as fucking cheesy as it sounds.”

You then chuckle, ignoring the way your hands are stubbornly shaking. “That was just a silly high school crush, anyway.”

“Yeah, well—” he clears his throat, “I get it if you don’t want to talk about it. But…I do still want to apologize, though. For that first day, around two weeks ago.”

“What about it?”

“You don’t remember? I was an ass to you.”

First day? You don’t—

But then it all comes rushing to you—the intimidating looks, the backhanded remarks, the outright insulting comments.

He sniggers. “You just remembered now, didn’t you?”

You blanch. “I—”

“Don’t try to be nice,” he preempts. “I know I fucked up. It’s just—it was a lot to take in, and I took it out on you.”

He heaves a heavy sigh. “First it was having my past rehashed, and then when I met you I got reminded of how arrogant I was as a kid and it just felt like—”

“A slap to the face?”

Another huff. “Exactly.”

You smile—genuinely—this time wishing you were face to face so he could get a good view of it. You try to let it show in your voice instead.

“Thank you for telling me, Bakugou. Apology accepted.”

A sigh of relief. You feel your smile grow bigger.

“Now go to sleep, dumbass,” he spits, the vulnerability from just a second ago long gone, now replaced by his signature snark. “You heard the old geezer. Big day tomorrow.”

You can’t help it—you laugh.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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sweetflanfiction · 1 month ago

Text

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 13

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

A.N: I'm back!!! Some trigger warnings: death mentioned and some medical stuff (probable inacuracies).

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12

• ··········· • ············ •

The council met two days after Jayce found Viktor and yourself inside the closet. Two long days of having the big, broad man teasing both of you to hide his own anxiety.

At the beginning of the second day, in the afternoon, Jayce, Viktor, Esther, and most of the investors your mother had rallied had been called to the brightly lit council chamber. You, however, were barred as soon as you tried to get in, the enforcer by the door giving you a sardonic grin when he placed a hand on your shoulder and gently pushed you away. Your mother was about to protest, but you shook your head and watched the double doors close on you.

With a sigh, you walked back to the lab. You took your time, pleasurably walking around the Academy until you arrived at your destination.

The glove came off as soon as you got to the lab's floor, and the door unlocked with a flick of your wrist, the rune spoken without thinking about it.

The lab was mostly clean, and you knew that it was because of the council's constant inspection that it had been organized. You sat on Viktor’s worktable, careful not to disturb anything. He had some books on magic scattered with his own notes and writing utensils. After a few minutes of twirling around on his stool, you thought your time would be better spent learning about your power.

The books had different thicknesses and a variety of covers. Some looked antique, leather-bound, and gold-foiled, while others looked more modern with hardcovers and simpler designs. One caught your attention, mostly because Viktor had left a note stuck on it with your name underlined.

'Read!'

The small couch behind the blackboard seemed like the perfect place to read it. Pushing the blackboard out of the way, you grabbed Viktor’s blanket and sat down.

The inventor had already read the book, you noted by the little remarks he had added in little sticky notes.

‘More than one language?’ ‘Prefixes and suffixes. Try.’ 'Curse words? Cursing runes?’ 'Are the runes a foreign language?' 'Do runes have accents?'

You laughed quietly at the annotations. Sitting quietly in the lab was always a peaceful experience. The muffled sounds of the people in the corridors and the soft whooshing of airships going around were soothing. Familiar.

Time ticked by as you read until you found yourself closing your eyes at the words. Shaking your head, you decided to try some new things with the runes.

If runes were similar to words, then they could be combined to make sentences. You looked around the room for inspiration, and your eyes fell on the locked hex-core storage. You knew the cores and gems were either in the council chamber or in Heimerdinger's locked office, now a sort of secure room since he had disappeared.

Not waiting for someone to walk in on you with a blue hand, you grabbed Viktor's colored sticky notepad and wrote the 'unlock' and 'move' rune. Before you could flick the rune with a finger, the locked door slammed against the wall.

“That’s new…” You frowned, determined to try and close the door and lock it from where you sat.

You made the moving rune again, added the little coda signal next to it, and pulled. The door closed with a click. Still unlocked, though.

It didn't take you long to go through half of the notepad trying to decode what you should add to relock the door, and nothing worked.

“Fine…be that way…” you grumbled as you got up and walked to Viktor’s shoulder bag on the coat hanger, grabbed his lab keys, walked to the door, and locked it. As you were walking back from dropping the keys back in the bag, the lab's door opened. For a moment you were confused, not having used any magic, but then Viktor’s handsome face peeked through.

“I thought I told you not to enter the lab without supervision.” He warned without menace in his voice.

“According to my mom, I own 2% of this lab, and I decided that this couch is just that. My 2%.” You joked, getting back to the warmth of the blanket on the couch.

He walked inside, closing the door as he made his way to you, a mocking, pensive expression on his face.

“I guess that is fair. Still does not explain why you are inside the lab.” He got to the couch and moved his index finger around, mentioning the room. "Unsupervised."

“Well, I need access to my 2%, don’t I?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically and sat next to you, leaning his cane on the arm of the couch and his shoulders on the back of it. Without thinking, you covered his legs with the wool blanket, patting his knees.

Viktor looked at you with a raised eyebrow, and you shrugged, trying to look nonchalant at the friendly move.

“Has the council session ended?” You asked, clearing your throat and closing the book. He shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be there?”

“Whenever Salo starts throwing personal jabs at me about where I’m from, I know whatever discussion was being had is over.”

“Yeah… stain on the hexgate floor…” you whispered, and he raised his eyebrows. “And how did the discussion end?”

“The council agreed to let the Tallis Lab operate as is... under supervision for a while, but they aren’t going to interfere with it.” He played with the hem of the blanket and shook his head. “Esther was a force of nature in that room tonight. For a moment I thought she was going to start casting runes and making the table float.”

You snorted and leaned against the arm of the couch, looking at his profile. Viktor always had a striking profile, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

“Did she ever tell you how we became friends?” He looked at the opposite wall, and you shook your head, making a negative sound.

“All she told me was that you and she had similar interests.”

“About… mmm… 11 years ago, before Jayce and Hextech, Professor Heimerdinger thought it was a good idea to give the engineering students something creative to do. So he asked Esther to come and give our analytical little brains some writing classes.”

“Aren’t you an inventor, though?” You tilted your head sideways to lean against the back of the couch; he nodded.

“I still think in numbers... It's different…Anyway, she would teach one class every two weeks. At first, I did not enjoy it; I could be studying or working, but at some point, I started to like it. My brain would go to these faraway places and imagine all of the things that, back then, were impossible. At some point your mother let us know her opinions of the Undercity, and after class, we spent a good two hours just speaking about it.”

“She does like to talk.” You joked, and he looked at you smiling.

“That she does, especially if she likes the subject. For one whole year, every two weeks I would be the first one in and the last one out. Sometimes she would let me read some of her manuscripts and ask for an honest review; other times I let her read my own school papers.”

“Wouldn’t that be cheating? Having an actual writer proofread your papers?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I was an Undercity boy, with an Undercity accent and a limp. I was taking any help I could get.” He shrugged, and you snorted. “One day she didn’t show up. I asked Professor Heimerdinger, and he said something awful had happened to her and her family.”

Immediately you straightened up, eyes wide in curiosity. If his math was correct, and it was, this was about the same time engraved on the stone at the cemetery.

“I knew she had a husband and a child about my age. There was never an opportunity for me to meet them, but still, whatever had happened, I wanted to show my solidarity. So, poor young Viktor walked all the way to the penthouse, and once he got there, Voltaire told poor young Viktor she was at the Skyward Clinic."He sighed, looking at his hands, flexing and relaxing his long fingers. "A trolley had derailed. Her husband had died on the route to the clinic. Her child seemed to be in a very precarious state.”

The buzzing in your ears started to drown out anything but Viktor's particular speech pattern. The corner of your eyes started to tunnel around him. Your breathing started to become elaborate as you tried to hide your restlessness.

It had never seemed to be the right opportunity to ask your mother how it happened. She had mentioned the accident but never in specifics, and you respected her need to keep it to herself. People grieve in their own way.

Your father could never pass by the hospital your mother had died in, even though he would make generous donations to it. But he would always take the long way if the quickest path passed by it.

“I had little money to spend on frivolous things like trolleys, so I walked all the way back to Skyward…” He made his fingers do a little walking motion in the air.

“That’s on the opposite side of the city.”

“It is.”

“And you walked there?”

“I did.” He nodded, his own eyes focusing on something on the floor, his mind tracing the memory.

“Your leg... your back...” You were about to start to complain about his recklessness, but he snorted.

“My lungs.”

“Your lungs?” This was the first time he had mentioned them.

“They took the brunt of my stupidity and my lack of funds." He gave a humorless snort and took a deep breath. "Everything collapsed as soon as my brain figured out how much strain I had put on my body."

He tilted his head to you but didn't look up from whatever it was that he was focused on on the floor.

"Do you know what the gray is?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know what it does after long-term exposure to it?"

The question wasn't out of the blue, because of the subject being discussed and the person it was being discussed with. However, it hit you like a rush of cold water. You didn't know what it did personally, but you'd seen it on someone else. You'd seen it on his other dimension twin.

"Yes." You couldn't look at him.

"The respiratory system starts to rot. According to the doctors, I would be dead in about five to six years. But Esther…”

You remembered the day your Viktor had announced his own diagnosis. He had used those exact words, but the years were shortened to months.

That day had been seared into your brain. The way his voice sounded so strong and yet so broken, and he hadn’t allowed you to shed a single tear, even though they were flowing. ‘Save them for when I’m gone.’.

Your eyes filled with unshed tears now that he wasn't here to see them fall.

“I don’t know how, or even when, but I distinctly remember your mother holding my hand and crying by my bedside table. She said to me..." He cleaned a tear of his own, with the tip of his fingers. “She said nobody else’s child would be dying that night.”

It was like the air in your body had been sucked out. It held in your throat as your eyes widened.

“The doctors said we were a perfect match." He sighed, his eyebrow furrowing. "From blood type to size to the age of the donor. The chances of my body accepting the donated organ were above 80%. And Esther allowed it. And I survived.”

You gasped and followed his hand, which was now tracing a line of his diaphragm gingerly.

“There’s a scar right here…” He tapped his fingers in the lower part of his chest. “A reminder that death is sometimes inevitable for life to happen."

Viktor sniffled, closing his eyes, his hand still on his chest as it rose and fell with each breath.

"After that, we became inseparable. I will never be able to thank her for what she did, and if there is ever anything I can do to repay it, I will do it.”

There was silence now in the lab. The words he had spoken kept swimming freely in your head, fading into images of another Viktor coughing up blood and slowly succumbing to his illness.

You felt your body move on its own accord, your mental state not providing the necessary filters for you to stop yourself.

Viktor jumped when he felt your palm on top of his, on his chest, but didn't move away. You felt his breathing even out and even felt his little sniffles.

“You’re not dying.” You whispered more to his other self than this one, as if somewhere in the other timeline your Viktor could hear you.

“I am not.” Viktor whispered back, moving his hand so your own was flat against the fabric of his uniform.

You touched his shoulder with your forehead, a hand still on his chest, and you sobbed. There was sadness and anger and happiness and confusion; it was a convoluted mix of emotions that you couldn’t stop.

You were ecstatic that this Viktor was free from his impending doom, but you felt like your heart was breaking because your Viktor, the one you had loved and lost, could have been saved, could have had this.

Hindsight was indeed 20/20. This type of procedure has never been given a thought. Although something told you the Viktor you knew would never go for it. He had already accepted his fate. His death.

You kept asking yourself: Had you known then what you know now, not just about the Herald but about the possibility of you giving him a chance, would you accept it? Would you give your life for him? If you could?

Sadly, you didn’t know the answer to that. In a second of insanity, you just might, but if you had more time to think, the answer was not as clear.

And that confused you and angered you.

You noticed his hand on top of your own, his thumb gently stroking the back of it. You stiffen, finally realizing where and how you were placed. Half on top of his torso, your forehead on his shoulders, hand on his chest.

Quickly you moved your body away from his.

“Sorry…I... You tried to clean your face with the back of your hands.

“It is expected. Aside from this..." He pointed to the hand he still held on his chest, and you quickly moved it away. "Jayce's reaction was sort of the same...”

“Sorry…It’s…huh…hard, I guess.”

“Matters of life and death often are.” He looked at you, his eyes softening.

Your mind jumped to when you asked if she would choose you or Viktor in case of need and how her answer was immediately him. Since the subject was saving Piltover, it made sense she didn’t hesitate, but now…now you understood it more deeply. He had a part of her child in him. She would save him not just because of the future but also because of what he meant to her.

“Esther... she...” you said, accepting the burgundy handkerchief he was offering you. “She's very brave...”

Viktor smiled brightly even if his cheeks still had tears in them, and you did the same, seeing him as a completely different person for the first time since you got here.

Nature made them equal; nurture made them opposites.

• ············ •

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You asked your mother as soon as you were both alone in the penthouse.

“About?” she asked, going around the kitchen, having decided at 11 at night to make cupcakes.

“Viktor and the surgery.”

She stopped abruptly and looked at you as you sat quietly in the breakfast nook of the kitchen. You made a conscious effort not to show or sound angry, because you weren’t.

“I…Did he tell you that?” You nodded, and she leaned her hip into the counter, looking at a point in the distance. “It was a burden that I didn’t think you’d need.”

She sighed, coming to sit on the opposite side of the table with a deep breath.

“Sometimes I still struggle with the decision I made. My child was gone, and he was there, lying on a hospital bed filled with tubes and machines, and…it became such an easy decision to make back then… I sometimes wonder if she would think less of me because of that...”

“I’m sorry.” You grabbed her shaking hand after a few minutes of silence. “I…don’t know if it means anything, but…as your child from another dimension, I don’t think I could ever think less of you.”

Esther smiled at you and extended a hand to touch your cheek. You took a deep breath and waited. Her touch was warm and gentle, her thumb stroking the top of your cheekbone, and you felt a kiss on your knuckles.

“Thank you, my dear. It means the world to me.” She whispered.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies

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lenoraslament · 8 months ago

Note

hey! love your work. could you perhaps try writing like a list of turn-ons for the slytherin boys? or a short story about a dance for each of them?? tysm and have a good day.

Slytherin Boys React: Dance With Me

Fluff, Suggestive 16+, Angst, toxic relationship (lol with guess who TMR).

Not proofread because I’m sick.

Mattheo Riddle

“Matty, I don’t care if you win,” you say rolling your eyes as you both walk towards the Quidditch field, “I’m still not giving you a lap dance”. Mattheo reaches an arm over to tug your waist closer. He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“Come on, what do I have to look forward to after I crush Ravenclaw?” He asked with that teasing grin that left you wild.

“The merits of your victory? Spoils of butterbeer?” You chime in sarcastically and he only shakes his head and kisses you before the game.

It was brutal. Ravenclaw destroyed. Their lead was apparent within twenty minutes, they never let up. The whole time you cringed, hissed in anguish when they made point after point. When the Ravenclaw seeker caught the snitch, you knew it was over and Mattheo would be pissed.

“FUCK!” You could hear from outside his room, then a crash. Then a bang. You sighed and quickly opened the door. Theo and Enzo gave you a weary look as they tried to wrestle the chair out of Mattheo’s hands. Being team captain was a source of pride and chaos for him. Ever since he took on the role the pressure had been insurmountable and Mattheo’s way of handling it wasn’t what you would describe as healthy.

The look you gave his two friends was cautioning. Theo set the chair down not the ground and Enzo patted Mattheo’s shoulder as they walked out of the dorm, leaving you to tend to your boyfriend.

“Not now Y/N, just NOT NOW”. He said and sighed. You saw his frustratation just as much as you sensed his resistance to take it out on you. So you walked to him, looking up at him as you pushed his shoulders softly guiding him to the chair to sit. With a sigh he complied.

His defeated glance morphed into mild amusement as you straddled him on the chair. He raised his eyebrows as you pulled out your phone and put on a sexy song. Slowly your hips grinded into his, you dropped your phone on the floor and hooked your wrists behind his neck.

His lips fell open, your hips moved into a figure 8. Keening against him until you stood up and turned around. You felt his fingers dig into your waist, pulling until you were back on his lap. His fury melted into lust. One free arm thrown around his neck as you arched your back and rode his clothed erection.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t give me a lap dance?” He whispered in your ear tentatively.

“I said I wouldn’t give you one if you won”.

Theo Nott

Theo’s sat stoic in the midst of the thumping party. His eyes latched onto your body, ten feet away you danced with your friends. The way you writhed, the slow figure eight movement of your hips caught him in a trance. A trance that was broken my a smirking Mattheo, sitting on the arm of his chair and passing him a blunt.

Theo took it mindlessly taking a big hit and holding in the smoke. His eyes never leaving you as you twirled. After three more hits he could feel his edges dissolve. It would have been enough for him to stay watching you, feeling light headed and aroused by his beautiful girlfriend.

It was a party but it felt like a private show for him. He didn’t even notice Enzo at first, standing behind you. Probably cross faded as his hand landed on your hip. Pulling you close. Mattheo raised his eyebrows as he watched this exchange and looked down at Theo. The slow rage bubbled beneath the surface and Theo stood up a little too fast.

He was making his way towards both of you only to be cut off by Mattheo who beat him to Enzo. Mattheo nearly ripped drunk Enzo’s arm off as he dragged him away. You were so far gone, swimming in vodka that you missed the chaos. You lifted your hands up above your head and guided them down your body as you swiveled your hips.

Next thing you know your boyfriend was pulling you close, spinning you to face away so he could grind onto your ass.

“Going to keep you close cara mia,” he whispered in your ear. You only nodded with a grin, his breath on your neck as you danced heatedly together driving your crazy.

Lorenzo Berkshire

You both needed a break. School had been stressful, drama and rumors had culminated into more fights, less fun. It felt like it had been weeks since you two had shared anything but resentment.

But you and Enzo had been together for a long time now, one bad month wasn’t enough to break you up. Every now and then the nagging feeling hit you. When you saw him flirt and joke with other girls just for him to be cold and short with you. You got his worse. And in return you gave him hell.

Finally he said no more. You two were going to go on a date this weekend. Talk out your issues and most importantly have some fun. Hand and hand you walked around the black lake trying to find a spot for a picnic. He dropped the basket down as you silently spread out the blanket. It was quiet. A little awkward.

You looked up at the sky darkening above. When you made eye contact with him he immediately got defensive realizing he hadn’t checked the weather

“Don’t start,” he grumbled and you only grimaced and sighed. You sat down together, pulled out your lunches. Neither one of you wanting to be the first to speak. Thunder broke the silence.

The downpour hit before you could nag him. Through the rain you could see him looking at you intently. His hair was sopping wet, your sandwiches ruined and drinks watered down. So you did the only thing you could do. You laughed. So did he.

Enzo stood up and held his hand out to you, just when you thought you would both make a run for it he pulled you close. Together you swayed softly in the summer rain, he hummed a song as you both giggled. Only stopping to kiss and look into each other’s eyes with a renewed sense of adoration.

Draco Malfoy

The Malfoy Ball. Christmas time. The two are nearly synonymous. You wore a pretty white gown with gold sparkles, red lips. They could have placed you top of the grand Christmas tree that stood in the ballroom. Twenty feet tall, adorned with white and gold bulbs. Sprays of silver tinsel and enchanted candles surrounding it. Snow hung above the dance floor, magically dissipating before it touched the throng of dancing couples.

All night your feet hadn’t touched the ground and Draco hadn’t stopped touching you. His hand possessively held the back of your neck, the other hooked around your waist. Lips grazing your forehead as he showered you with praise. The most beautiful thing, he’s ever seen.

“Draco, your parents,” you whisper as he pulls away from his millionth kiss of the night. He only grins and pulls you even closer making you flush. Slow dancing making you feel heated and breathless. Every now and then the gentle brush of his hips on yours makes you gasp.

“My parents are drunk, as are yours,” he teased back, “they won’t notice this” he says as he cups your bottom and squeezes making you smack his arm. He’s in good spirits and laughed as you do. Draco pulls away a little relenting but takes the moment to look in your eyes.

His hand drifts from your neck to your hair, pushing it off your face and behind your ear. His gaze a mix of adoration and lust as his eyes trail past your face to your chest. Your eyes fall to his lips and the hunger that’s been slowly building between the two of you makes your head spin

“Then they won’t notice when we sneak away?” You ask with a smile. Draco raises his eyes brow and takes your hand pulling you off the dance floor and out of the ballroom so you two can steal away to his room.

Blaise Zabini

Three years together. You mulled over this as you slipped the silky pink dress you chose for the night. Then you slipped on your heels and walked towards the door, Blaise was there hand raised in mid knock forcing you both to laugh as you locked eyes.

“Hey babe,” you said with a breathy laugh.

“Ready for tonight?” Blaise asked as his hand cradled you jaw so he could give you a brief kiss. Your head tipped back with a smile, “You know I love when you surprise me”.

He led you to his car. Even made you wear a blindfold until you arrived at a small dance studio. It was there he revealed he signed you both up for salsa dancing lessons. You giggled and squeezed his hand as you lined up with other couples.

It was charming watching how seriously he watched the instructor. Trying to match the steps to the beat of the music. Only stopping to turn and smile at you teasingly. Throw you a wink. Reach over and softly pinch your side while laughing when he saw you miss a step.

After thirty minutes of instruction, you were instructed to pair up so he held you closely. It was a shock to see how smoothly he moved, he held the small of your back pushing your hips into his. Following the steps was easy for him, but keeping his hands off of you was damn near impossible.

“Watching you move your body like that is killing me,” he muttered into your hair as he looked down to smirk at you. You had to admit, he was pretty damn good.

Tom Riddle

He never wanted to go to that stupid Yule Ball in the first place. Tom had told you a million times that he didn’t dance and didn’t feel like having to be “on” for something as stupid as a social event. Even though many saw him as popular, charming, headboy; it was for manipulation purposes only. He knew you knew that, so why you drag him to such a droll event was beyond him.

His eyes slipped down your figure, the dazzling gown you bought. He thought you looked angelic, ethereal, a work of art he’d like to pin to his bed instead of hang off his arm. Tom had his warmest smile on as he talked to Regulus and Theo; as you talked to their dates. Only one hour down, this was tedious.

He began to get into a heated debate with Theo about a potion that they had been trying to develop. It was like an ear worm that nestled into his brain and after a while he couldn’t stop thinking of it. So when you went to get punch and dance with one of your girlfriends he left. He didn’t do it maliciously, he went to his dorm and studied the potion for hours. You, the dance, everything slipped his mind.

By the time he had charged out of his room with the sole intent of throwing it in Theo’s face he didn’t even realize that hours had passed. You were sitting in the Slytherin common room, alone. Like a weeping angel, looking forlorn. The dying fire cast a warm glow on your face.

Damnit, he knew he wasn’t a perfect boyfriend. Not tender, emotionally available but he never liked to see you cry. The urge to start a fight, to yell, to push you away so this uncomfortable guilt biting in his chest would go away was heavy. But your dazzling gown, the way it hung off your body. The tears on your cheeks making you look even more beautiful, it choked his usual toxic habits.

Tom raised his wand, the record player in the common room began to play. La Petite File de La Mer. The music startled you, making you turn your head towards it when you saw Tom standing there. Your gaze was fire, burning into his. Rage and disappointment cut with heartbreak because of course. He let you down again.

There were no words for you from him. His stride was ever confident, his hand held out for you to take. Music flooded the room, weakness flooded your heart. When you were in his arms, tears spilled as he swept you away. Was there a flicker of compassion in his eyes? You couldn’t see it past the water. Quick, quick, slow. You moved. You glided. The waltz. Because Tom knew how to dance; he was very talented indeed. The truth was before now, he simply didn’t want to.

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