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mieczyslawsravenclaw · 2 months

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Best Friends, Is That All? - Stiles Stilinski

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•Pairing - Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader

•Rating - 18+, Minors DNI - Smut - NSFW!!!

•Summary/Prompt - Just a regular ride in Stilesʼ jeep…Or it would be, if the love-struck fool could stop asking you how you feel about him. Guess someone's got a different kind of ride in mind...

•Warnings/Content - Pretty much all bases covered, they definitely fuck, tons of begging and mentions of markings and scratching, they use a condom bc SAFETY, oral oral lots of oral, TONS of petnames sorry its cheesy ik but I canʼt help it, lots of praise too bc thatʼs tasty, oh yeah and boys whimpering bc thatʼs just hot asf, they're in love so it's a little fluffier but still VERY spicy

•Word Count - 4.5k

•Authorʼs Note(s) - As always, just want to write about the spicy ideas I get from having spicy dreams, I feel like this oneʼs a little better than the last one but who knows? >_< /// (YA'LL I EXPECTED LIKE 4 LIKES ON MY SPENCER BLURB AND I GOT OVER 200 TY????? WTF???? )

•Additional Tags - they fuck in the jeep!, stiles is a whore for begging, theyʼre obsessed with eachother ffs, Switch!Stiles but mostly Sub!Stiles, he talks her through it UGH YES, CONSENT IS KEY, heʼs okay with whatever even if that means he doesnʼt get laid, Stiles is one cocky SOB with BDE and just a big dick oops, theyʼre for sure gonna fuck again before the night is over hehehe

“Do you get nervous?ˮ

The question takes me by surprise - Up until now, it had been a normal, routine drive with Stiles, albeit more fidgety than usual from his side. But once the question has left his lips, heʼs even more so, if thatʼs possible.

“Do I…yeah, definitely. Of course I do.ˮ I quirk my eyebrow at him; Heʼs avoiding my eyeline, focused far too much on the road ahead.

Something else, another question maybe, passes his lips, but itʼs far too quiet for me to catch. The poor thing is redder than a tomato, tapping his hands on the wheel as he starts to drive just a little faster unknowingly.

“Huh?ˮ

“A-About…M-mmmmm.ˮ Stiles stutters, dragging out his thought. The jeep seems to follow its driver, stuttering a bit on the road as he pushes the pedal down further.

“Sti, are you okay?ˮ

“Nervous.ˮ He repeats the word like heʼs reading it from a dictionary, not like heʼs using it as a self description. Weʼre getting further into the back roads now, and if I didnʼt know any better, Iʼd think he was bringing me out here to kill me or something.

“Pull over a sec, yeah?ˮ

He nods, bringing the jeep to a crawl along a forest road that could more accurately be called a trail, if anything. The silence is filled only by the bumping of the tires on the gravel, until we reach a stopping point, surrounded by nothing but trees for miles.

“Whatʼs eating at you, Stilinski?ˮ I turn in my seat, eyeing him in the mid-day light. Filtered through the jeepʼs dusty windows, he looks like a modern god, and my heart can hardly take it. Iʼve loved this poor boy a long time, but Iʼve never been brave enough to say it. And now, weʼre all alone in the woods for who knows what reason, and Iʼm more nervous than ever.

“Dʼyou ever get nervous…about me?ˮ He manages, his eyes squeezing shut and his fists clenching tight. He lets out a huge breath, then continues in a ramble, “God, I canʼt believe I even just asked that. Holy shit. I mean, you make me so nervous. Dʼyou know that? Youʼre my best friend, and you make me so nervous I feel like I canʼt even breathe, I want you to just reach over and break the distance between us and give in and just take me. God-ˮ

“Sti.ˮ It comes out half-choked. The lump in my throat swells - oh, my god, he likes me too? - as I scoot ever closer to him.

“Oh, of course not,ˮ He sighs, eyes still closed. He doesnʼt see me shift again, within touching distance, he just keeps on with his nervous blabber. “I mean, someone as beautiful as you with a guy like me? Come on, Stiles, get real.ˮ

“Stiles. Look at me, damn it.ˮ Hands shaking, Iʼm reaching over to touch him when he listens to me, turning and looking all in one motion.

“Oh, hi there.ˮ He blurts, flushing crimson.

“Yes, I get nervous about you, too.ˮ I can hardly believe Iʼm uttering the words. But my fear is trumped by the desperate need for him, right here and right now. I canʼt believe of all times and places, this is where itʼs gonna happen, but I donʼt quite care at the same point, either.

“You do?ˮ

“Stiles, I can barely contain myself around you. These past few months especially, I just-ˮ My reaching hands are still hanging near him, and he notices, finally, taking them in his own. I let out a shaking breath, closing my own eyes in desperate need to escape his searching gaze that sends my pulse skyrocketing. “You-Youʼre everything, do you know that? Iʼve wanted to tell you for so long, but I didnʼt think youʼd even look at me like that, I just thought-ˮ

“Best friends, nothing more?ˮ He chuckles softly, and I can sense the way his lips curl, not even needing to see it to know it. “Yeah, sounds familiar. Hey, look at me. I like you, you idiot.ˮ

My eyes open at the last few words, and seeing it straight from his mouth makes me lose myself for a moment. All I can do is blankly stare, my stomach doing flips. He likes me, he likes me, he likes me!

“Can you say something?ˮ He groans, eyes flicking between my own and down to my mouth. “Like, maybe confirm to me that you like me back? I mean, you kinda said as much, but I just really wanna hear you say it. Can you say it? Is that okay? Youʼre killing me, here-ˮ

“I like you too. Of course I do, who wouldnʼt?ˮ

“You do. For sure? Not just tryna pity me, are you?ˮ He quips, but itʼs clearly halfhearted.

“I really like you, dumbass.ˮ I move closer, dying for something to happen. Anything.

“Are you gonna kiss me now? Or am I gonna kiss you? Somebodyʼs gotta kiss somebody here, or Iʼm gonna lose it. Please, Iʼm begging you.ˮ

“Oh, youʼre begging me now?ˮ I smirk.

“Absolutely I am. If we were outside Iʼd be on my knees for you. Please, just fucking-ˮ He lets go of my hands, reaching for my waist as I grab at his collar.

We meld like itʼs second nature, lips forming together with a satisfied groan from Stiles that makes my legs weak. Somehow, I climb onto him in this cramped little jeep, bumping the steering wheel with my ass. He laughs, almost immediately going back to kissing me, a bit harder now. Itʼs clear in the way I grind my hips down to him with what I feel rising back to meet me that this is gonna take up a lot of our time together today.

I wonder for a moment if anyone will assume what weʼve gotten up to. Of course, Allison knows how I feel about Stiles, Iʼve told her a million times. I wonder if heʼs told Scott. Iʼm sure he has.

“Youʼre thinking too much,ˮ He growls, biting my lip. I moan back. “Thatʼs a lot coming from me,ˮ Another kiss, coming down my jaw now as I catch my breath. “I know. But…what can I do to get your mind back to me, hmm?ˮ

“That. Keep doing that.ˮ My hands tangle in the back of his hair, the tousled sort-of-waves that have grown out as of late being tugged as he nips at my neck.

“You want me to keep begging for you too?ˮ He teases, his lips coming up to my ear. “Cause I can do that all day, baby.ˮ

I nod, unable to grasp words with his breath against me.

“You gonna let me take you here, right now? Itʼs killing me to feel you on me like this and not have you. Please, let me have you, I canʼt stand it.ˮ

“T-tell me what you want me to do.ˮ I grasp harder at his hair, and he lets out a whimper. Oh, my god, that.

“I want you to fuckinʼ destroy me, and Iʼll beg until you do. God, Iʼm shameless, I donʼt even care if weʼre out here all alone or not, just please for the love of fuck, ride me like nothing else matters.ˮ

I pull his lips back to mine, silencing him for a time as we continue to make our own rhythm, learning one another with moans and laughs and tension unparalleled. Itʼs great, too great-I smack my head against the jeepʼs roof, letting out a yelp.

“Oh, shit-ˮ Stiles pulls me down against him, biting his lip when I land.

“Iʼm okay. Ow.ˮ

“How about we move this to the back?ˮ He pops the door open, letting me out first. Despite his words, heʼs back on my neck the moment weʼre outside, making it hard for me to push the seat down to get into the back.

“Stiles…ˮ I sigh, fumbling with the latch.

“Sorry, just want you-god, just want you so bad.ˮ He pulls back, reaching forward and sending the seat down with a practiced grasp.

I clamber inside, watching him hyperfocus on giving us as much room as possible. Front seats pushed down and forward, clutter thrown into the front, then heʼs back on me, kissing me and tugging at my shorts.

“Can I…?ˮ He motions, and I nod, letting him pull them down. His lips come back to mine, his fingers playing at the edge of my panties.

“Please-ˮ

“Youʼre begging now?ˮ He chuckles, his voice lower and throatier. Gods, Iʼm wet as fuck just from that.

“Shamelessly.ˮ I echo his earlier words, earning another small laugh.

“You want me, baby? How bad?ˮ He teases, hand grasping at my hip.

“Real-Really bad. Want you so bad, want you to-ˮ I canʼt even finish the thought, as he presses against my clit with his thumb. I moan, bucking up against him.

“Sorry, Iʼm impatient, you know that.ˮ He amends, kissing down my jaw and pulling back. He sits me up against the door, pulling my legs up and pressing a deep kiss against my opening. “Youʼre soaking, I can tell even through these little things.ˮ

I shudder, eyeing him in between my legs. Itʼs a sight to behold, and he isnʼt even getting started yet.

“Howʼs about we take em off, huh? Donʼt need these where weʼre going.ˮ He discards the fabric, and when his eyes meet the heat pooling below my belly, his jaw goes slack. I could almost swear he was drooling.

For a moment, Iʼm self conscious, folding in on my body under his gaze. But he holds my thighs back down, shaking his head.

“Uh-uh. No shame, right, princess?ˮ He hovers over me, eyes flicking back and forth between his focus and my face. “Now, you just let me know what feels good and what doesnʼt, okay? Wanna make sure you enjoy yourself.ˮ

“Stiles, Iʼm dying here, please just touch me already.ˮ

He smirks, another shake of the head, this one with a cocky air to it.

“If you insist, sweetheart.ˮ He brings his lips down to meet my opening, licking a stripe up that sends my hands grasping at the jeepʼs seat.

“Sti-ˮ

He hums against me, his grip on my thighs tightening. A few more precise licks, and heʼs delving into my core, filling the jeep with my desperate cries. Fuck, heʼs good, and Iʼm already closer by the minute.

“Taste so good, baby…ˮ He murmurs, getting lost in the task as my hands tug at his hair. When he shifts up to suck at my clit, the noise it brings from me is almost inhuman. “Feel good?ˮ

“Yes- oh my god, yes-ˮ

“Want more? How does this feel, hmm?ˮ He presses a finger to my opening, and I push against him, wordlessly begging. He chuckles, pushing it in fluidly. One, a few motions, and clearly Iʼm still desperate so he adds in another. “Talk to me, baby. Use your words.ˮ

“You want me to talk right now?ˮ I moan, my mind spinning in the pleasure-filled void heʼs trapped me in.

“I know, itʼs just too good, huh? You donʼt have to talk, your noises are more than enough.ˮ He curls his fingers, pulling against a sweet spot that has me crying out.

“Stiles!ˮ

Back down to me with his lips now, too, I can feel the smirk that starts up hearing me say his name like that. He knows exactly where he has me, and heʼs gonna relish in it. Not only are his fingers working magic now, but along with his tongue? Iʼm gonna break, and he knows it.

“Iʼm-Oh, donʼt stop-ˮ

A hummed approval is all I get from the usually chatty lips of Stiles Stilinski, his beard that heʼs let grow in recently brushing over me while he brings me to the edge. Iʼm practically drowning in the pleasure, and heʼs the air I need. One more fluid motion, just the right one, and Iʼm spilling curses from my mouth and wetness from my heat. He laps it up heartily, a satisfied groan from the recess of his throat vibrating against me.

“You…I just…wow.ˮ He pauses for a moment to look over me with a smile beginning to tug at the corner of his lips. I flush, back to being nervous under his eye.

“Stunned you into silence, eh, Stilinski?ˮ

“Oh, Iʼm far from done. Just figured Iʼd give you a break.ˮ He quips with a smirk.

“I donʼt need one.ˮ I blurt, the words faster than my brain.

“No?ˮ He laughs. “Okay, then. Well, if thatʼs the case, Iʼm begging you to get back to being all over me.ˮ

“In what way?ˮ I smirk, looking at his coated fingers.

He snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Funny.ˮ Keeping up eye contact, he licks his fingers clean. He seems to enjoy the groan it elicits from me. “Like that, huh? Iʼm looking forward to finding out what else you like.ˮ

I sit up, pressing to him once again. He tastes like me, and chuckles against my kiss. The clink of undoing his belt buckle becomes the sounds of rustling fabrics, my shirt tossed, his gone. His chest to mine, warm and inviting, and his pants kicked to the side. I fumble with my bra, my cheeks red.

“I…ˮ

“Yʼknow we can stop anytime, yeah?ˮ He amends, sensing my hesitation. “Like, of course Iʼm okay with whatever, I want you in all the ways. But only if youʼre comfortable. Consentʼs important.ˮ

“Oh, I want you. I want all of you, of course I do.ˮ I sigh. “Just…real nervous about how I look.ˮ

“You?ˮ Heʼs incredulous, pulling back and sweeping my body with his gaze. “Holy shit, no way. Nuh uh. You, youʼre…God, youʼre gorgeous, are you kidding me? Every part of you fits just right with the other, promise. You donʼt have to do anything you donʼt wanna do, but you gotta know that. You gotta know Iʼm gonna love how you look. I donʼt even need to have seen it yet to know. You just…are.ˮ

Iʼve been rendered speechless, and all I can do is take it off while he rambles.

“Not to say that you gotta just cause Iʼm saying all this. You get that, right? Iʼm not saying it just to get you to-ˮ He stops cold when Iʼve tossed the bra, my hands still hiding the majority of my chest. With a gentle grasp, he reaches to uncover me. “Can I…?ˮ

“Yeah, Iʼm just nervous.ˮ

“Thatʼs okay. Me, too. Youʼre beautiful though.ˮ He lifts my cover away softly, eyeing me with precision and adoration. He pokes at the moles and freckles that adorn my upper body, smiling as his eyes meet mine again. “See? Perfect. Nothing to worry about.ˮ

“Stiles, I adore you.ˮ I blurt, tears starting to form.

“Oh, sweetie.ˮ He pulls me closer, kissing my nose. “We can stop if youʼre really too nervous. I donʼt mind. Iʼll just jack off later or something, no big.ˮ

I snort at his words. “As much as Iʼd love to watch that. No, Iʼm okay. Just needed a moment, I guess. Trust me, Iʼm still dying for you.ˮ

His face goes red. “Youʼd- huh? Wow, thatʼs an image. Maybe another time, yeah? No shortage of things to think about for that, especially now Iʼve seen you and itʼs not just my imagination spurring me on.ˮ

“Youʼll have more to go on soon, too.ˮ I pull him back down onto me, kissing him.

“Fuck, youʼre hot.ˮ He moans. “Youʼre killing me.ˮ

“Destroying you,ˮ I correct him. “Thatʼs what you wanted, isnʼt it?ˮ

“Still want it,ˮ He grasps at me, nothing but his boxers to hide that want now. “Very much still want it.ˮ

More kissing ensues, and weʼre groping at eachother like weʼre high-schoolers again. Somehow, at some point, heʼs as bare as I am now and the way weʼre pressed to one another is the most tempting thing Iʼve ever experienced in my entire life.

“Hey, so, uh- not to seem like a copycat or anything, but…ˮ He breathes against my lips, his voice catching. “Yʼknow, nervous about how I look, now that Iʼm thinking about it. Not really very manly of me, I know, whatever.ˮ

“Fuck manliness,ˮ I amend, letting him pull back. “Youʼre perfect, you…oh, how could you not be?ˮ

What a sight he is to behold, in all his naked glory. Goosebumps pepper my skin as I look him over, from the moles that adorn him across his body the same way they do across his face, to the burning red that sits underneath his pale skin…to of course what heʼs referencing concern over the most. And thereʼs certainly none needed, in my opinion. No concerns, except how Iʼm gonna need to stretch out around that. Oh, my.

“Stiles…ˮ My voice, my gaze, softens. His shoulders drop. “Youʼre stunning.ˮ

“Not just saying that, are you?ˮ He brushes non-existent dirt from his shoulder. “My ego will be sorely bruised.ˮ

“Should I tell you or should I show you?ˮ I lick my lips, gaze going between his legs and back to his face. The noise he makes would be comical in any other circumstance.

“Fuck, definitely show me.ˮ

Now, itʼs his turn to lie back, and Iʼm in control. I must have absolutely stunned him, because heʼs got nothing to say, just watching me as I lower over him. Once I begin to kiss at and lick stripes over him, though, heʼs got plenty to say - I donʼt recognize half the curses he lets fly, they must be Polish or something. But fly they do, and his hand is at my hair when I start to take him in my mouth, grasp tight.

“Oh, my god-ˮ

I keep it up until he stops me a few moments later, a funny little quirk to his brows.

“God, I donʼt ever wanna stop this, but if you keep going like that Iʼm gonna fuckinʼ bust, and I gotta know what you feel like riding me first, please?ˮ He reaches blindly around, cursing. “Fuckinʼ - just need my wallet, whereʼd my jeans go?ˮ

I laugh, pulling back to help his search. When he comes up with the item in question, I understand- protection, no shit.

“Yeah, okay, now Iʼm ready.ˮ He nods after heʼs prepared himself, sitting up against the seat. He helps position me over him, eyes locked. “Oh, my god, is this actually real? I feel like Iʼm in some kinda magical dream.ˮ

“Very real. I remember what I had for breakfast and everything.ˮ I quip, trying to ease the nerves. They wonʼt go, though, and the knot in my stomach is ever-tighter as he brushes against my opening. “Fuck, I want you inside me, now.ˮ

“Kinda up to you, there.ˮ He holds me tight around the waist, eyes pleading. “Iʼm ready when you are, though, rock my fuckinʼ world sweetheart.ˮ

“Fuuuuuck, youʼre tight.ˮ He groans. “So thatʼs how you feel. No imagination or anything my hands can do compares to that.ˮ

The need is too great to put it off any longer; I let myself push down to meet him, the entering gasps we let out mingling in the short bit of air between us. His head falls back, his hands only guides as I bring myself further down, slowly, slowly, slowly. I take a moment around the first few inches to breathe; as ridiculous as it sounds, Iʼve never had someone quite as…gifted as him.

“Iʼm only getting started,ˮ I reply. “Genuinely, in all honesty, not a joke or anything. Youʼre…a lot to take.ˮ

“Having fun strokinʼ my ego?ˮ He chuckles.

“Tilʼ you give me something else to stroke.ˮ

“Fuck, thatʼs a promise.ˮ He ruts up against me, bringing a cry from my lips. “Shit, sorry, reflex. You feel so good, I just want more of you. Did I hurt you?ˮ

“No, it felt too good.ˮ I admit. “Just taking it slow cause Iʼm not really used to anything this…ˮ

“Big?ˮ Heʼs got the widest smirk on his face now.

“Howʼs that for your precious ego?ˮ I flirt, pushing down another bit with a sharp breath. The stretching pain is worth it for the look on his face.

“My ego is just fine. Big, just like my- Oh, my god-ˮ He stutters out, his bravado going out the window when I start to rock my hips back and forth. And was that a whimper? “Oh, please donʼt stop, keep going. Oh, god-ˮ

“Long as you keep begging.ˮ

The more I move, the easier it gets to take him, until Iʼm fairly close to bottoming out. Heʼs holding me closer than ever, kissing me whenever he gets the chance to, and the noises and whimpers havenʼt stopped. It spurs me, the collision of our bodies growing ever-faster as he cries my name and begs me not to stop. I wonʼt, I canʼt, itʼs all too good and Iʼm chasing a high that I find myself soon riding out onto him. Now, Iʼll be the one saying his name, his real name.

“God, that sounds so good coming from you,ˮ He moans, “Iʼve never heard it sound so good.ˮ

“Hereʼs to many more.ˮ I stutter out between the motions weʼre making and the sounds accompanying. Heʼs less in control now, thrusting up to meet me and pushing me down to him. Heʼs made plenty of marks on me, from the hickeys littering my skin to the surefire bruising my hips will have from his grasp. I can only hope to either hide whatʼs visible or risk the teasing the pack will no doubt give us later.

“Please, take me all the way, Iʼll help you through it.ˮ He begs, kissing me again once Iʼve come down far enough. “Youʼve got this, baby, please?ˮ

No words, just a resolute nod, and his response is a repeated thanks. I push further, to the very end of him, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“Good, baby- fuck , youʼre doing good, pretty girl. So good, so good for me. There you go.ˮ He kisses my burning skin, the devouring fire weʼve made together consuming us both as I shift around under his grasp. He doesnʼt force, only guides, and makes a rhythm for me to follow with sputtered curses abounding. “God, you feel so good. Does it feel good for you? Hurt?ˮ

“Only enough to make me want it more,ˮ I moan, letting my head drop to his shoulder. “F-fuck me.ˮ

“Is that a statement or a request?ˮ He doesnʼt wait for an answer as I slow, taking the lead and snapping up into me. Once, twice, I lose count. He seems to get lost, too, senseless mumbles and moans filling the jeep as my hand streaks the fogged window. Heʼs entirely filled me up, and I want for nothing more than to go until I canʼt anymore.

He guards my head when I raise back up, making sure I wonʼt hit the roof again, and when it starts to rain in the secluded forest weʼve hidden ourselves in, itʼs not the only thing sending waves crashing down around us. Another thing I lose count of - heʼs far too good at this, and I tell him so.

“Been thinkinʼ about this for a while, so that counts as practice, yeah?ˮ The sweat sticks a bit of his hair to his forehead, and he looks about ready to tire out.

“You losing steam on me?ˮ I tease, brushing his hair back.

“Hell, no!ˮ He groans when I move my hips, sat bottomed out but doing nothing else. “Iʼm pretty close, thatʼs all. But when Iʼm done with you here Iʼm not done with you for the night, if youʼre willing.ˮ

“Well, if youʼre close…ˮ My lips curl deviously, and I bring myself back to the pace and movement that had had him howling earlier. Heʼs back to it in an instant, but his whines are more pronounced, drug out.

“Fuck, please, please donʼt stop-ˮ

“Gonna cum for me?ˮ

“Y-yes, yes-ˮ

“Good.ˮ Itʼs like a growl from me, and his cries only grow from it, until Iʼm sure at least anyone with supernatural hearing can catch onto us if theyʼre anywhere near.

“Oh- Oh, my god, Iʼm gonna-ˮ Stiles holds me tight, the most animalistic noise of it all loosing from his lips as he loads the condom full inside me. Weʼre hot, sweaty, and as close together as we possibly can be, but he still pulls me closer, taking a deep, heavy breath.

“So…how was I?ˮ

His laugh is quick, choked.

“Are you serious? Fuck, that was amazing. Iʼd just as soon do it again, but Iʼm…a little depleted at the moment.ˮ He eyes where we meet with an eyebrow wiggle. “Hey, we just had sex.ˮ

“That we did.ˮ I laugh.

“You and me, best friends. Just had sex. Well, we might wanna rethink that whole just best friends idea, huh?ˮ He kisses my cheek, letting out a content sigh. “No rush on that, Iʼm just talking. You know how I get. Just…excited that this happened. That it is happening. And…Iʼd be okay with calling you something more than my best friend. If youʼre into that.ˮ

“Very much into that.ˮ

“So…girlfriend?ˮ

“Shit, I was gonna say fiancee or wife. Or soulmate.ˮ

His eyes bug for a moment, then he starts to laugh.

“Youʼre fuckinʼ with me. Youʼre hilarious. Alright, girlfriend-future-fiancee-wife-soulmate-whatever-you-want, howʼs that sound?ˮ

“A little long, if Iʼm being honest.ˮ

“Long didnʼt seem to bother you just a moment ago.ˮ

“Mieczyslaw!ˮ

“Still sounds beautiful cominʼ from you. Like…ˮ He catches my glare, and smirks. “Nevermind. Letʼs get this cleaned up and head back, huh? Thereʼs a pizza about to be made with our names on it.ˮ

#stiles stilinski smut #stiles stilinski #sub!stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader

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tsukimefuku · 2 months

Text

Tea and coffee

You had a sleepless night and needs some caffeine to keep yourself from falling asleep before the day has even begun, so Nanami and Hiromi lend a helping hand.

tags: Jujutsu Kaisen, f!reader, established relationship Higuruma x OC/Reader, implied past Nanami x OC/Reader, angst, second hand embarrassment, some fluff, barely proofread.

wc: 1.7K

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". A sequence of short stories and random drabbles related to Nanami x Reader x Higuruma. To see the ever-growing list of one-shots and short stories, please visit my masterlist :)

Disclaimer: these stories are NOT written and posted in chronological order of events. To see where this story fits in the timeline, please check the masterlist mentioned above.

"Today is going to be gruesome" you complained, sat outside Jujutsu High's HQ buildings, just behind the main one where most of the sorcerers usually stopped by before or after missions, dreading the next hours of work you'd have to endure while sleep-deprived. You had been up most of the night, finding it hard to sleep for no particular reason, and sighed at the thought that your bed would still be hours away from you, having to teach two classes — the first year's and second year's, respectively — in between. Gojo Satoru, I hate you for talking me into coming to Jujutsu High, you thought to yourself.

"Hey, beautiful" you heard a familiar voice coming from behind you. You turned your head and saw Hiromi, whose smile became a slightly concerned frown as he saw your face. "Oh, you don't look so good. Are you okay?"

"Not so much. I couldn't sleep at all last night, and now I'm supposed to teach those teens in just an hour. Ugh, I can barely think" you sighed. "And I'm surprised to see you here this early. Did you just come back from a mission?"

"About to go on one, actually" he replied, rubbing your shoulder softly. "Can I get you anything? Maybe a hot cup of water for your tea?"

You pondered for a moment. "I'd appreciate that, thank you."

He nodded and walked away, as you sighed deeply to yourself and rested your face on the table.

Your mind was drifting, and your eyes began to shut as you were dozing off. However, you heard some footsteps behind you, and lifted yourself up. "Hiromi, you were incredibly fast, how did you heat that wat-"

It was Nanami.

"Oh, h-hi" you said, instantly jolted awake.

You both hadn't spoken to each other properly ever since you both went on your last joint mission to exorcize the Lover's Pass curse. On that occasion, he apologized for pulling away so suddenly after you both shared a night together, but you couldn't find it in yourself to trust him with your feelings again, even if you still had some for him.

More specifically, given you hadn't exchanged a word since then, you never got to tell him that after the debacle, you and Hiromi began dating — but would you, in any case? After all, you had only told Shoko about it.

The air instantly filled with awkwardness, as he nodded towards you in a silent greeting. He had the newspaper under one arm, and held a cup of coffee with the other.

Upon further inspection, Nanami noticed you looked very tired with deep bags under your eyes, but it took him a minute to decide if he'd actually ask you about it. You were both feeling very self-conscious, as he imagined you had no idea he knew you were dating someone else, thanks to Shoko.

"You don't seem to be very well."

You grunted. "You're the second person to say that today. I know I look like hell right now, but c'mon, it can't be that bad!"

Nanami didn't even realize a tiny smile had formed on his face, and he stood there for a while as you mumbled about having a hard time sleeping the night prior, how you still had to teach two classes today, and that you dreaded being sent on a mission or having to grind work with Shoko before finally being let out your chains to go home and sleep.

As your rambling was over, you both stayed silent for some time, being yet again engulfed in discomfort. It was then that you remembered he had the newspaper with him.

"Are you... Going to sit down and read that?"

Nanami realized he'd been standing up holding his coffee and newspaper for some time now, and remembered what he was doing before running into you. "Oh, yes. I was looking for some place peaceful and quiet to read it."

"You can, uh, sit at this table. I won't be here much longer" you replied, unconsciously hugging yourself through the nervousness. Nanami seemed like he was about to say something and gave up on it about three times before he silently walked towards the opposite end of the table. The sorcerer sat down, opened his newspapers and lifted it just enough to almost cover his face.

"Hey, I'm back, and here's your cup of hot water" you heard Hiromi say right behind you, softly jumping in surprise. "I'm sorry for the delay, I was having a hard time finding the teapot."

Nanami's hands tensed up, slightly crinkling the newspapers, but none of you noticed that. Nanami had barely registered you accidentally calling him Hiromi when he came up to you, and Hiromi's presence right now just added insult to injury, because at this point, you and Nanami could just about explode out of sheer discomfort.

You, especially, felt the urge to dig a hole in the ground and bury yourself in it.

Hiromi put the cup in front of you and noticed Nanami was sitting at the table, sparing him a polite smile.

"Oh, Nanami, good morning. It's nice to see you." Hiromi was unsure as to how you were feeling about Nanami this point in time, since it was obvious he was the person you had feelings for and decided not to pursue anything, even if you hadn't told him that expressly. However, since you probably had invited Nanami to sit at the table with you, the former lawyer decided to be cordial, after all, he did appreciate Nanami ever since having worked alongside him. They both had more in common than he had previously thought.

You also remembered that, after their joint mission, Nanami and Hiromi had become somewhat acquaintances.

However, you weren't registering anything anymore, with the insomniac daze swirling the world around your head. Because of that, your decision was to just take some of your tea pouches from inside your belt bag and throw them in the cup of hot water, letting them do the talking.

"Likewise" Nanami replied, entire body tensed up, unable to look Hiromi in his eyes as he said it. The ratio sorcerer had finally found it in himself to respect the man, but this entire situation right now just felt like a mess. His eyes were scrolling through the news, but the words were not making any sense.

"I'm about to push another boulder uphill" Hiromi said, poking fun at a Sisyphus and the Rock analogy both of them had once made about the work of a jujutsu sorcerer.

Nanami hummed in something resembling amusement, and Hiromi smiled, directing his attention back at you.

"I have to go now, but I'll give you a call when I'm done today, okay?" He said, rubbing your shoulder quickly with his hand. Even though Hiromi had joked about kissing you 'whenever, wherever' and talked about making your relationship public, he didn't want you to feel uncomfortable with public displays of affection in the workplace.

Oh, if only he knew how deeply uncomfortable you were this very instant.

"O-okay. Have a nice one" you replied, looking at him.

He smiled at you and tipped his head to Nanami, waving as he began to walk away.

"Bye, colleague."

Nanami just hummed again, this time with the same cadence as one would use to say 'bye'. His jaw was completely clenched, so he figured avoiding actual speech was a wise decision.

Well, this can't get any worse, you thought to yourself.

Then, you looked at Nanami, and he seemed just about to snap from all the tension built-up in his body underneath the nonchalant facade.

Sighing, you thought about it, and decided to just do something about it.

"Higuruma, he... I mean, I-" words were struggling their way out, but you figured it was better to just address the elephant in the room before things got even weirder.

"He's a fine colleague and a diligent sorcerer" Nanami replied, not taking his eyes from his paper. It wasn't like him to compliment someone like that, and then it clicked for you.

Oh, he must have noticed it.

"I-" You stuttered, yet again. Why is it so difficult to talk about this?

"There really is no need to" Nanami said, flipping an unread page on his newspapers. "How have you been?"

This was his way of asking if you were happy.

"I'm good. Thank you for asking"

He smiled at you, and his gaze had a hint of sadness to it. It chipped achingly to your heart, but barely, as you both began sharing a comfortable silence for the first time since you had last spoken to each other, something you had grown so accustomed to for a long time before the fallout.

After a short while, you took a sip of tea, and just knew this tea definitely didn't have enough caffeine to wake you up for the remainder of the day. At that, you sighed, disappointed.

Nanami noticed your disgruntled face, and waited a few moments before asking you what was wrong.

"My tea is not going to solve my tiredness right now. Not by itself, I mean. I'll also need some coffee" you answered, rubbing your eyes, trying to see if that would help. "I'm just too tired to sort that out right now."

"You can have mine" Nanami immediately replied, mindlessly.

"Are you sure I can have your coffee?" You asked, hesitant.

You can have anything you want from m- "Certainly."

You picked up his coffee cup from the table and gave it a light sip, feeling the perfect balance of sweetness and bitterness hit your tongue as you did. The roast wall also exquisite, and brought up all the best notes from the drink. Of course his coffee is perfect.

"Thank you, Nanami" you said, checking your wristwatch.

"You're welcome" he replied.

You saw it was almost time for your first class, so you just grabbed both the tea and the coffee, one in each hand, and began walking towards the classrooms. However, you stopped in your tracks for a second, looking at Nanami, and said, "I hope we get to spend more silence like this again. I missed it."

The sorcerer smiled and lifted his gaze at you.

"So did I."

Happy with the answer, you hurriedly strode across the headquarters, not noticing you were drinking from both cups at the same rate.

#jujutsu kaisen higuruma #higuruma x reader #jjk higuruma #jjk hiromi #hiromi x reader #higuruma hiromi #jjk imagines #jjk drabbles #jjk x you #jjk #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jjk fanfic #nanami x reader #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen

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dwritesit · 7 months

Text

easier

Summary: Dewdrop feels like he is too hard to love. They love him anyways.

Tags: raindrop of course, polyghouls, hurt/comfort, self-esteem issues, implied sexual content

Inspired by The Death of Peace of Mind by kroas_adtam because the "I would have been easier to love as a water-ghoul" line literally haunts me. also i wrote this a while ago but i forgot to post it here

Read here on AO3, or under the cut!

Dewdrop has a thought - one that crosses his mind with frustrating recurrence. He tries not to entertain it, tries not to let it sink in too deep, or let the words build too heavy, but he feels it. It kicks at the back of his mind like Mountain’s foot on the drum pedal when he bites out harsh words at Cumulus who just wanted to make sure he was okay. It twists its way into his chest, thick and suffocating, when Rain’s arm is draped over his waist in the silence of his room, hot puffs of even air fanning across his cheeks. The thought pounds at his stomach like Aether’s fists on his door, begging Dew to let him in, please let me in. The thought whispers it too, lacking the plead in Aether’s voice, it demands Let Me In.

And Dewdrop fights it. He shoves it back with a snap of quick wit when Swiss suggests he might need something soft to hold when he fucks him hard and deep, offering Dewdrop’s hand a gentle squeeze where they’re intertwined against the sheets. It punches the desire out of his gut and makes his lip curl up in disgust just before telling Swiss there’s something else you can squeeze instead. That quiets the voice, the thought, for a moment when Swiss’ large, warm hand rests against his throat. Though it pipes up again when he can feel his own pulse on the multi-ghoul’s finger tips, reminding him that his life rests in the mercy of Swiss’ careful compress. Let me in.

He ignores it again. He passes it back and forth on his knees and ankles like a hacky-sack when it threatens him. He forces his eyes open wider, willing his mind to zero back in on Aurora’s ramblings while she paints his nails. She paints them black without asking, because she knows him a bit too well, settling a bit too comfortably into Dew’s life considering how long she’d been on earth. His hand twitches in her soft grasp, itching to rip away and cut like a knife. So, he does. But it’s less of a knife and more of a worn out wooden spoon, frayed around the edges, as an excuse leaves his lips. He tries to smile through the ache in his chest when she gives him a concerned frown, and he despises the way his eyes sting as he forces out, I’m okay, just tired , before patting her head as he scoots off the stool to leave. He feels her eyes on the back of his head as he walks away. LET ME IN , the voice screams when he twists his face and refuses to cry.

And then when he’s there in his own room - not Rain’s where he fell asleep tangled up most nights, not Mountain’s soft, plush nest that never failed to make him drowsy, or Phantom’s exciting chamber filled with trinkets to occupy his mind - his room, it could sneak up on him. His room was clean, partially from his need for space to concentrate, not allowing clutter to fill his mind or his surroundings, and another in part because he really did not spend much time in it since the change. Scorch marks stained the furniture and the walls, black and smokey, that never seemed to go away no matter how he scrubbed at them (Copia offered to buy him paints to cover them, and to help him too, but Dewdrop had slammed the door shut on his Papa and curled up in the corner to stare at the marks instead). They were reminders now. Reminders of who he is, and who he will never be. He avoided his room until he couldn't anymore. Until the feelings welled up and he had nowhere else to hide. And that is where the voice would start to win.

You would have been easier to love if…

If you were soft.

If you were kind.

If you were quieter.

Calmer.

Brighter.

More thoughtful.

More giving.

If you were more and if you were less.

You would have been easier to love as a water ghoul.

The words spill over and down Dewdrop’s cheeks, wracking his body with sobs when he curls up with his back against the wall and his knees pulled to his chest.

You do not deserve them . His pack. He does not deserve them after what he did.

Once he was all sparkling blue skin and dark sleek hair, perky and cute and all of the things that the others cherished and desired. He still had his spark, his quick tongue, but he had smiled more - let his lovers hold him and mold him until he fit right into their mouths and bodies. He laughed loud and often, wearing his emotions like bold flowering tattoos on his skin, never letting them doubt for one moment that he loved them all. He kissed Mountain’s cheek in the morning before they sank into their routine of making breakfast together, humming as they knocked into each other with quiet giggles, and letting his stomach swoop when the earth ghoul hugged him close to his body against the counter. Now, their mornings were quieter. It was still always the two of them up before the others, dipping into a silent rhythm of making coffee and pancakes. Mountain tried humming, tried nudging at Dew with his feet, tossing him soft, sympathetic smiles that made bile rise in Dew’s throat. He watched that smile fall, fall, and fall again until Mountain did not try anymore. A sick part of Dew reveled in it, that he had shaken off the softness, like he had proved that he was not as good as Mountain claimed he was. Another smaller, muffled part of him was begging him to give in, to let Mountain wash his gentle hands over his small waist and rock back and forth in the kitchen until the pancakes were burnt on the bottom and the coffee went cold.

You do not deserve to give in , the voice reminded him. He was not their water-ghoul anymore. He was not their sweet, loving Dewdrop. He didn’t even deserve the name, Dewdrop.

Another sob coursed through his frame, his whole body shaking with it until it burst from his mouth all strangled and wet. He felt stupid, he felt pathetic, by letting the voice speak to him and etch its way onto his skin.

You are not soft enough.

You are not pretty enough.

You are not smart enough, or strong enough.

You are not good enough for them.

It choked him, clamping down on his chest and throat like he was being crushed by the depth of the sea. He lifted his hands and dug into his hair, pulling at it to feel the sting where the fibers latched onto his scalp. The cries kept coming until he was gasping and he wished so badly that he was good enough for one of his mates, all of his mates, that he could reach out and ask them to hold him, soothe him , like a young kit until he could catch his breath and snuggle into their warmth.

He imagined how they might kiss his forehead and wipe away his tears with the pads of their thumbs, and it ached . He let his mind reach out for the ache, let it burn through his chest and bubble up his throat to turn into more cries and whimpers that tumbled out and echoed off his stupid, burnt walls. He thought about how they might say his name. Like they used to. Soft and kind, Dewdrop. Water lily. Droplet.

Dewdrop.

"Dewdrop."

"Dewdrop!"

Dew’s head shot up, heart pounding in his chest. He felt the color drain from his body, heat replaced by chill like he was a prey who had been caught.

"Dew, please open the door." It was Rain.

Dew couldn’t stop the next cry that left his lips, crying for his mate. His chest kept aching, his breaths getting faster. He wished he could stand and open the door but his body was frozen on the hardwood, clutching at his head and the space above his heart.

"Baby, please."

Too sweet, too soft, you do not deserve this.

When he did not respond again, he heard mumbling and the rustling of keys. His heart thumped heavily. A key slid into the lock with a sleek slide, Rain rushing out a quick warning that he was coming in before turning it all the way because he was ever the gentleman even like this. Even to Dewdrop.

Dew turned his head when the door opened, trying to fold in on himself, wishing he could flip inside out so no one could see the blotchiness of his cheeks or the way his hands shook when he moved his hair to cover his face.

"Let me go in first," Rain said to someone behind him before Dewdrop heard the door click shut once more and soft, bare footsteps followed by the drag of a tail padded over to where he sat.

And then there were arms around him.

And Dewdrop cried again, harder and louder if it were even possible. Rain’s arms were sturdy where they slowly turned Dew into his body, scooping him up until he was folded around the fire ghoul's shaking form.

"It’s okay, baby." Rain said, using the petname he reserved only for Dewdrop and only in times like these. The voice laughed, poking at Dew with a hot iron, he wouldn't hold you like this if he had known you before. If he knew how much colder you are as a fire-ghoul, if he knew how much dimmer, and saltier, and weaker you are now.

A soft hand pulled at his mind as it laid on his cheek. He hiccupped, hating the way he leaned into Rain's touch. He took in a shaky breath, eyes beginning to stare out into the expanse as the storming sea of emotions pulled him under, trying to drown him. It was peaceful, like acceptance. That he was in fact,

Weak.

Ugly.

Wrong.

"Where are you?" Rain said, his voice the softest, most pleading whisper. To Dewdrop, it felt like a hand grasping his where he reached up towards the surface, where the light shone through the water. It threatened to pull him out into the open air and subject him to the ache and the waves again. He wanted to thrash against it, tear his hand from Rain’s strong grip and keep sinking, but Rain was strong and Dew wanted to dive into his embrace.

Rain leaned his forehead against Dewdrop’s, their horns clacking together as he pressed firmly. His tail intertwined with Dew’s. Dew could feel his mate's distress and worry tugging at his heart, the beautiful and unfortunate part of being so tightly tied to one another. It wasn't pity Rain was feeling, It was empathy. And Dew didn't know what to do with it when it washed over him, but he knew he did not want Rain to be sad. Especially not for him, so he leaned into Rain, letting him hold him and mold him to his chest. He breathed in deep, familiar petrichor filling his senses, slowing his heart rate. He let that hand pull him up, up, up until he breached the surface.

He took another deep breath that shuddered through his small body. Rain ran his other hand that was not on his face over his spine in slow sweeping motions. A few remaining tears trickled over his hot cheeks, and this time Rain’s thumb was there to catch them. Dew leaned into him further. The sea was calm, the voice was quieter.

“What happened?” Rain asked, leaning back enough to see Dew’s face, but never letting him go.

Dewdrop struggled to raise his head, keeping his eyes fixated on Rain’s chest where one of his hands had clutched and dug in. The shirt was torn from his claws, and he had to resist another deprecating thought.

He hiccupped around his next breath of air, trying to get the words out, but they were lodged in his throat. The voice, while quieter, still called him an attention seeker, a waste of space, undeserving of Rain’s warm gaze.

“I-” His voice was crackly and raw. Rain asked if he needed water and Dewdrop shook his head. He feared that if he didn’t let it out now, he might never have the strength again. “It’s hard,” he started.

What’s hard? How do I explain this? How do I explain to you that sometimes when you look at me, when the others look at me like you love me, it feels like I’m dying.

“It’s hard to let you love me.” He said, quiet. Weak. “I don’t- I don’t deserve it.”

He waited for the sting. Something that would prove the voice and the thoughts right. Flashes of the anger haunted his memories, the stupid words he spat at Rain when he was first summoned, how he stormed out of every room the water ghoul entered, resisting his kindness at every turn and corner, and how Rain kept coming back no matter what - Dew could not handle that sort of love. He needed Rain to be mad at him too, to fight back, to finally say what he has been probably thinking all these years later; that Dew was and is too hard to love, and most certainly did not deserve it.

There was no sting though.

There was only Rain pulling Dew back into his chest, stronger and firmer than before. He tucked his head into the crook between Dew’s neck and shoulder, his breath whispering on his skin and making him shiver.

" You are everything to me." Rain said. He said it with power, with force, with a sort of roundness to it that had Dew pulling back and gently tilting Rain’s head back, finally looking at his face and finding his blue eyes glistening with tears. Shining with adoration. It brought wetness back to Dew’s on eyes, and he felt his lip quiver.

"I love you, Dewdrop." Rain said, and again "You are everything. I know it's hard, I know. Let me do this- let us do this with you."

Dew sniffled, "I don't know how."

"We will figure it out together. Oh," He brushed a strand of gold hair behind Dewdrop's ear, his lips upturned in a small smile, "You are pretty even when you cry, sweetheart."

Dewdrop scoffed, but couldn't help his own smile.

Rain’s hand rested on his cheek again, and this time Dew was unashamed in the way he soaked up his warmth, closing his eyes and kissing his palm.

"Will you let us in? Let us see you like this." Rain asked. Dew nodded into his hand, biting his lip. Rain pressed a lingering kiss to his head, his horns, his cheeks, to his nose and chin, and then to his lips. "Let us love you."

"Okay."

#the band ghost #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #raindrop #raindrop ghost #dwritesit #raindrop fic #rain ghost

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fbfh · 2 years

Text

robin buckley relationship and intimacy hcs

wordcount: 700

warnings: yearning, fluff, nsfw content, robin is really down bad for you, she's a switch but this is more about top!robin

a/n: JUST FINISHED ST4!!!!!!!! HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!!!

also robin being a bottom will be coming soon so will all of us

tags: @yesv01 @hopefullhearts @littlewinter1917 @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @Sad-brunnettee

As with all nsfw works all characters are age up to 18+!!

THAT BEING SAID

HOLY SHIT LET’S GET INTO IT

Ty for requesting this bc I’ve been wanting to write it forever

As we’ve previously established, Robin Buckley is an AMAZING girlfriend

She’s definitely a switch

But like

A top leaning switch

Bc first of all

She hasn’t really had a girlfriend before

So once you had even started flirting with her

Useless Lesbian Mode activated

And then when you start dating, any time you instigate kisses or cuddles or any kind of intimacy

She just short circuits

You could take advantage of this and top her

But you have to act fast and keep her really flustered

Bc in a few seconds everything catches up to her

And she is so filled with love and yearning and desire for you

The only way it manifests is by her topping the shit out of you

Remember how I was like “yeah making out with robin ends one of two ways this is the sfw cute cuddly ending”

Yeah

The other nsfw really hot ending is right here

And it’s robin going down on you until you cum at least a dozen times

The first time she made you cum??????

Oh my god

It did something to her

It unlocked a part of her brain

And now she is not satisfied until you’re both exhausted, dehydrated, and entirely out of orgasms

She is so, so into you

She can last for hours

A quickie by your standards is what most people would consider a normal session

And yeah she can make you cum crazy fast

She can have you writhing and clenching around her and pulling her hair in minutes

But by that point

She really can’t keep her hands off of you

Literally

You’re so pretty and you like her so much and you smell so good

And you taste even better

And that cute little face you make when you orgasm??

If she can make you do that again and again and again

She’s going to

She is so good with her mouth

And her hands

Her hands are so soft and pretty and her fingers are so long

Oh my god oh my god

Half her diary entries are about you by now

Okay more like most

And a lot of them are very detailed accounts of the nights you spend together

She finds herself rereading old entries from time to time

She used to hate looking back through her diaries

Especially in high school

But now she’s filling them up faster than ever

The first diary she started once you two got together is her favorite

Bc she realized there won’t be one page in there where you’re not in her life

And let’s be real

She’s so fucking smart

She’s going to figure out what makes you tick

And moan

In minutes

And dear god, she loves your chest

Big boobs, little boobs, uneven boobs

Or as Steve would say, boobies

She loves them

She loves your boobies

Your boobies? Great! Your hips? Great! Your face? Great! Your hands? Great! Your laugh? Great! The way you look at her? Great! The way your lips feel on her skin when you press warm kisses against her? Great!

Me?? I’m tight as fuck!!!

Sometimes after you’ve been at it for a while

When you’re lying next to each other, legs still shaky

All the hickeys you gave each other blooming on your skin

You’re both so warm and blissed out and sleepy

Sometimes she’ll start rambling

She’ll just start absolutely word avalanching about how great you are

How hot and sexy and amazing you are

How much she loves you

How much she hopes you like her

And mostly how she never ever ever thought you would ever like her like this

Like ever

Sometimes when she’s rambling like this she really wishes she could stop

But she just can’t

So if you caress her cheek and let out a sweet little giggle

And press a kiss to her lips to shut her up

And give her mouth something else to do

She’ll be very grateful

Like grateful enough that it might lead to another round

Or several

#robin buckley #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley headcanons #robin buckley smut #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things headcanons #stranger things #i want to kiss her so bad #she has such noticable adhd in season 4 #robin buckley is a gaydhd icon #like it was there in season 3 too #but it was so obvious #yes I watched the entire season in one day #yes I woke up at 6am to watch it as soon as possible after getting little sleep #i regret nothing

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anonslimes · 1 year

Text

Punching a bucket over and over again until everything is okay but it’s not

Description: “I don’t understand how he could just….do that. It’s utterly ridiculous. Stanley that bastard. Oh how I hate him. Always wanting to have control and apparently thinking that getting rid of me makes that possible. But no, he needs to understand that he needs me. No one else will protect him like I will. No one. Really what was he thinking? That he can just toss me away. That he can abandon me here? Thinking he can do it on his own? Hah. He might just be crazy. I know one thing, I’m not crazy. In, fact I’m far from it in fact I-“ or exactly what the title says! We

Tags: The Stanley Parable, Tsp Narrator, Tspud bucket, mentions of Stanley, Short fanfic, Angst, Physical Violence?

Author’s note: This is based off of a roleplay with me and my friends where the Narrator gives the silly bucket the ability to talk. The Narrator is in physical form for this story and he can look like whoever you want. The context is that Narrator is handed the reassurance bucket by Stanley before Stanley runs into the skip button building and presses the skip button before the Narrator can stop him. This is around the final few skips where the Narrator is present. Apologies for any grammatical errors.

The narrator looked at the building once again. The door had long since disappeared so there was no way of telling if Stanley was even conscious. Was it worth noting? Time didn’t feel relevant anymore so he hadn’t kept track of it.

However, he had taken a lot of time to reflect on his thoughts, on everything that had happened. And his thoughts were mostly filled with a burning anger that made him want to set fire to the world. Then after spending about four hours ranting about it out loud he would calm down and go back to looking at that building as if somehow Stanley would teleport back out.

“I don’t understand how he could just….do that. It’s utterly ridiculous. Stanley that bastard. Oh how I hate him. Always wanting to have control and apparently thinking that getting rid of me makes that possible. But no, he needs to understand that he needs me. No one else will protect him like I will. No one. Really what was he thinking? That he can just toss me away. That he can abandon me here? Thinking he can do it on his own? Hah. He might just be crazy. I know one thing, I’m not crazy. In, fact I’m far from it in fact I-“

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up!” The bucket yelled out in frustration.

This made the Narrator stop his ramble and glare at the metal thing. He disliked that bucket. No, he hated that bucket. He wished he had never made that mistake. He wanted to wipe it off of the face of his story.

“Silence you thing. You know what you are? You are a bucket. Just a damn bucket! I don’t have to listen to an object that will never be good enough for anything more than transporting liquids!” The Narrator snapped

“Hah, that’s bullshit! I have brought more joy and comfort to Stanley than you could have ever imagined. In fact I bet I make him happier that you do” The bucket replied

“I made you, I gave you to Stanley. Without me you would have meant nothing! So what if Stanley enjoyed your comfort? That was your purpose! But Stanley’s not here, so you are useless right now, absolutely useless” The Narrator could feel his face turning red.

“Tell me, Narrator, does Stanley even like you? Really think about it. You have always given him every reason to despise you, in fact, that’s probably why he left you here in the first place. I was probably just a distraction so he could run and leave you here to rot and die. That’s what I would have done. That’s what anyone with a brain would have done. You’re a selfish man who likes making others suffer for your enjoyment. You would be a mess without Stanley’s attention. Stanley is too good for you. You are not enough for him. I hope someday you realize this and go burn in hell you piece of sh-“

The narrator slammed his fist so hard into the bucket that he could hear the metal being twisted. When he pulled his hand back he could see the large dent he had created. His mouth itched to apologize but then he had a realization. He didn’t need to apologize, he didn’t need to do anything. Stanley wasn’t there. Right now, it was just him and the bucket.

So he punched it again, and again, and again. Punching it over and over again as a sadistic spread across his face. It felt good, it felt so good just to let it out. Not having to simply tolerate it and move on. Here, in this very moment, he was in control. And he loved it.

Soon he tired himself out and the bucket was starting to bend into another shape so he simply just plopped himself down and laid on the ground. He looked up into the sky, the clouds were as grey as he felt. This was his memory zone after all.

He closed his eyes, and it started to rain. The water fell onto his face and mixed in with the tears coming from his eyes. Here in this very moment, He was alone. And he was scared. “The end…is never the end…is never the end….” The narrator began saying it over and over and over…

#the stanley parable #writing #fanfic #short fiction #tsp #tsp narrator #tsp fanfic #tsp fandom #The Stanley Parable Reassuance bucket

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h0dgep0dgee · 1 year

Text

So, this is just "Hodgepodge wanted to do the writing equivalent of those really satisfying watch repair videos/that One Scene in Toy Story Two and then got distracted with literally everything else. Calliope and Insect are here! There's a bit of the Sorrows but joy at the end! Also, a little robit froggy with the self-preservation skills of a 12-year old anime protagonist! @thefroggypond you've already seen this but it's your child and your frog so I'm tagging you.

Blip the Amazing Automatic Amphibian

Insect was gone for a very long time. They were shut off and neatly tucked away in a closet, not dangerous enough for the vault, not mysterious enough to keep their location a secret. Just... clicked off and tossed aside.

Calliope tried to bring them back, she really did. Every day for almost a year, she and the Spine worked on the other automaton, trying to find a malfunction, a flaw, anything to justify their deactivation. But there was nothing wrong. Nothing was broken, nothing was missing, Insect was just... gone.

It took almost 60 years for them to wake up. A shoved-away memory climbed back to the surface, VI was nearly dragged to the unceremonious hallway cupboard where the automaton rested, and within a few weeks, they were up and running again. It didn't make sense. It was wonderful, of course, it was! But it didn't make sense. Calliope had tried for months to bring Insect back, and nothing happened! After all this time, why was it so easy now?

It didn't matter. It's fine. Insect was back! So what if Calliope couldn't bring them back? There was someone else who she could.

Blip showed up when Insect did. Years before Calliope was built, Insect's creator died in a house fire, leaving the automaton and their tiny, tinkered frog behind. They were taken to a family friend, the only person who could maintain the robot, the man who had helped build them. From the time she was first activated, Calliope never knew a time without her best friend rambling on about orchid mantises or one-gilled swamp eels, with the frog always hopping at their heels.

• • •

Calliope sat down at the scratched-up old rolltop desk she'd turned into a workbench. Watchmaker's tools, brushes, rags, and a cup filled with soapy water were neatly laid out on one side. From one of the dozens of tiny drawers, she removed an even smaller box that jangled as she set it down on the desktop and opened it. Bits and pieces tinkled and shone like bells as she carefully poured them out, looking for missing parts. Okay. Two Wheels, five of the jewels, two of his front toes, and- now, where did that eye go? I JUST saw it!

The wheels and jewels were easy enough to find. There were more broken pocket watches in that desk than she knew what to do with. She could replace the eye with a blue cat's eye marble. Both would need replacing by now anyway. The foot with the missing toes would be a bit more complicated. She had quite a few old wind-up toys, broken and abandoned and picked up again to be puzzled over when the world got too loud or the inside of her head too quiet, but scrapping those felt wrong, somehow. She knew that none of them were sentient, that any creatures like Blip were too valuable to be tossed away like the little tin trains and terriers she'd collected. Still, she winced as she removed the hand of a clockwork soldier. His hairspring had snapped in seven places, and he hadn't marched in years, so Calliope hoped he wouldn't mind that drumming would be a bit more difficult for a while as well.

She cleaned all the frog's pieces, polished and repainted the sea green enamel that served as the creature's "skin," and laid out all the bits and bobs formerly and soon to be known as Blip back on the table. Now it was time for her favorite part. Each piece went together slowly and carefully, snapping together with a satisfying Click! She soon felt her thoughts fade altogether and watched her hands move, almost on their own, as the tinkered treefrog reformed, bit by bit.

After hours of work, Blip was almost entirely whole again. All that was left was his core. A polished blue crystal, rounded into an orb an wrapped in wires, not much larger than his marble eyes, sat patiently in Calliope's hand, still glowing faintly after all those years. Carefully, she dropped the sphere into the locket-like hollow in the frog's belly and snapped it shut. For a few seconds, the frog lay limp on the desk. Slowly, ever so slowly, a cerulean blue glow began to light up the swirl in his marble eyes. Blip looked up at Calliope, eyes as big as saucers in his little head. He let out a chirp... and promptly sent himself sailing off the edge of the desk. Calliope scrambled to grab the frog, knocking over her chair and herself in the process. Now on the floor, she grabbed Blip's box, knocked off the desk in the fray, and unceremoniously jammed the now-whole frog back inside.

"Blip, you know you can't be doin' things like that. Insect just got back, and it'd break their heart if you went smashin' yourself to bits before they even got a chance to see you!" Calliope fumed, looking every bit like a mad woman scolding a perfectly non-sentient wooden box on the floor. "Come on, you little dummins. Let's get you home."

Calliope carried Blip-in-the-Box to the kitchen, where Hatchy was trying, with limited success, to keep Rabbit and Zer0 out of a bowl of cookie dough. "Have y'all seen Insect anywhere?" she asked, weaving through the chaos to a cupboard. She ducked as a whisk went flying and quickly snatched a mug and a teacup before a muffin tin was fired in return. "I think they'RE IN THE LIBRARY," Rabbit suddenly shouted as she dove after her brother, who at this point had the bowl precariously balanced on his head. "Thank you, Rabbit," Calliope replied, "and leave that cookie dough alone. You both know Chelsea and Camille hate having to scoop that gunk outta your boilers, and I must say, I ain't too fond of it either." She grabbed and filled a pitcher of water before racing out of the room, leaving the cacophony of the kitchen behind.

• • •

It took a few minutes of wandering through the library to find Insect curled up in a corner, arms wrapped around their legs, chin resting on their knees, and a thick book lying open at their feet. "Hey, Jitterbug. Whatcha readin'?" Cal asked as she sat beside the other robot, mirroring their position on the floor almost exactly. "A book on taxonomical classification," the other automaton replied, not looking up from the pages. "Did you know that fish do not technically exist anymore? Obviously, fish as animals still exist, but the use of "fish" as a classification is no longer functional because it lumps them all together simply because they all live in the water. It is like if you tried to call all animals who live in Canada-"

"Okay, I would love to hear about the fish in just a second, I really would, but first, I have a present for you." At this, Insect raised their head curiously.

"Really? What is it?"

"Well, it's more of a who, really, but it's someone who's missed you somethin' fierce since you've been gone." Calliope pulled the box from her dress pocket and handed it to Insect. "Be careful, now. He just woke up, too, and he's hoppin' mad about bein' asleep for so long." Insect held the box out as far as they could and slowly opened it. Once again, the frog leaped through the air, but this time landed with a satisfied plop on Insect's shoulder. The frog looked up at the other robot, let out a happy, musical trill, and settled into an infuriatingly adorable loaf.

"Hello, little friend! What have you been up to?" Insect chirped back at the frog, both of them looking at each other with the same goofy, broad, froggy smiles on their faces.

"Okay, what were you saying about fish not existing anymore?" Cal asked as she poured water into the cups, one an antique teacup painted with tulips, the other a mug with "I'm Here for Morelle Support," and a drawing of a webby brown mushroom printed on the side. She handed the mug to Insect, whose face lit up both with the realization of the pun and excitement to share more about their newly attained taxonomical knowledge.

"Oh! Right! So, for example, a lungfish is more closely related to a cow than to a shark, and NEITHER is related to-" Insect went on about the family trees of different fish, which one lived on which branch, how sharks and stingrays weren't even cousins, but the same group that tuna and mackerel belonged to held a deep sea nightmare that could eat fish bigger than itself. The three of them sat on the library floor for hours, talking about fish and feathers and flightless birds, and Cal quite believed that she'd never been happier.

Her best friend had been gone for a very long time.

But now they were back again.

#my writing #steam powered giraffe #fic #spg fanbot #calliope #insect #blip

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sleepygamerotaku · 1 year

Text

I posted 4,683 times in 2022

That's 4,240 more posts than 2021!

2,569 posts created (55%)

2,114 posts reblogged (45%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@chuuyas--boo

@sleepygamerotaku

@sips-tea-cutely

I tagged 3,924 of my posts in 2022

Only 16% of my posts had no tags

#♡mod chiaki reblogs♡ - 1,399 posts

#♡mod chiaki rambles♡ - 1,293 posts

#♡mod chiaki's asks♡ - 596 posts

#♡vie♡ - 176 posts

#♡shitpost♡ - 153 posts

#♡mod chiaki isn't okay♡ - 100 posts

#f/o; edgar allan poe - 82 posts

#alexis don't look - 60 posts

#♡mod chiaki's a simp♡ - 55 posts

#alexis dont look - 51 posts

Longest Tag: 111 characters

#it's so sjjajsjshsvsgsgsgsjshskhsh😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😖😖😖😖😖😖😖😳😳😳😳😳😳🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭<3333333333

My Top Posts in 2022:

~|Your Hoodie...|~{Part One}

Paring:

Scaramouche X Reader

Prompt:

none

Content Warnings:

angst, cuss words, violence(?), crying, mental breakdown(s), implied established relationship, tue story is written in a first person POV, lmk if i missed anything

Reader pronouns:

not specified (read in first person)

Authors note:

I have been working on this since July 25th of this year... i Have gotten nowhere close to finishing it so i decided to break it up into chapters. this is Chapter one of a -however many parts it takes me to finish this shit- part story. This was inspired by the song Hoodie by Hey Violet! i have cried FAT crocodile tears whenever i would try writinrg onto this so there's that i suppose... Whenever i finish them i will post the next chapters here! might do Scara's POV later on but idk-

❈~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~❈

"You dumbass..." He hissed. Scaramouche always said that me... But he always said it a lighter, semi-playful tone. He never truly meant it. But this time... It was mean. He said it with genuine anger, evidently clear in his voice. The same voice that always teased me... The same voice that lulled me back to sleep whenever i had a nightmare... The same exact voice that gave me butterflies.

The same exact voice I used to love, now filled with hatred and anger. I know he had a short temper. I accepted that the day we met. "You never shut up... And you don't listen either..." He heaved at me again, the tone of his voice was still angry... Because he wasn't just angry... He was infuriated. Infuriated at me. I felt the tears as they stung the corner of my eyes. I didn't bother wiping them away as they rolled down my cheeks.

I've witnessed him snap before. But he's never snapped at me... "I'm... Just... FUCKING DONE WITH YOU!"

He quickly turned around and punched the wall. I thought he going to punch me, so instinctively i flinch, a small squeak escaping my lips as well. I gulp and with all my strength i muster his name. "S-scara-" He simply growled in response, cutting me off. "I CAN'T DEAL WITH YOU ANYMORE!!"

......... And just like that... He stormed out of the door without another word.

I held my hands close to my chest and i let myself fall to the floor. I begin to sob uncontrollably while i clutch onto my shirt and let the crocodile tears fall, and fall, and fall. I continue to cry and screaming in the middle of the living room floor.

I guess he just doesn't love me anymore... I annoyed him too much... I knew i was just a burden to him... Did he even love me to begin with..? Did he mean it when he said he loved me..? Did he mean it when he said he trusted me..? Did he simply take pity on me so he didn't have to see me being pathetic..?

The negative thoughts flowed as quick as my tears and i didn't know what to do... So i kept sobbing. I kept sobbing until it hurt my cheeks. I wiped away the tears and sat there trying to calm down and fully comprehend whatever just happened...

After i calmed down i stood up and glanced at the digital clock on the coffee table. It read [ 1 : 17 AM] usually me and Scara would be asleep in our shared bedroom by now... but he stormed out of the apartment so he wasn't there anymore.

The bed never felt so empty before... I got comfortable underneath the covers but i couldn't fall asleep for awhile... I was too worried about Scaramouche... Was he okay? Where is he going to sleep tonight? Is he even going to be home by tomorrow? He said he couldn't deal with me anymore so i wondered if he would come back. Slowly, drowsiness began to consume me before i finally fell into a slumber...

(~Time-skip~)

I feel my eyes flutter open and the light of the sun seeped through the windows of the bedroom. Last night was playing on repeat in my mind. It's all i can think about.

"You never shut up... And you don't listen either... I'm... Just... FUCKING DONE WITH YOU!"

I thought of Scaramouche's irritated voice and cruel words that he directed at me. I didn't even realize i was crying and hugging his pillow until my tears fell on my hand. There really isn't a reason for me to still be upset over all of this.

I slide out of bed and stand up. I don't move i just stand at the side of my bed. No thoughts filled my mind i simply stood there. My eyes slowly wandered around the room before setting on my closet door.

I heaved a heavy breathe and started walking. I might as well change out of the clothes i was wearing now. I don't have anything better to do anyways. Scara isn't here anymore and i don't even know if he will come back. He probably hates me now...

I slide open the closet door and look at all the clothes i have. but there was another half of clothes that weren't mine.

inside the closet was Scaramouche's hoodie that he always wore. he would wear it all day and put it away before bed... he must be so cold without it...

See the full post

72 notes - Posted December 4, 2022

Deteriorate

Paring:

Chuuya Nakahara x Dying!Reader

Prompt:

None

Content Warnings:

Angst, slight violence, death, slight swearing, lmk if i missed any potential triggers pls!!

Reader pronouns:

Not mentioned

Authors note:

I started writing this like- a month ago I think?? Either way i hope you enjoy!! This is supposed to take place before Dazai leaves the Port Mafia just so you know. Also yea im aware that Chuuya gets exhausted after using his corruption but sShShhHhhUUuSHhhHh

❈~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~❈

Chuuya Nakahara's maniacal laughter echoed throughout the woodland area. The gravity-defying plasma balls flung from his hands and onto the ground practically exploding on impact.

The more he would throw the more aggressive he would get. It's not like he enjoyed this. He couldn't control himself. He never could control himself when he uses corruption.

Before Chuuya activated his corruption he told you run away as far from him as possible. He couldn't risk hurting you while on his blind uncontrollable rage. But of course, you didn't want leave Chuuya. You needed reassurance that he'd be safe.

You hid a little bit away behind a tree, watching Chuuya from afar. Each orb of energy he threw slowly but surely were getting more and more close to you.

The enemy was already taken out so there was no need for Chuuya's corruption to still be activated.

It didn't take long for Dazai to take notice of your stubbornness. Dazai ran as quickly as possible to Chuuya to cancel his ability before he could hit you.

You noticed how dangerously close Chuuya was to you so you tried to run away from him. You 'tried' to run but you didn't succeed.

Dazai was so close to grabbing ahold of Chuuya's arm. However Dazai's fingers barely grazed his skin. Chuuya lifted his arm and released a large ball of energy. In you're direction. It was too late.

There was a blinding surge of light followed by an intense blast that sent all nearby debris flying. The moment of the impact Daizai grabbed Chuuya's arm frantically.

The first thing he heard when Chuuya regained control over himself was something he never wanted to hear.

Your screams filled the air. Chuuya's vision cleared only to blur once more as tears swelled in his eyes. He jerked his arm from Dazai and ran to the source of the screams.

The screaming slowly died down into uneven breathing. Chuuya lowered himself to your body that was laying limp on the ground. Your eyes barely stayed open for mere seconds before closing.

"B-babe!" Chuuya yelled wrapping his arms around you pulling you closer to him "Shit. Babe... Are you okay..?" He tried to remain calm but when his questions where only answered with silence he began to loose his cool. His eyes widened as he held you gently in his arms.

Tears started to well up inside his eyes. "Damnit! Ple- please..! Just fucking answer me please! Say something! Don't... Die on me..." He cried over your body that was slowly growing more cold.

"Chu- i- l-love........ Y-you.........." You manage to finally breathe out. Chuuya's panic only thickened his tears grew larger and more flowing until they where warm rivers flowing down his sore cheeks that where throbbing from how much he was screaming and sobbing

"NO! Y-YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME HERE ALL BY MYSELF!"

He pulled you're cold, heavy body to his chest, like he always did... But he didn't hear you're sweet breathes and he didn't feel you're intoxicating heartbeat like he always did. All he heard, all he felt, and all he saw... It was nothing but empty silence that was being drowned out by you're lovers frantic cries.

"Y-you idiot.... How... Could you just die on me... Without a fight... Without even a final kiss goodbye...!?"

See the full post

84 notes - Posted May 27, 2022

reblog to boop the nose of the person you reblogged from

104 notes - Posted June 30, 2022

Chuuya Nakahara Comfort Headcanons

Paring:

Chuuya Nakahara x reader

Prompt:

None

Content Warnings:

Lmk if there's anything triggering pls!

Reader pronouns:

Not mentioned

Authors note:

I think this is the quickest I've ever written anything. Usually it takes at least a few weeks for me to finish something and i finished this in one day. Anyway @chuuyas--boo this is dedicated to you!

❈~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~❈

♡　Chuuya absolutely hates seeing you sad. He wants you to be happy. You're like a ray of sunshine for him, and it really upsets him to see you so down.

♡　If it was someone who said or did something that made you feel like this, they'd better pray that Chuuya takes pity on them. Someone had the audacity to hurt his love? Chuuya will make them go through hell for that.

♡　But if you're just feeling sad then Chuuya will pull you into his lap(doesn't matter if you're taller than him or not, the mans got thighs of steel/hj) and hold onto you while telling you everything he loves about you.

♡　Will literally cuddle you until you either feel better or tell him to stop. Of course if you tell him to stop he'll get all pouty and disappointed.♡　Chuuya loves you're smile so much it isn't even funny. He would give almost anything to see you smile and hear you laugh.

♡　Will try distracting you with cuddles and affection. If that doesn't work well just have to tickle the sadness away.

♡　He is a low-key softie and nobody will tell me different. At first he seems really blunt and acts as though he doesn't give a damn about anyone or their feelings.

♡ But in private? That's a completely different story. He can and he will give you affection for hours on end. He doesn't have off button either.

♡　He will do absolutely anything for you. Wether it be doing something for you or simply being they're. He's all hands on deck if means you're happy.

♡　Also i know that i already mentioned this but he will not hesitate to throw hands with whoever tries to hurt you in any way. He is very protective of you.

♡　If you need anything don't even bother getting up. Chuuya will immediately make you sit back down, and then he'll wander off. He'll end up coming-out lol t back with whatever it was you needed as well as a warm blanket and cup of hot chocolate, with a bonus gravity hug.

♡　Words of affirmation go brrr

♡　"I'm so proud of you babe" "you have no idea how lucky i am to be with you" "I love you so much. I hope you know that" "Your so strong" "you deserve all the hugs and kisses in the world plus more!"

♡　He love's kissing you in certain areas and telling you why Loves them. Hell kiss you're nose and say that it's so cute and fun to boop. He'll kiss you're knuckles and tell you that he loves holding you're hand and how he wishes he could never let go. The list goes on and on.

♡　If you ever say that there's something you don't like about yourself he will tell you at least 68 reasons why he loves that about you.

♡　He wants you be happy so whenever you're sad you can count on him to make you feel better.

♡　He love's you too much to see you hurting. All he wants is for there to be a sincere smile on your face and happiness to loom in your eyes. Because to Chuuya, everything about you is perfect in every way.

>××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××<

thank you for reading! reblogs are greatly appreciated<3 please don't copy/translate my works to different platforms.

191 notes - Posted May 30, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

imagine having a f/o who's life mission is to fluster you

262 notes - Posted June 22, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #D A Y U H M #y'all love it when i actually squeeze out original content💀#♡the year has ended wowie♡

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softiem · 3 years

Text

you used to paint his skies (pt. 2)

pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x GN!Reader

overview: The one in which Bokuto is still swearing up and down that he loves you, but the nagging feeling in your chest is too strong to ignore.

word count: ~4.3k

content warnings: mentions of cheating, swearing, MSBY!Bokuto, mildly suggestive scene at the end (no nsfw), our baby Bokuto kind of loses it at the end, don’t let the fluffy interludes deceive you again

notes: I’M SO SORRY FOR LITERALLY BEING DEAD FOR 6 MONTHS,,, Here’s the second part to “you used to paint his skies” :D (I think this is better than part one — at least I hope so). Some people asked to be tagged for this second part, so those will be below. Thank you for reading, darlings ʕ ´•̥̥̥ ᴥ•̥̥̥`ʔ <333

part one.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“Baby?”

Faint sniffles came from Bokuto, whose head was currently nestled on your lap, the two of you strewn across the sofa. His arms were wrapped tight around your waist, as if he were afraid that holding you any looser would cause you to disappear from his arms. His voice was quiet, meek — nothing like the loud, boisterous ball of energy you’d grown to adore, to cherish.

To fall in love with.

Now, here the both of you were, a pile of cracked and fragmented pieces of the love you once shared, desperately grasping at whatever you could salvage from the mess.

You hummed a response.

“Are we gonna be okay?” Bokuto turned his head, his eyes staring up at you — wide, teary, and filled with a broken sense of hope.

In an attempt to avoid breaking down a third time, you cleared your throat. You still couldn’t look down at him, into his eyes that seemed to praise your very existence, even after the pain you caused.

“Please.” His voice cracked.

“Let’s not talk about that right now, Kou-Bokuto.”

He bit his lip roughly, enough to bite into the skin and draw a slight trace of blood. Choking on a weak sob, he nestled his head into your stomach once more. He couldn’t stop you from calling him that name anymore; he’d lost that privilege.

What could he have been asking for? For you to simply just call him your Koutarou again? For you not to leave him and stay in his arms? For you to kiss him and wipe those tears running from his pretty eyes as you tell him you’ll love him forever, no matter what?

Quite honestly, Bokuto didn’t know what he was asking of you; he didn’t know what he wanted from you.

The only thing running through his mind was the fact that he’d just ruined the best thing to ever happen to him.

You.

You, the love of his life. He knew you like the back of his hand.

He knew how, despite your small tendency to be romantically constipated, you tried your best to love him — even to the point of using stupidly cheesy pet names for each other.

– – – – –

“Please, baby!” Bokuto had your hands tightly grasped in his. “I swear, if you do this for me, I won’t ever ask you for anything else for the rest of my life — okay, that’s a lie because I really want ice cream after this, but you know what I mean!”

“Kou.” You drew in a breath. “I’m saying yes to the ice cream later, but those are the cheesiest pet names I have ever heard of.”

You saw the way Bokuto visibly deflated as he heard your soft rejection of his idea.

For the rest of the night (after stopping by the store and getting yourselves two tubs of ice cream, of course), the two of you sat cuddled up on the sofa half-paying attention to whatever B-list movie was recommended to you. Occasionally, you would hear Bokuto let out a deep sigh, most likely to try and guilt trip you into doing what he asked of you earlier.

Turning your head to face him, you grinned at the little pout on his lips as his eyes bore holes into the TV screen.

“Hey, Kou.”

Nothing. His attention stayed glued to the TV. The only sign that showed he’d heard you was the deepening of his pout.

“Koutaro, pretty boy. I’m talking to you,” you giggled.

Still nothing. You racked your brain for all of the possible ways this could end — every one of them resulted in the same thing.

Sighing, you brought up a finger to poke at his cheek. “Hey, dovey.”

If Bokuto were a dog, his ears would have stood straight up and his tail would have started wagging as he whipped his head around to look at you.

“Say that again,” he demanded, his eyes wide and sparkling and the corner of his lips twitching, just barely restraining a smile.

When you didn’t reply, his fingers prodded at your side — a promise to tickle you if you didn’t humour him right now.

“Say it again! Who am I?”

“You’re my dovey.”

“And who are you?”

You struggled to fight the urge to curl up into yourself as you answered him, “I’m your lovey.”

“And what are we together?” Bokuto brought his face closer to yours, his eyes going back and forth between your eyes and lips.

“We’re lovey dovey.” You completed it with a pair of awkward jazz hands.

With that, Bokuto’s face split into a blinding smile as his laughter rang through the living room. He brought you tight into his arms and buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“Yes! I knew you could do it, lovey!” Your cheeks grew warm as you were subjected to his rain of kisses on your face.

Pulling him in for one last kiss to your lips, you whispered, “I love you so much, Kou.”

– – – – –

He knew how he was always the first thing on your mind; you’d put him as your first priority without fail, no matter how busy you were, even when he hadn’t put you as his.

– – – – –

Bokuto stared up at the crisp, white ceiling — hospitals were never a fun place to be in. He was broken from his thoughts when the door to his room burst open, revealing you in your ever-ethereal work clothes rushing toward him.

“Babe! Are you alright?” Stopping at the side of his bed, you brought his hand up to place a kiss on his knuckles.

Bokuto let out a light laugh as he intertwined his fingers with yours. “Yeah, it’s just a sprained ankle. Nothing to worry about, honey.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing to worry about’? Your coach said that you’d have to be out for two weeks!”

“That’s not too much! It’s not like I’ll be missing the whole season, angel.”

“But, Kou, you also have to–”

Bokuto stopped your worried rambling as he pulled you down, giving you a soft kiss on your lips and cheeks. He gave you a smile.

“Stop worrying, baby! Everything will be fine because I have the cutest, smartest, and kindest nurse to help me recover, right?”

“And who’s that?” You sent him a teasing look as your hands shuffled through your pockets looking for your phone.

“You, silly!” He paused before staring up at you in concern. “You are going to take care of me, right, baby?”

“I don’t know about that, Kou. Work has been hectic lately.” You pulled out your phone.

“But I’m injured! And I’m your boyfriend too! You can’t just leave your injured boyfriend alone to fend for himself! Baby!” Walking away from his bed, you exited the hospital room, tapping away on your phone.

A few minutes passed before you returned, seeing Bokuto sulking in the hospital bed, a familiar pout on his lips.

Your eyes softened as you gave him a smile. “Guess who just got two weeks off?”

– – – – –

The foundation of your relationship was built upon the fact that the two of you knew each other like no other; you loved each other like no other.

So how had everything culminated into such a mess?

“Bokuto.” You felt the way his body stiffened as you called his name.

“Yes,” he hesitated, “honey?”

“Do you remember what I told you a couple years ago? About what I thought of love?”

Feeling a prickling sensation in his nose, Bokuto squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out a few tears that had collected on his eyelashes.

His voice came out hoarse and weak as he whispered, “I could never forget.”

– – – – –

The sky was enveloped in a cloak of darkness, but not even the onslaught of exhaustion could prevent the two of you from leaning back on the picnic blanket to stare up at the shimmering stars.

“Baby?” Bokuto turned his head to where you lay beside him. You hummed in response, half of your attention taken by the stars.

“What do you think about love?”

You raised an eyebrow, rolling onto your side to fully look at your boyfriend.

The moonlight casted harsh shadows on his face, but the way he looked at you — eyes sparkling with curiosity and the corners of his lips curled into a light smile — softened the darkness surrounding the two of you.

“Where did that question come from?” You raised a hand to lightly trace over the curves and slopes of his face; your thumb caressed his cheek as he leaned into your touch.

“Answer my question first, and then I’ll tell you.” His eyes turned into little crescent moons as he smiled at you. “Deal?”

You pretended to think about it for a few seconds. “Hm, three kisses please,” you said, wiggling three of your fingers.

Bokuto laughed, indulging you with a kiss to both of your cheeks and a final kiss to your lips.

“Okay, okay,” you giggled. “You asked me what I think about love?”

He nodded.

“Well,” you sighed, turning back to face the midnight sky above you, “I think that love is like the sky — the sun, to be specific. It’s always changing, and everything is so unpredictable about it. There’s so much potential for destruction in what the sky holds. But, there’s always one constant. Do you know what it is, Kou?” You looked at him.

“What is it, angel?” His golden eyes glimmered, as if they were holding stars themselves.

Adjusting your position on the picnic blanket (you curled closer into Bokuto, who wrapped an arm around your shoulders), you continued, “It’s the sun. No matter how much it rains or snows or whatever weather catastrophe is happening, the sun is always going to be there. Sure, you can have multiple suns like those Star Wars planets, but…” you trailed off, looking into his eyes. “... I think I’m happy with my one sunshine.”

Bokuto, ever the romantic, pulled you into a nearly-bone-crushing hug as he laughed into your shoulder. After peppering kisses to your neck and jaw, he pulled away to look at you. He sported the brightest smile, but something sparkled behind those eyes of his.

“Baby?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re getting cheesier than me.”

You groaned, leaning away from him, “Shut up, Kou!”

He giggled before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Now let’s get home before these mosquitoes eat us alive, honey.”

“And then you’ll tell me where you got that question from?”

“Of course, honey! I never break a deal!”

– – – – –

How could he forget what you said? Every word you’ve ever spoken to him, he’s grasped onto like a lifeline, as if they would be your last. He was so close to bursting — so close to pulling himself off of your lap, looking into your pretty eyes, grasping your shoulders, and yelling at you, screaming at you, asking why you would think he could ever forget anything about you. How dare you think he could ever forget anything about you?

But he couldn’t do that. Not to you. Not anymore.

He didn’t realise that you’d gone silent — his world had gone silent — until your sniffles broke his reverie. His arms tightened around your waist as his head nuzzled into your stomach once again; it was a broken act of comfort.

“Honey,” the edges of his voice cracked as he called out for you. “Talk to me. Please. Don’t… don’t stay quiet.”

Being met with another bout of silence was almost excruciating. Bokuto was struggling to keep himself together, to keep his head above the water before he drowned in his thoughts of losing you.

He launched himself up from your lap, grabbing your face with shaky hands. He had tears running down his face once again. His face was blotchy, and his hair was a mess. He was a mess.

“Please, lovey,” he whispered. If you stayed silent just one minute longer, he’d collapse. He was sure of it. Fighting the urge to just sit himself in your lap, pull you tight against him, and beg you not to leave, Bokuto settled with caressing the skin under your shirt.

Finally, you broke the silence.

“I forgot to tell you one thing that night.” You moved your hand from where it was resting in his hair back to your side; he tensed at the loss of your touch.

He swallowed, his anxiety began to pile up once again. “What’d you forget, baby?”

“Even though the sun” — your voice cracked — “is a constant, sometimes it can be too much. Burn too bright and dry up everything underneath the sky. Sometimes...” you paused to take a deep breath, trying to swallow back the lump that was growing in your throat. “Sometimes the sun can do even worse harm than anything the sky could do.”

Bokuto could feel the gradual increase of his heartbeat. He shook his head, his fingers involuntarily digging into your skin. No, no, you didn’t mean that. You couldn’t mean that. If you did he… he didn’t know what he would do.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto,” you murmured, “I can’t stay here any longer.”

You tried to pry yourself out of his grip, but he wouldn’t relent. His arms were shaking as he pulled you even closer into him. He was whispering something to himself.

“Bokuto, I’m being serious.” You tried to keep your voice stable but failed miserably — it all came out shaky, your tone uneven. “Let me go.”

His whispers grew louder until you could finally understand what he was saying.

“No, no. This isn’t real. I love you. I love you. No, don’t leave. Please don’t leave. I love you.”

You called his name. Once, twice, thrice. As you called for him, his whispers grew to full-blown cries.

“Bokuto!”

“I’M SORRY DON’T LEAVE ME!”

But the only thing your eyes chose to focus on was the trail of red and purple leading down his neck.

You felt a prickling sensation behind your eyes, a feeling that had grown familiar to you in the past few hours.

Bokuto caught the wandering of your eyes down his neck, a faraway mist muddled the irises he loved gazing into; he realised what you were staring at, forcing down a choked sob. He clenched his jaw, violently cursing himself for making you feel like you weren’t enough, like you weren’t the one keeping him standing straight.

Like you weren’t his sun, moon, stars, and whatever else you filled the fucking sky with.

He gently moved your head, trying to get you to look back into his eyes and away from the bruised mistake that marred his skin. His thoughts only filled with one thing — “Come back to me, baby.”

Waves of relief crashed against him once you met his eyes.

“Baby– Angel– I’m so– I don’t– Please–” Bokuto struggled to keep his thoughts straight. Not when you stared at him with an iciness that pierced his heart every time he looked back into your eyes, hoping to find even the smallest trace of love left for him.

He let out a rough sigh, frustrated with his inability to speak through the racing of his heart. His hands, still cupping your face, lightly squeezed your cheeks to ground himself. He looked back to you, his eyes swimming with even more tears, trying to send a message to you that he couldn’t put into words.

You looked away from him, focusing on the ticking clock on the wall as you gnawed your lip. A question had been running through your mind ever since he cracked into your resolve to leave and pulled you to the sofa, laying his head in your lap.

Your eyes turned back to him.

“Can you tell me something, Bokuto?”

“Yes, yes, baby, of course. I’ll do anything you want.” He eagerly nodded, a small spark of hope sparkled within him.

“Why’d you lie?”

He felt as though you just dumped him into one of Atsumu’s god-awful ice baths.

“What’re you saying, angel?” His eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Earlier,” you croaked. “I asked you earlier how long you’ve been” — you couldn’t say that word; it’d hurt too much — “messing around.”

A glint of recognition passed his eyes.

Continuing, you forced your voice out, even though it grew weaker the more you tried to hide your pain, “You said that it was just this once. That wasn’t the whole truth, was it?”

Fuck. Bokuto took his hands away from your face, opting to grasp one of your hands in his. He gave your knuckles a kiss before looking back at you, his eyes teeming with unadulterated guilt and desperation.

“I-I knew them before this ever happened. We met at one of the team parties, but you weren’t there because you were at work.” He saw a glimpse of darkness shadow over your face, and his heartbeat picked up again (not that it ever really settled). “But we never did anything! Not until last night, at least.” His voice grew quiet at the end.

“And never once did it occur to you to tell them that you were taken?”

Bokuto’s lips started trembling — no doubt he’d begin crying again. He looked down, trying to avoid your glare, but his grip on your hand never loosened.

“Please, baby. I’m so sorry,” he choked out, “I’m so fucking sorry. I fucked up in the worst way possible. But I promise you, I never did anything with them before. We just talked at that one party. I promise you that. I promise, honey.”

The look in your eyes became even colder, even more distant; something akin to hatred was present as well. No, this couldn’t be happening. His worst nightmare was coming true. You’d finally learned the truth and were going to leave him. You might have called him your sunshine that one night two years ago, but, to him, you were his oxygen — without you, he was truly nothing. Just a corpse of a man, not worth wasting a breath on.

He was losing you. Again.

“I’m leaving, Bokuto.” You roughly pulled your hand from his grasp, ignoring his cries for you to please stop, to listen for just a minute longer. “Don’t you dare try to look for me.”

Bokuto whimpered, following you to where you were trying to pick up your bags in your haste of anger. Once again, he tugged at the straps, trying to steal them away from you, but his arms grew weak at the scowl pointed his way.

His breath quickened, and his heart raced. He was panicking, grasping at straws to have to rethink your choice and stay with him so he could apologise for the rest of both of your lives. He’d spend the remainder of eternity begging for your forgiveness if only you’d just stay with him.

But he couldn’t say a word. Not with his blinded panic, and definitely not with the terrible, agonising look you were giving him as you stared back at him.

Was this how you felt when he’d walked out on you last night? Hopeless. Defenseless. As if you weren’t even worth a grain of sand underneath the other’s shoe.

“Lovey, I’m sorry!” Bokuto cried out one more time, hoping that he’d reach out to whatever small piece of love you still held for him. “I said I’m sorry! Please just forgive me, don’t leave me. Please! I’m begging you! Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it a million times over. Just, please,” he quieted to a whisper, just barely reaching your ears, “stay with me, and we can get through this together.”

His face crumpled as he heard your responding scoff.

“There’s no more ‘together’ for us, Bokuto.”

Your words stung — well, they stung as much as a gunshot or a knife to the heart would sting. He pressed on, desperate to get you to hear him out.

“I’m your sunshine, right? Your dovey. Your babe. Your pretty boy. Your Koutarou. Right?” He gripped onto the hem of his shirt, balling his hands into fists. “No matter what you call me, I’m yours. And I always will be. Even if you leave me right now, I’ll never stop looking for you. You know why?”

You stayed silent.

“Because I am just as much your sun as you are mine.”

His words echoed in your mind — that twisted, gnawing feeling came back in your gut. You knew that if you stayed for one more minute, it’d be over for you, and you’d go running back into his arms that always held you so tightly. Into his arms that smelt like home. Into his arms that made you feel like you were on top of the world as long as he was by your side. Into his arms that held onto another once the two of you reached a rough patch.

You made your decision.

“Koutarou…” His head snapped up to look at you, his eyes wide and glittering with a false sense of hope. “I’m sorry. I have to leave.”

There was another feeling growing within Bokuto. It was ugly, festering in the deepest parts of his mind — coming from a place that refused to acknowledge his faults. This feeling, it blamed

you. Why would you hurt him like this? How could you hurt him like this? You said he was your sunshine, your dovey, your Koutarou! How cruel could you be to lead him on, calling him ‘Koutarou’ again? You said you loved him!

“Don’t leave me!” He raised his voice. This feeling was taking over him, and it was angry. “If you leave, I’ll-I’ll…” His voice trailed off as he tried to regain control of himself.

Your brows furrowed. He still had the energy to yell, huh?

“You’ll what?” You took a step toward him. He looked away from you, trying to avoid your burning gaze. “Tell me, Koutarou. What will you do if I leave?”

He shook his head; you knew what that meant — “I won’t say it.”

“You’ll go back to them, won’t you?” you scoffed. “Have fun, Koutarou.”

Adjusting the straps of your bags, you gave him one last glare before moving toward the door once more.

That feeling came back in Bokuto’s mind, and it was stronger than ever. Pounding against the walls he built up, it roared, telling him to make you regret hurting him, make you think twice about leaving him. Bokuto was panicking, his will to beg you to stay was growing weaker as the feeling inside him became increasingly angry at you for causing him so much pain.

He knew he’d regret the next words he’d say to you, but that realisation came a second too late.

“I’ll never forgive you!”

You froze. Turning back around to face him, your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“If you leave me, I’ll never forgive you!”

His eyes were burning into you, a raging fire behind them.

“You’ll never forgive me?” you spat.

As quickly as the fire grew, it was extinguished as Bokuto’s expression morphed into one of shock.

“Wait, baby, I didn’t mean it! I promi–”

Dropping your bags by the door, you strided toward his figure. Pushing him against the wall, you pulled him in by the collar, melding his lips with yours.

The kiss was rough, angry, desperate — an amalgamation of everything you’ve felt in the past few hours going back and forth with Bokuto.

You pushed yourself into the space between his legs as he finally recovered from his shock and tried to match your tempo, his hands pulling you close into his body. Your teeth clashed together, and you had half the mind to bite his tongue in your mouth, but you held back.

Raking your fingers through his hair, you pulled his head back, ignoring his small, pained whine. The offensive mess of red and purple blotches still covered the expanse of his neck. A scowl grew on your face.

Bokuto yelped as he felt your lips latch onto his neck, sucking your own bruises over the ones already existing from his escapade. You were rough, unrelenting in your nearly-primal way of claiming him.

Trying to ignore your satisfaction from hearing his whimpers of your name, you pulled away, looking at your series of marks covering the ones from his other lover. The two of you were left panting — him trying to meet your eyes and you trying to avoid looking at him at all costs.

Leaning into his ear, you placed a gentle bite on his lobe. He tensed ever-so-slightly.

“You’ll never forgive me if I leave?” you hummed.

His hands that were under your shirt, roaming across your back, froze.

“B-Baby, wait, I didn’t–” He tried to plead with you until your next words completely shattered what was left of his broken, battered heart.

“I think I can live with that.”

You quickly backed away from him, evading his attempts to grab at your waist to stop you from leaving, and picked up your bags by the door. Looking back at him one last time, you nearly broke your facade.

After all he’s done, you still loved your Koutarou — no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise — and seeing him on his knees, sobbing, begging you not to leave for the umpteenth time, your will was wearing thin.

“Goodbye, Koutarou.”

The slam of the front door echoed across the remnants of his shattered heart and all he had the strength to do was cry. Pulling at the strands of his hair, he sobbed, begging into the air, weeping with no one to listen to him.

Without you, his world had no sky; everything was bathed in the shadow of your absence.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

tags: @katelyns-stuff @random-fandom-girl-24

#haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #bokuto koutarou x reader #bokuto x reader #tw: cheating #tw: swearing #gn!reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Laisse tomber les filles 7

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; size kink; age gap; manipulation; sexual acts and dubcon (not explicitly tagged for a surprise but nothing extreme).

This is a dark!fic and Lee Bodecker x (short) reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find yourself ostracized on campus by your shyness, but your reticence won’t deter an unwanted suitor.

Note: We back at it again! Happy Tuesday.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

‘When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue...I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn’t, and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another. I thought a spectacular change would come over me the day I crossed the boundary line.’

You read and reread the paragraph. You couldn’t help it. The first time you read that book, you just didn’t get the cynicism. There were still parts you couldn’t quite relate to. But that passage sank into you like a pebble in water. You felt changed already and after something so little.

You hadn’t seen Lee since Saturday. He had your number now and called at night. A few times, there was noise in the background; people, cars, life. You realised he must’ve been at a payphone, taking a moment away from his patrol. That was another thing about him; he felt so established, so wise, and that made you feel even less.

When the phone began to ring that night, you ignored it. And when it stopped, you picked up the receiver and dialed the only number you knew. Your mom picked up and you heard the sink running in the background. She was always busy when you called.

“Mom,” you said, “it’s me.”

“Oh, hi, dear,” she replied in her creaky tone, “how are you? Oh, is something wrong?”

“Um… I’m okay, I just wanted to call, I…” you thought of telling her about Lee but you weren’t really sure how. You weren’t even sure why you called her, only that you felt alone. “I miss you and daddy.”

“We miss you, too,” you heard her steps and her grunt as she stretched the cord and twisted off the faucet. “He’s been working hard down at the steel yard and he’s so proud. All the other men tell him to hush up when he brags about you.”

“Yeah? I… I’m working hard. Got an A on my last paper,” you played with the coiled cord.

“That’s great, dear,” she chimed, “are you sure you’re okay? You sound tired.”

“I am tired,” you said, “that’s all. Studying and all that.”

“I hope so. I wouldn’t want you going out late to one of those parties,” she tittered, “Noreen’s son got arrested at one of those and spent a night in jail. They spent their mortgage to get him out.”

“No, no, I don’t, um, go to parties,” you assured, not adding that no one would even think to invite you to one.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I’ll have to call back tomorrow,” she sighed as you heard the door clamour, “your father’s so intent on hurting himself these days.”

“Okay, um, it’s alright, I’ll talk later, love y--” the phone went dead and you listened to the dull tone.

You put the receiver back in the cradle and tapped your fingers on your lips. You picked up your book and sat back on your bed. You couldn’t focus on the words though as your mind lingered on the familiar sounds of home. You missed it terribly. You just wanted to take the bus and go hide in your old childhood bed.

The phone rang again. You knew it wasn’t your mother. You left it and when it silenced, there was only a second before it started again. You waited until the next lull and moved the receiver off the cradle and let the low hum rise from the speaker. You kept it off the hook and closed your book.

You didn’t want to deal with any of that today. Not Lee, not Plath, not the plague of woes that roiled your stomach. You flopped onto your bed and pulled your pillow over your head. You weren’t going to think again until your morning lecture.

📚

You sat near the front of the hall with your elbow on the small fold-out desk. You swirled your pen lazily in the air as you listened to the professor expound on the flaws of historical revisionism. He wasn’t the type to entertain questions or comments, he merely ranted and expected you to note those few words of value amidst the sea of thoughts.

You yawned, exhausted despite an early night. You felt empty and drained those last four days. Ever since…

You didn’t think about it. Tried not to even as it tugged at your mind. When the memory managed to poke through, you felt the same tingle between your legs and your cheeks burned in humiliation.

How had you let it happen? How could you let yourself do that?

You were so confused by it all. How could it be wrong if Lee said it was right? He was older, he was a cop, and he knew much more than you. You never even kissed a boy before him and he was so confident in everything he did that he must be doing it all right.

Besides, after everything, if you refused him, you’d have only been leading him on and using him for his kindness, even if you didn’t realise what you were doing. Because what you did know was that he was a man and you were a woman and that he was doing nice things for you. And you accepted them all. The least you could do was bide his affection. That was the age old exchange, was it not?

“Next week, we’ll review chapters five and six,” the professor’s tone piqued as his ramble subsided, “I expect a class discussion and you can expect ten percent of your mark to be evaluated from your contribution and I will know if you just ‘skimmed’ the introduction.’

The class grumbled as he dismissed you and you stood slowly, stretching the cramp from your leg. You packed up your bag and hauled it on your shoulder. You had a gap between that class and your afternoon publishing class. You trailed out behind the flow of chattering students but found many of them lowered their voices as they came out into the hall.

There voices fell to whispers as they entered the hall. The sight of a brown hat assured you of the reason. Sheriff Bodecker stood against the painted brick and watched the students pass by, each eyeing him nervously and some chuckling under their breaths nervously. You tried to hide behind a taller student but your name tripped you up.

Despite your efforts to maintain your invisibility, he’d spotted you and you knew you could run away. Several of your peers craned around to watch you, no doubt suspecting some trouble on your part. You dragged your feet and stepped out of the tide of fleeing co-eds to stand along the wall with Lee.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Young lady,” he said staunchly and kept his eyes on the other students, nodding at them darkly as they passed.

He waited until the hall was empty before he turned on you. You fidgeted and caught your bag as it slipped from your shoulder. Your thoughts wrinkled above your brow and you stared at his brown leather shoes.

“How did you… find me here?”

He was silent as he reached in his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it and showed you a print-out of your schedule.

“Easy enough,” he tapped his badge nonchalantly, “I was worried. You didn’t answer last night.”

“I fell asleep early,” you said weakly, “morning lecture, you know?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, “not that early.”

“I’m sorry, I was sleep--”

“You’re no good at lying and I don’t like you telling me fibs,” he growled, “you playin’ around with me, honey.”

“No, I…” you blinked as he folded the paper back into his pocket and pushed his jacket back to settle his hand on his pistol.

“Did you forget who I am? What I am?” he arched a brow darkly.

“N-No, sir, I… I got schoolwork and--”

“You can’t stop and talk to me for ten minutes?” he challenged, “you hurt me, honey. I’m out on patrol all night, in danger, and the only thing I got to look forward to is hearing your sweet voice.”

“I, um, I… er, I’m confused,” you eked out, “I don’t know… I…”

“Honey,” he leaned in and his hot breath glossed over you as he lowered his voice, “you know what this is, we both know what a bad girl you were on Saturday.”

“I didn’t…” you swallowed and choked on your voice, “I gotta go to the library--”

You tried to turn away but were pulled back by his tight grip on your arm. He forced you against the wall and knocked the wind from you as your bag tumbled from your arm. You gasped and stared up at him in fright. In that moment, he seemed bigger than ever; taller, thicker, and strong as hell. Stronger than you for sure.

“You don’t go nowhere ‘less I say you do,” his other hand shifted on his gun, “you got me?”

“What are you-- I didn’t… why are you being mean?”

“Me? Honey pie, you been avoiding me and I’m mean?” he snarled.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, I’m just... busy,” you whimpered as he squeezed your arm so tight it throbbed, “you’re hurting me.”

“You’re hurting me,” he hissed, “you think I got time to be comin’ down here on duty to find you?”

“You didn’t have to--”

“I did,” he barked, “I had to make sure you weren’t hussyin’ around with any other boys, like I found you last week.”

“I told you, that wasn’t--”

“Shhhhh,” his hand flew to your chin and forced your mouth shut, “I don’t got the time for this, honey. I’ll be around tonight and you’ll wear a pretty dress for me, won’t you?”

You clenched your jaw and nodded stiffly as his thumb toyed with your lip. He smiled and the tension left his grasp.

“Good girl,” he drew away and squared his shoulders, “you be ready at six and don’t keep me waitin’ again.”

“Yes, sir,” you croaked.

“Mmm,” he nodded with a smirk, “you know, I think I do prefer ‘sir’.” He bent and kissed your lips before you could turn away. You let him and he stood straight again and adjusted his belt, “six o’clock, honey pie.”

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #fic #series #dark fic #dark!fic #laisse tomber les filles #the devil all the time #college au #au

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vidalinav · 3 years

Text

@imasconfusedasyouare 1) your writing is amazing and I love your blog! 2)For the prompts: Nesta is having a bad day with her mental health and during dinner or something the IC make certain comments about how she’s behaving that makes Cassian go into possessive-mate mode and snaps at them… pretty please 🥺

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1) Thank you!

2) I took a bit of liberty with this prompt. The gist of it is the same, but I couldn’t have Cassian outright tell the IC off when I feel he is wrong himself. So I made a fic where Nesta has a bad mental health day, they do see the others and they do say things, and Cassian is selfish but ultimately they get through it because love is not.

So… here goes nothing.

Cassian knows Nesta doesn’t feel good. Maybe he knows her well enough by now to sense her tells or some intrinsic part of his soul sings to him of concern. That when she huddles in their bed, grasping the pillow instead of his chest, she reaches for something he can’t offer her and he knows.

Even so, he lays a palm on her forehead searching for heat and when she shrugs him off, he doesn’t let the feeling make a home in his lungs. He will not yell or chastise or run away with stupid words.

Nesta doesn’t feel good.

Be patient, the voice in his head tells him. Be slow.

Nesta eats less that morning, eats slower, and she stares into space as if she’s asking it questions. He rambles on and she doesn’t listen. She’s waiting for the space to answer, he tells himself.

They go to training. Cassian thinks maybe the routine will keep her grounded, will remind her that she’s capable. That she’s carried more weight than a sword. He asks her if she’s ready and Nesta merely lifts her hands. Fists hit but they don’t hurt. Fists hit but they don’t rage. Fists hit and Cassian thinks something must be terribly wrong. Fists hit and Cassian only wants to hold her close.

He asks Gwyn and Emerie if they notice something off, and they shrug as if they know but don’t want to tell him. Perhaps they know and they just can’t explain. Cassian doesn’t think he could understand if they did.

You can understand, that little voice speaks. You just have to wait.

So Cassian waits. Cassian sits. Cassian listens, and Nesta walks around the house, trailing room to empty room. Nesta doesn’t even turn on the symphonia. He keeps waiting for music, but the egg shaped disk stays closed and Nesta shuts her eyes. Maybe she hears music that he doesn’t.

You offered her time, the voice reminds him. A lifetime of time. What is a few hours? A few days?

But Cassian doesn’t want to wait. Cassian doesn’t want Nesta to feel anything like this–where she looks out the window with that blank expression and she keeps to herself and she sneaks up so quietly she might as well be ghost. Cassian doesn’t want a ghost for a mate.

He can’t wait any longer. Cassian has to do something now, before time slips between his fingers and the floor drops from right under their feet. So, he moves. He makes plans.

Nesta doesn’t argue when he drags her to the city. Nesta doesn’t argue when they go to the streets thrumming with sound. Fill her with noise and laughter, he thinks. Fill her with something I can’t.

But the voice in his head only chastises him. You need to wait.

Cassian can’t wait. Cassian is running out of time.

So he takes her to the only place that will make a difference.

He knows they’re having dinner, and he knows they’ll be together and perhaps they can fill her with the life he can’t.

He takes her to his family. To her family.

But they’re not really her family are they?

Feyre is and so she’s happily surprised to see them, but when she tries to give Nesta a hug, she lays as still as a statue. Feyre notices. Cassian notices. Rhysand notices. Still, they go the dining room where the rest are waiting. Waiting less patiently than him.

That’s when he hears that voice.

Are they really her family?

Cassian wants to think yes, but they laugh with each other and Nesta gets handed a plate. Nesta spoons little handfuls of green beans and mash potatoes and Mor laughs at an inside joke that Cassian knows well and Amren wants to discuss a meeting that Nesta doesn’t attend. Nesta doesn’t know anything about any of the topics they want to discuss. Nesta sits in a tower on a normal Tuesday and gazes wistfully out the window, and sitting here at the table reminds him of that stare.

It reminds him of that stare years ago. On a snowy night in December.

“You’re quiet,” Feyre says after a while. Nesta doesn’t even notice she’s being talked to until Cassian elbows her lightly.

“I’m always quiet,” she says at last, looking to her plate. Cassian watches as a noodle forms a question mark and all he can think about it why, why, why.

“You’re not usually so…”

She looks up at her sister with that blank expression, blinking slow.

“Are you okay?” Feyre asks, concern in her voice.

Nesta doesn’t even think as she says, “I’m fine.”

But he can already see it. The distasteful looks that they hide with a snort. That awkward, you are ruining something look. That you didn’t bring enough smiles for this house. And Cassian knows that they will go home tonight, and something will have gone backwards. That they’ll remember what Nesta’s done, but the Nesta they see will be the first Nesta they think about, and their memory will not be filled with heroic deeds like nighttime fairytales. It won’t even be of a courageous young female who only yearns for her sister to live. They will see this Nesta.

This perfectly good Nesta.

This perfectly, acceptable Nesta. Quiet somber songs or not.

Cassian feels himself moving before he realizes what he’s doing. He can feel himself reaching for her and Nesta looks up as if his movement surprises her. It surprises him, too, but it’s the right choice he knows.

“Let’s go home,” he breathes.

Cassian tries not to let the guilt sink in his chest at her look of relief. The way she sets the fork down as if it’s a great, heavy sword. Cassian won’t let it pierce his heart. His heart is her, and Nesta is going to be okay tomorrow.

But today…

Today, she will watch the sky and listen to nothing and pace back and forth and she’ll feel that restlessness settle in her chest until it settles down quietly. He will protect her ability to grieve. For whatever she grieves. That layer of herself she peels off like paper.

“You’re going home already?” Mor asks, a look of astonishment on her face.

“Nesta doesn’t feel good,” he says. Some part of him wants to say that it was a mistake bringing her here, but he can’t do that. That only makes Cassian a hypocrite and he’s already selfish. He knows who they are. They’re not Nesta’s family…

And this is his fault, not theirs. Not only because it’s the last place Nesta wants to be, but because if he has a hard time understanding her, they don’t even have a chance and Cassian won’t let them make Nesta feel ashamed.

Cassian doesn’t want to make Nesta feel ashamed.

All day he has. When they go to the market, when they walk through the city, when they stop by restaurants and booths and people. When they go to this house and eat with his family, he wants to shame the bad day out of her.

Nothing about Nesta is shameful.

Nothing about Nesta can make him feel ashamed.

“Home?” He repeats and Nesta grabs his outstretched hand. She says a goodbye to Feyre who raises her hand with a small tainted, tilt of her lip. They’re there for a mere thirty minutes before they’re gone.

And when they get home, she goes to the library. Nesta huddles up on the sofa with her favorite book, and sometimes she stares out the window in between pages.

Cassian sets a blanket on her shoulders, careful not to touch her unless she asks. He wants to hold her, but it isn’t about what he wants. So he covers her in I’m here cotton, keeps her warm in I love you wool. He will set his I’m thinking of you tea beside her table, and he will wait and wait and wait. Wait until the night grows dim and he does.

And at some point in the night, he falls asleep on the large chair across from her. At some point in the night he feels her climb in, her body huddled close. Nesta takes the blanket with her and she covers them both. He only needs her, Cassian thinks. He only wants her, but the blanket lays on top of them like a shield. It’ll protect them both in its embrace.

Nesta tucks her head in his neck, he can feel her cold nose on his skin, and she burrows into him, her hands rummaging beneath his shirt. The touch sings as much as it burns, but he falls asleep to the sweet smell of lavender and the soft sound of her breathing.

It’s the most wonderful music he’s ever heard.

In the morning, Cassian wakes up to the symphonia playing and Nesta’s smile is the sun.

Fin

Tagged: @my-fan-side, @sophilightwood, @nestaarcher0n, @duskandstarlight, @soitsgorgeous, @ekaterinakostrova @swankii-art-teacher, @lordof-bloodshed, @arinbelle, @thewhelk, @daisy-in-danger @highqueenevankhell, @lovelynesta, @sirendeepity, @champanheandluxxury, @ladynestaarcheron, @moodymelanist, @teagoddess99, @spoilersteph, @drielecarla, @angelicvoice19, @bo0kmaster69, @generalnesta

Don’t know where these fics keep coming from, but doubt it will last so I’m enjoying the ride.

#nessian #nessian fanfic #cassian #nesta archeron #vidalinav writes

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iwadori · 3 years

Text

When they leave you on your wedding day (Sakusa, Bokuto)

Genre: angst

Word count: 1.7K

masterlist

Sakusa’s will make more sense if you read this you don’t have too but it’ll help.

Sakusa:

“Y/N,” you hear knocks on the door outside your dressing room “I-I need to talk to you.”

“But Omi, a groom must never see their bride until they meet at the alter,” you say behind the door.

“I-It’s important, and I must tell you right now.” he says a bit more intensely

“Okay, Okay... you can come in but im hiding in the closet since my dress is already on.”

“Ok.”

You hear the door open and shut, and a lot of pacing around of what you can presume was his fresh wedding shoes trotting against the hard wood floors.

“Omi,” you call wondering why he hasn’t spoken yet “Is everything okay?”

“Umm yes I-it's fine...it just I-” he says pausing

“Just what?”

“I don’t really know how to say this Y/N, I don’t really know how to say it’s just-” he says again pausing himself taking a deep breath.

“Just what Omi? Don’t tell me you’ve got cold feet love,” you say laughing at the thought of it, but your laughter ceased when you don’t hear the ‘Of course I don’t have cold feet Y/N’ that you were expecting.

“Omi?” you asked again, hoping he had he was still going to give you the response you wanted.

“Omi..” you repeated.

“Omi!” you say finally, now exiting the room (with your wedding dress on) to see why your fiance was not responding.

To your shock, Omi was sitting down on a couch with his face in his hands with soft sobs coming from his mouth and runny tears and snot coming from his eyes and nose. “Omi whats wrong?” you say loudly, alerting him,

“Y/N you look beautiful!” he says sniffling.

“Omi you were meant to say that at the alter, but now that your crying forget about the dress... what’s wrong?” you say sitting down next to him.

“I don’t know how to say this...” he starts, looking away from you

“Say what? Omi look at me...” you say feeling anxious

“We...We can’t get married today,” he says still with his eyes off you.

“What do you mean, we can’t get married.” you ask but you get no answer,

“Omi answer me,”

“Say something please!” you say turning his body so that he’s facing you, his eyes are all puffy and bloodshot from the crying and now tears are filling yours “What do you mean Omi,”

“Remember Ex’s name?” he says confusing you cause what did she have to do with anything.

“Yes I remember her, I remember vividly being the girl you cheated on her with after you claimed you were ‘breaking up with her’ so I had to tell her.” you scoff “so yes, I definitely remember Y/N, what about her?”

“We recently umm how can I say this,” he says struggling for words “reconnected... and I do truly miss her and she’s made me rethink some things, see some things...”

“And those things are?”

“I’ve always loved her, she’s always been my one. The one.” he says smiling a bit at the thought of her making you feel sick.

“But Omi what about us? What about the wedding that’s going to happen in less than an hour?”

“Im sorry Y/N I’ll tell everyone what has happened.”

“I don’t want you to do that, I want you to marry me.” you say desparetly “please Omi, why her? Why now..”

“It’s always been her, and you’ve known that.” he says standing up “The day you told her about our ONE NIGHT stand, was the day that I thought I couldn’t live on, but when you came and accepted the pathetic mess I was, I gladly dated you since I had nothing else to loose...but its been 4 years since then I'm a changed man and EX NAME is a changed girl, a forgiving girl and the spark we had wasn’t lost I guess...and Im happy now”

“But what about me?” you say crying “What about me? And my happiness, don’t I deserve that? Don’t I deserve to finally be happy.”

“Y/N, you do deserve to be happy. But not with me, not at the stake of my own happiness, I wont allow it.”

“Omi bu-”

“God Y/N, don’t be so desperate!” he said agressively “Im sorry for stopping the wedding, I know your parents have put in alot of money in it and I will certainly pay them back... in due time of course.”

“You’re sorry for stopping the wedding?” you say angrily “Not sorry for stopping this relationship. Stopping the longlasting feelings ive felt for you since the day I met you?”

“Cut the crap Y/N, all we did was have one night stand.” he says rolling his eyes and unbuttoning his top botton of his shirt and loosening his tie I dont know why but this Is what guys do when theyre mad in the movies.

“Your such a liar Omi, you used to come into my work place everyday flirting with me talking about how much you wanted me, PINING AFTER ME, making me fall in love with you and not even telling me you had a girlfriend at the time.” you yell “and you summarise that all to me falling in love with you after one measly one night stand.”

“I don’t want to do this Y/N,” he says heading to the door “We’re finished. No more wedding. No marriage. And definitely don’t contact me after this. We’re through.” he slams the door behind him, leaving you alone and jilted in your wedding dress.

You get why he broke it off with you, and technically you do play a small part to blame. You were the one that told his girlfriend that you slept with him and then dated him afterwards, so I guess ‘how you get them, is how you lose them’ definitely works in this case.

Bokuto

The bokuto and L/N wedding was going to be a joyous occasion. Your soon to be husband told everybody he saw that he were to be wed with you, he couldn’t contain his excitement.

“Bokuto calm down, we’ll be married soon.” was what you always said, whenever he started his rambles to which he always replied “I know Y/N, I cant wait.”

When it came to your grand day, you were excited from the moment you woke up you were buzzing, wondering if Bokuto was feeling even a half of the feelings that you felt.

You looked beautiful in your dress, anticipating the look on Bokuto’s face when he sees you at that alter. Your wedding party was already at the hotel you were getting married at whilst Bokuto’s got ready at the houe and decided to drive there.

So after you got ready, all you had to do is wait for Kuroo, one of Bokuto’s best men, to tell you when it’s time for you to walk down the aisle.

You were impatient, your leg was shaking now you knew how Bokuto felt when he rambled on how excited he was for you to become Bokuto Y/N. You finally heard a knock on the door and you dashed to open it,

“Kuroo, thank god you’re here!” you exclaim giving him a hug “I’ve been waiting ages for you, lets go! Take me to my future husband.” You pull his arm practically trying to run and see your man before Kuroo pulls your arm halting you.

“Y/N...” he says shifting his eye sight from left to right “I think we should sit down for a minute.”

“Why? Is he not here yet, gosh he’s always been late to things” you joke “but fine we can sit for a minute or two.”

As you sat, Kuroo turns his body to you putting his hands on your knees with his eyes looking sad “Y/N. I don’t know how to say this but...” he gulps putting his head down “there’s been an accident.”

“Accident? What do you mean accident? What happened? Is everyone okay.” you ask a bit frantically, since it would sad for someone to be hurt on your wedding day.

“That’s the thing Y/N, Bokuto he..”

“Bokuto what? He’s okay.. Right?” you ask staring at Kuroo “He’s fine right?”

“No he isnt,” he says

“What do you mean he isn’t what happened, where is he? I need to see him.” you say getting up before Kuroo pulls you back down.

“He isn’t anywhere... well anywhere for you to see him. There weren’t enough cars for us, well there were but one of them the engine wasn’t starting and it sound a bit dodgy. But Bokuto said, he insisted for us all to be there. I even offered to let him take my spot in the other cars, I did Y/N I really did, but he promised us that he’d be fine. He left a bit before he did, saying that if he had chance to wander around the hotel it may calm his nerves. But when we were driving, we saw this car all mangled up on the side of the road, it was his. I told him not to drive that car, I told him and he did and I-” he rambled with tears pooling in his eyes “Im sorry Y/N im really sorry.”

“But why why didn’t you call?”

“He told us not too, he said that he wanted you be to as happy as you could be on this day as he knew it wouldn’t end with you becoming his wife.”

“But the ambulance, you called an ambulance right?”

“He was D.O.A, Akaashi went with him since he knew that he probably wouldn’t be able to deliver the news to you.”

“Why? Why did he leave me? On our wedding day, it was supposed to be our day and now hes gone Kuroo hes gone.” you wail, but kuroo wraps his arms around you in a brotherly hug as he cries too.

That’s how you spend your wedding night, crying in your friends arms over the loss of your ‘husband’ and his ‘brother.’

Bokuto’s funeral was the week after, and it was not an event you were excited for. It was a hard day to get through, but you did it with the help of Kuroo and Akaashi. You visit Bokuto every year on your wedding anniversary talking to your husband even though it always reminds you of the day that never came to be.

This is the wedding angst that is a gift from me to you sweetheart @teesumu you can totally block me after this cause girll I cried whilst writing it.

If you want a nice ending to the bokuto story to make you feel better read this

General taglist [bold can’t be tagged]: @sakuxxi, @iimoonii, @hamdehlesmis, @Shoyosupremacy, @iambashfulperson, @kayleighbeccaa, @dearkousei, @bakugouswh0r3, @xedspirits @borpcorp, @soft-angel-clouds, @foxxtrot-116 @Xogiaaa, @jesssobs, @apple-poptarts @galagcica @letssssus, @random-734, [join the taglist here]

#signedwithane😌#haikyu angst #haikyu headcanons #haikyu scenarios #haikyu #haikyuu x reader #bokuto x reader #bokuto angst #bokuto scenarios #sakusa angst #sakusa x reader #sakusa scenarios

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marauderundercover · 3 years

Text

Taking Chances Chapter Five: Paris Revealed (Stories/Memories)

AO3

Marinette flinches back as the room erupts in shouting. The younger boy, who was definitely younger than her and yet almost (if not definitely) taller than her, was fiercely glaring while he screamed at Mr. Wayne in….was that Arabic? The man that walked in with him was waving around the knife in his hand while Dick yelled at Mr. Wayne, his face filled with confusion instead of fury. Glancing around for a way out, Marinette makes eye contact with Alfred who nods behind him. Sneaking away from the group of angry men, Marinette follows Alfred into the kitchen and instantly feels at home. And much calmer.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbles, breathing deeply to avoid spiraling again. Alfred simply hands her a cookie before turning around and putting water in a kettle.

“There is no need to apologize, Miss Marinette. It seems Master Bruce has forgotten all sense today and is instead insistent on acting like a fool. It was wrong of him to announce you like that, without preparing you or the boys beforehand. I do hope that his atrocious display of proper manners doesn’t make you want to leave.” Alfred says, and Marinette’s eyebrows shoot upwards. Was he? Was Alfred actually blaming this situation on Mr. Wayne? Was it Mr. Wayne’s fault? Did he not actually hate her? Did he just make a mistake?

“I- what?” Marinette says, unsure of herself.

“You, my dear, are not at fault. Your father didn’t tell any of his sons that you were coming to the manor today, or that you existed in general. And judging by your face, you weren’t prepared for the boys to be here either.” Alfred clarifies.

“Oh. No, I wasn’t. Mr. Wayne just said that he wanted to get to know me, and he knew I wanted to get to know him. I- my birth mother passed away. But my Maman knew her, so I can find out from her how I’m similar to Bridgette. But neither of my parents knew Mr. Wayne, and I just wanted to know if I was like him, I guess. I didn’t even know who he was until two days ago.” Marinette admits.

“As in you found out Bruce Wayne was your birth father two days ago or-” Alfred trails off, waiting for her to clarify.

“Oh no. I found out the name of my birth father awhile ago. It’s just- I really don’t pay attention to celebrities. The only ones I really know are designers. So I didn’t put two and two together, and I didn’t even know about Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises until a few days ago. My friend Adrien made me google him and that’s when I found out about...the boys.” She says, stopping herself from saying her brothers as she was still unsure if Mr. Wayne actually wanted her like he wanted the others.

“Well I’m certain that things will start to calm down shortly. In the meantime, would you care for some tea?” Alfred asks, holding up the kettle. Marinette nods gratefully, trying hard to stop her inner spiral from drowning her.

---

“What do you mean daughter?” Damian snarls, finally switching to English. Bruce blinks at the boy before sighing.

“I mean, you have a biological sister.” He says, tired and wishing he had been able to convince Marinette to go somewhere else. Not that he didn’t want her to meet her siblings. But it definitely wasn’t the laid back first meeting that he wanted.

“You mean half-sister.” Damian spits out, crossing his arms and sticking his nose into the air.

“Shut up, Demon Spawn. She’s our sister, get over it. Where’d the kid come from? Her mom drop her off?” Jason asks, obviously trying to actually understand the situation.

“No. I first met her at the Museum and had my suspicions. She’s in Gotham on a class trip, and before you ask, yes. We had a DNA test done and yes, I am her father.” Bruce says, frowning when he sees Dick’s hurt expression morph into one of excitement.

“Wait, wait, wait! Was she the girl who was sassing the Joker?” He asks quietly, practically buzzing with excitement. When Bruce nods, Dick cheers and runs from the room. Okay then.

“Wait, she met the Joker?” Jason asks, his expression turning dark. Bruce watches his son’s face morph into one of disgust when he puts it together. “She’s the French kid he had at gunpoint, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Which is one of the reasons why we both thought the manor would be a more appropriate meeting place rather than somewhere public.” Bruce says, sighing as Damian once again starts screaming. This was not what he had planned.

---

After just a few minutes with Alfred, Marinette already felt calmer. Calm enough to giggle at another story about something that one of the boys- one of her brothers- did. Calm enough to let her guard down. And mess up.

“If you wanna see something ridiculous, you should look up the 26th time Monsieur Ramier was akumatized into Monsieur Pigeon. He made all the buildings turn into bird cages and all the food turned into bird seed. Luckily it didn’t last long, but seeing the Mayor of Paris stuck inside a giant bird cage was kind of hilarious.” Marinette rambles, giggling at the memory. It was definitely a needed akuma, situated right between two super destructive akumas. Monsieur Pigeon was, while a nuisance, always a breath of fresh air. His akumatized form was brought on by his fierce protectiveness of the pigeons, which luckily never led to death for civilians.

“Pardon me, Miss Marinette, but could I ask what you mean by ‘akumatized’?” Alfred asks, his posture suddenly stiff. Marinette’s eyes widen as she realizes what she just did. She told someone outside of Paris about the situation happening in Paris. Well crap. Normal Parisians didn’t know about the media block that she had set up with the help of the Mayor and Max. But after her calls to the Justice League were ignored, and she realized how disastrous it would be for a member of the League to be akumatized, the media block was the best choice. Time to act clueless.

“Akumatized, as in, a person is possessed by an akuma? Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s been happening in Paris for almost two years.” She says, hoping he doesn’t ask to see any evidence. This isn’t good, this is awful, this-

“And what is an akuma?” Alfred asks. Okay, this isn’t too bad.

“It’s an evil butterfly sent out by the villain, Hawkmoth.” Marinette says, giving out more information than she’s really comfortable with. Okay, time to change the subject, no more questions about heroes or villains or-

“Marinette!” A new voice calls, sliding into the kitchen, almost immediately falling over.

“Master Dick, have you forgotten about your ban on the kitchen?” Alfred asks, his lips quirking up in amusement.

“Awww, Alfred, I just wanted to talk to Marinette. I feel bad for all of us overwhelming her back there.” Dick says with a pout that somehow doesn’t look ridiculous on him. Despite obviously being at least ten years older than her.

“Don’t feel bad. It was just...a lot all at once.” Marinette says with a small smile.

“So I have to ask, are you the one who sassed the Joker at the Museum the other day?” He asks, a wide grin on his face as he sits on one of the stools. Marinette’s eyes widen and she blinks. How?

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess. It wasn’t a big deal though. He thought I was a Wayne- well, I guess he figured it out before I did- but I think he just wanted to scare my class.” She says, waving her hand to brush off the topic. She really didn’t want to talk about the Joker. Because she was sure it would turn into-

“I apologize for asking, but have you been caught up in the villain attacks in Paris before?” Alfred asks, Marinette instantly panicking. Sure, she’d been caught up in almost every single akuma battle as Ladybug. But there were a few on record where she was targeted as Marinette, and even a few battles that she assisted as Marinette. And then there was Kwami Buster…

“Well, a few. But basically everyone in Paris has dealt with it at some point. That’s just what happens when there’s an attack so often, you know? And my school seems to be a hotspot but that makes sense because teenagers are full of negative emotions and-” Marinette cuts off her rambling, cursing herself on the inside. Great job, Mari. Now they’re going to be worried or they’re going to think you’re a freak or-

“What do you mean negative emotions? Why would that matter?” Dick asks, his previous cheerful smile replaced with a look that clearly meant business.

“That’s how the villain chooses his targets. Negative emotion. If someone is having a bad enough day, he can take control of them and give them powers and basically destroy the city trying to get to Ladybug and Chat Noir, who are our heroes. I only know what’s been posted on official sites like the Ladyblog or miraculousparis.org.” Marinette says, smiling apologetically and hoping that this conversation can be over.

“Have you ever been akumatized?” Dick asks, tension suddenly filling the room.

“No, thankfully. I’ve found ways to manage my negative emotions so that they can’t take me over. I don’t blame anyone who has been akumatized, it’s hard not to be. But, I also don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if I was akumatized.” Because then her family would be a target. Because Hawkmoth would know her identity. And if Hawkmoth’s insistence on her being akumatized was anything to go on, she’d be a devastating akuma. And if Ladybug wasn’t fighting in the battle….would the cure even work?

“That is a lot of pressure, Miss Marinette.” Alfred says softly after a moment of tense silence. Marinette grins brightly.

“I can handle it, don’t worry!” She says, hoping no one can tell how hard it actually is. How hard it is constantly being strong. Never truly feeling a negative emotion.

---

Bruce winces at the faux cheerfulness in his daughter’s voice. He had only found out about the Paris situation a few days ago, but he was determined to fix it. Find a solution. Do something to help the city and by extension, his daughter. She’d be going back there soon. Back to a city that was being held hostage by an emotional terrorist. Bruce would fix this. He had to.

Tag list: @maribat-bdbwm @vixen-uchiha @stainedglassm @liquid-luck-00 @jayjayspixiepop @jjmjjktth @mizzy-pop @trippingovermyfeet @queenz-z @thepaceperson @iloontjeboontje @waiting247 @laurcad123 @toodaloo-kangaroo @ritacrow-blog @deathssilentapproach-blog @kittenmywaythrulife @imarivers8 @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks

#maribat bruce wayne #maribat #maribat marinette dupain cheng #maribat adrien agreste #maribat adrienette #maribat bio dad bruce #maribat bio dad! bruce wayne month 2021 #maribat bio dad au #maribat batfam #maribat dick grayson #maribat jason todd #maribat damian wayne #mbdbwm2021 #day five stories/memories #ao3fic

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

Text

Bullets and Bubble Baths | Tony Stark

Hey lovelies here's the first drabble for my Dinner at Dizzy's event!! Thank you all so much for your requests!! Enjoy!

Appetizers (Tags): Fluff / Angst

Entres (Pairing): Tony x F!Reader (Third Person)

Sides (Prompts): 11: “Oh my god, that was really violent.”, 23: “I have to protect the one thing that I can’t live without. That’s you.”

Notes: Y/n is Tony’s assistant, Tony's hella protective because she’s not an Avenger

Word Count: 1.4k

Dinner at Dizzy's Master List

She’s in the bathroom.

No, scratch that, she’s in the bathroom, vanilla bubbles up to her chest, soaking in the warmest, lavender scented water— with her boss. He’s not in the tub with her or anything, god forbid, but he’s there, yelling, and waving his arms around like a madman. Oh, and there’s gunshots— don’t forget about the gunshots that’s the most important part here. Why did she take his offer of moving into the Avenger’s Tower again?

Oh right— convenience.

“Tony what the fuck is going on?” She shrieks, trying to pull more bubbles over her chest but only ends up splashing water all over the floor.

He spins from the door which he has just locked, eyes blown wide, and she almost screams again. “Hydra— I think. Some big guys with guns. Steve’s down there now with Banner—”

A loud crash echoes from several floors below as if on cue, followed by another round of shots, and her heart skyrockets. She sits up, arms crossing over her chest frantically, listening for any noises that may be closer— like in her apartment closer. So far there are none but with her luck that’ll probably change. She turns back to the man in front of her, shivering from the cold air and the fear coursing through her veins.

She doesn’t want to scream again but she can feel it bubbling in her throat so she does the only thing she can think to do— she rambles. “How’d they get in? What do they want? Do you think Steve and Banner are okay? What are you doing in—”

She only stops when he drops in front of her, hands shooting out and wrapping around the back of her head, fingers twisting harshly in the wet strands of her hair as he yanks her mouth to his. It isn’t a heated kiss— more of a shut up or we’re going to die kiss— but for a moment it makes the world still, her heartbeat spiking for a whole different reason now. Maybe it wasn’t just convenience, maybe there was another reason she moved.

Before she can move her lips against his, he's pulling away from her, brown eyes searching over her face, probably making sure she’s not about to combust into words again. Don’t worry Tony, she’s too busy combusting into literal flames.

“I don’t know, okay? Not yet. Wasn’t exactly the right time to ask.”

“Tony—” he raises a brow and she shuts her mouth— right, they’re supposed to be laying low.

She lowers her voice a few octaves, whispering, all too aware of the fact that his lips are still only inches away from hers and that she still can hear bullets dinging off something metallic. Steve’s shield. Bucky’s arm. She swallows, fingers digging into her cold, wet flesh.

“Shouldn’t you be helping them?” Please don’t leave though, she adds in her head.

She has no idea why she asks. Courtesy maybe. Nerves or anxiety or the fact that she’s naked in a gunfight and he kissed her and she doesn’t know what else she can possibly say in this situation to make it okay. Nothing. She can say nothing. She regrets it immediately.

“I—” the door explodes, splintering into a hundred tiny pieces before he can finish— or even start, to be honest— his thought.

Before the scream can even rip up her throat he’s on his feet, gold and scarlet armour curling around his body. She must have missed him hitting the button on his watch thingy. Who can blame her, what with the large man that barrels into the bathroom, gun in hand. Gun pointed at her. So it’s just a party in the bathroom now, that’s cool. He scowls at her and she freezes, too numb to feel either cold or hot at this point. What the fuck did she do? She’s just trying to take a bath!

Cue the scream.

“Oh my god Tony look out!”

The man charges at him just as his helmet clamps shut, a sharp clang sounding through the bathroom, presumably a bullet bouncing off his armor, and he wastes no time holding an arm out and hitting the man square in the chest with a blast of god only knows what. She’s an assistant, she doesn’t get paid to know how his suits run. Then again she didn’t think she was getting paid to sit in luxurious bathtubs and get shot at either so maybe she just has no true grasp on her job and what it entails.

She watches, unable to look away, as he blasts him a few more times. She can’t see the man— the fire beam thing blasted him way out of the room the first time. She doesn’t even want to know what state he must be in right now. Rest in pieces, she supposes. She doesn’t have that much sympathy for the man who tried to put a bullet in her skull and made her waste her expensive bubble bath. Asshole. Still, after the fifth blast or so she decides that maybe it’s time to step in.

“Tony?” It’s almost silent, her voice shakier than she’s expecting after all the screaming.

From outside of the bathroom she hears the sound of metal clinking together, no doubt his armor retreating back into wherever it is that it goes when he isn’t using it. Seconds later the man— her boss— is running back into the room, chucks slipping against the tile as his eyes draw over her body frantically. It’s what makes her realize she isn’t numb anymore, the heat creeping up and over her chest. She lifts her arms higher, not looking down because she knows the bubbles are long gone.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Shit, what’s going on—”

He’s on his knees again, arms reaching out towards her, and she can’t think straight, she can only feel the hot tears beginning to drip down her face. “I— I think so? I don’t think I got hit. Are you okay? You got hit by a bullet! I just— I— Oh my god, that was really violent!”

She’s malfunctioning. Like on the fritz, fingers twitching, voice absolutely gone. Is this how Vision feels all the time? God, she hopes not. That would be awful. She feels Tony’s arms wrapping around her and her head flopping onto his shoulder but none of it really registers. She could have died. What the hell is her job?

“You’re okay. I got you.” He whispers.

“I’m an assistant.” She mumbles weakly against his shirt. “This was not part of the job description.”

He goes to pull away and she tenses, terror spiking through her veins. No, do not let go. She can’t handle it, not right now. She tightens her fists around his shirt, trying to keep him from shuffling too far away.

He doesn’t let go— not completely at least. He only backs up enough to look into her eyes, wincing slightly when he does, brown eyes filling with guilt. “I know, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t blame you if you left right now.”

She sighs, her shoulders sinking. Her face feels sticky, her chest cold, but no part of her feels like leaving. She’s terrified, yes, and pissed off that her bath got ruined. Her heart feels like it’s trying to escape her chest and she kind of wants to throw up. It’s awful and she hates feeling this way. But this is her home and him—

“Tony why did you come find me?” She whispers, the thought suddenly hitting her square in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs— he came for her instead of fighting with the rest of the team.

He doesn’t hesitate in pulling her closer to him again, this time his head sinking against her neck. “I have to protect the one thing that I can’t live without. That’s you. I had to make sure you were safe.”

Well, maybe he’s her home too.

She wraps her wet arms around him, soaking his shirt and simultaneously squeezing her to him as hard as she can. “Thank you.”

He nods against her shoulder, lips pressing into her skin. She smiles— they’re definitely going to need to talk about this tomorrow.

For now, though, she sinks deeper into him, letting her eyes flutter closed. “You owe me a new bubble bath, boss.”

#Tony Stark #tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #tony stark fic #tony stark fluff #tony stark angst #tony stark imagine #iron man #iron man x reader #iron man x y/n #iron man fic #iron man imagine #mcu #mcu fic #marvel cinematic universe #Dinner at Dizzy's

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suna-reversed · 3 years

Text

HQ boys as Taylor Swift songs-folklore

characters- Oikawa (exile), Atsumu (my tears ricochet), Meian (illicit affairs)

tags/warnings- ANGST, breakup, heartbreak, cheating, mentions of alcohol, manipulative behaviour, fluff in Meian’s if you squint

suggestions for pt2 would be appreciated (currently thinking of cardigan with Bokuto and hoax with Tsukishima)

Oikawa

“I can see you standin', honey

With his arms around your body

Laughin' but the joke's not funny at all”

He had told himself over and over again to not look; in the flight, in the ride to the hotel, even as he passed the entrance gates of the exquisite banquet hall where the reunion was being held. All he had to do was keep his eyes away.

But you were here, and he had never been good at withstanding the cosmic pull you always held. Even if you were in the arms of another, laughing like you always used to, with him.

I think I've seen this film before

And I didn't like the ending

“What changed, Tooru?” Your eyes were red and puffy, you had exhausted all your tears while he simply stood in the corner and watched.

“This isn’t going to work out y/n. We’re both miles away, with different lives, in different time zones, around different people; we can’t have a relationship built on nothi-” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “...I’m saving both of us from the pain that would come with splitting a few years down the line.”

“Do you still love me?”

Oikawa was familiar with the grief that came with loss; the grief of giving something every single bit of your soul, only to come out empty-handed and wounded.

“Go back home, y/n.”

You're not my homeland anymore

So what am I defendin' now?

You were my town

Now I'm in exile seein' you out

Perhaps he had damned himself to ruination. Given up without a fight. But that didn’t matter now.

You look ethereal, with stars in your eyes and glee in your smile. It doesn’t matter if he’s not the one behind it. You would have been a shell of who you are right now if you had stayed with him anyways.

He turns around, heading for exit.

Just one last time. He promises himself. His lips curve upwards into a bittersweet smile as he turns around to get his last look. Instead, he finds himself staring into the expanse of an entire galaxy. A cosmic explosion coming his way as the floor shifts from beneath him.

No, you definitely don’t sound the same.

How long has it been since he heard that voice?

“Not even gonna say goodbye before you leave Oikawa?”

What happened to your precious “Tooru”?

Atsumu

Even on my worst day, did I deserve, babe

All the hell you gave me?

The clock reads 01:27 am. You’ve been sitting on the couch for the past 3 hours, the untouched dinner on the table gone cold long ago. You hear the sound of a door slamming shut, hushed footsteps making their way towards the center of the apartment, coming to a halt at the sight of you.

“Why are you still awake?”

“You promised we’d have dinner together tonight.”

“Listen, it got late at practice, you could’ve just eaten without me.”

“You could’ve at least dropped a text.” You murmur, trying to keep your voice from breaking. This wasn’t the first time he had stood you up.

“It’s not that big of a deal y/n. You realise how important the upcoming match is to me, don’t you?” He sighs, shaking his head in disappointment, “Let’s just go to bed okay, I’m tired.”

“Okay.” You mutter, loosening your grip on the 2 year anniversary gift hidden below the couch cushion. A platinum ring with yours and Atsumu’s initials carved on the inside.

You wear the same jewels that I gave you

As you bury me

Atsumu’s vision is blurry, shirt drenched in sweat, his head pounding as he’s pushed against the wall. He doesn’t know whether it’s from the screaming match he just had with you, or from the two bottles he chugged at a shady bar right after he walked out.

All that matters right now is the feeling of the hands of the girl that’s kissing his jaw. The same spot where you had pressed a chaste kiss not too long ago as you told him that you were going to leave-

No, he’s not going to think about it. All that matters is the touch of skin against skin, filling in the void you caused as he kneads the supple flesh of her thigh with his hand. The same hand that bore a platinum ring, the letters engraved inside of it now fatuous and futile.

You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same

Cursing my name, wishing I stayed

You turned into your worst fears

No, no, no.

Why are you here?

Why are you back?

“I had hoped we could talk-” You take a deep breath, feet stuck in place as you lay your eyes upon the marks littering his jaw, his neck, going much farther down-

A sob comes out from deep inside your chest.

No, no, no.

He’s looking at you, your crestfallen face, tears falling off of it like british showers.

He’s acting before he can think, falling to his knees, grabbing onto your waist as you try to walk out.

“No! Angel, please just let me explain. I thought you were never coming back- I would've never-”

“Never what Atsumu?!” Your voice is louder than you expected it to be.

“Never what? A single fight is all it takes for you to discard everything we ever had? For you to step over everything I put into a relationship that has barely even existed for so long!”

He’s never heard you shout before. But it's okay, it’s okay if you shout at him, if you break a few things, hell you can wreck his whole apartment if it means that you’re staying for even just a moment longer.

But you’re not. You’re pushing him away, movements stern, as you try to make your way to the door. All he can do is cling onto you, crying your name over and over again as he racks his brain for a way to make you stay.

Why was it always you who knew what to say when it came to fixing things?

Meian

Make sure nobody sees you leave

Hood over your head

Keep your eyes down

Tell your friends you're out for a run

You'll be flushed when you return

You knew there were aspects of his life he had no control over. After all, he was watched by thousands of eyes everyday; the star player, the golden boy; the captain of MSBY. So how does it matter if you had to go a mile extra to hide what you had?

You loved who he was as a person and how he made you feel. Good-morning and goodnight texts, warm cuddles after matches, dancing in the kitchen to songs you don’t know the name of, late night drives to get takeout or go stargazing, laughing till you were on the floor crying. You loved him so much.

And that's the thing about illicit affairs

And clandestine meetings

And stolen stares

They show their truth one single time

But they lie, and they lie, and they lie

A billion little times

“Volleyball player Meian Shugo spotted with a blonde beauty at the MSBY vs Adlers afterparty. Could she be his rumoured girlfriend that we’ve been kept in the dark about all along? Read more for exclusive deta-”

You can’t shed a single tear staring at the cover of the magazine. Not because your heart hasn't just been ripped out of your chest, but because you’re in public, standing in line at the grocery store picking up snacks for you and...Meian.

Why did you not see this coming? What hurt more was that you knew the girl. Meian had introduced you to her as a friend, and her as his social media manager. So this was clearly a misunderstanding right? It had to be. Despite telling yourself that over and over again, you still couldn’t get the picture of his arm wrapped around her waist and the smile etched onto his face out of your mind as you drove home, tears blurring your vision.

Don't call me kid

Don't call me baby

Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me

“Baby please listen to me-”

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch. You don’t know how long ago you stopped screaming, how long ago the anger dissipated and the rage turned into silent sobs, leaving behind a gaping hollow feeling in your chest.

You feel him shift closer to you but you don’t at him, still sniffing, your head buried in your arms.

“She was at the party because she’s our manager, you know Jessi-”

“Don’t say her name.” you hiss out.

“I wish I never met you, I wish I never got into this stupid arrangement. I wish-” You’re rambling now, sobs escaping between every few words as you try to comprehend the situation, “I hate this. I hate you.”

Heavy silence hangs in the room.

And you know damn well

For you I would ruin myself

A million little times

You find arms being wrapped around you and your head being pulled into a warm chest. You try to fight at first, but you’re tired; your throat hurts, your eyes burn and everything feels so cold, so you let yourself guiltily fall into his comfort, pathetically sobbing into his neck.

He patiently waits for your sobs to quiet down, one hand rubbing gentle circles onto your back while the other cradles the back of your head.

“She was at the party with the whole team and the publicist used it as a way to create gossip. That’s all there is to it. I had not given my consent for them to go ahead with this, but they refused to make our relationship public. Apparently, they didn’t think that the age gap between us would reflect well on my reputation.”

Meian’s heart breaks at the sound that leaves you as he says that, your hand gripping onto the fabric of his shirt as you start sniffing once more.

“I don’t care about what they say princess, you know that.” He kisses the top of your head, pulling you even closer to himself as if he could absorb the pain from you.

“I’m so sorry, give me another chance please. I didn’t tell you because I knew it’d hurt you. I promise I’ll make it up to you, please?”

You look up at him. His eyes are filled with tender love and pure adoration, it makes your heart melt. You nod, burying your face into the crook of his neck. Of course you would, he's your precious Meian, you’d always forgive him. Why did you ever think he’d do anything to hurt you?

Meian smiles into your hair, ignoring the sound of the notification popping up on the phone kept on the table,

Jessica: hey, we're still on for tonight right ? ;)

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