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vacantgodling · 1 year

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vessel

since some have expressed some interest in a fear excerpt i posted, i figured i’d post the whole Scene. context doesn’t necessarily help per se but i hope it’s scary!

wip: jenna the reaper (2) *i haven’t thought of a separate title for the book after the first jenna the reaper but overall jenna the reaper, jenna and the witch king, as well as the prequels donut wip & noi, alone are apart of a series called the liminal space series. :)

character(s): jenna magboo, yehna, carlos carvalho (pov), adunni magboo, kashmira magboo, noi randiche

learning what jenna now is comes at a dangerous price

warning(s): horror, body horror, demonic shit, gore, blood, all that fun shit lol— also zaglo text for demon speak :D

“This isn’t the first time they’ve tried to use a human.” Noi pushed their braids away from their face, revealing a dark eyepatch wrapped in bandages, branded with a red sigil. “In fact, they’ve been looking for a success like you two,” They pointed at Jenna, “For ages.”

“Like us?” Carlos was still trying to get used to the double layer of Jenna’s voice— even knowing that Yehna was in there talking through his best friend made his stomach goddamn queasy. Jenna didn’t look any better, still seeming startled when Yehna spoke up as well as a frown pulled over her face. “What do you mean?”

Noi sighed. “Humans are interesting creatures; they have a capacity to overcome their initial instincts for survival. If a Reaper takes over a griffin, they still have mating season; if a Reaper takes over a succubus, they still need to feed on the life force of men.” Jenna and Carlos exchanged glances, the same thought coming to mind. “They can not accomplish everything that they want to do because they’re bound to the nature of the creatures they inhabit.”

“So you say,” Yehna’s deeper octave cut in. “That humans are ‘blank slate’?”

“Something like that.” Noi tapped their chin. “Humans are what we would call vessels. Possessing another creature is doable— even easy— but it won’t produce the same results. A human however…”

“What are you trying to say?” Carlos rapped his foot impatiently on the grass, trying to resist the urge to pace. “I mean— that’s all well and good, humans are easily ‘possessable.’ All the horror movies I’ve watched could’ve told me that. But how are they a success? Hate to say it, but Jenna’s still alive.”

Saying it aloud was something different entirely, but it was something all three of them had been thinking about since Jenna came to after turning: how the hell was she still conscious, or even alive, with a Death God incubating in her frail human body. Noi grimaced, Jenna’s face stayed impasse.

“Not full power yet.” Yehna finally said, and Carlos glared, his face softening when he was met with Jenna’s familiar features. “How long will it take?” Noi asked. Jenna’s small shoulders shrugged. “Maybe year to day.”

“A year?!”

“That’s actually more time than I thought we’d have.”

“But what if she’s just saying that? How can you trust her?!”

“I never said I trusted her.” Noi gave him a Look. “But it wouldn’t be in her best interest to lie to me.” The perspective of the forest seemed to narrow— darkness crept around the edges of Carlos’s peripheral vision. A creaking, chattering noise started off as a whisper then suddenly crescendoed into all manner of grating winds and the screeching of metal on static. Carlos held his ears, cursing loudly, and Jenna initially covered her ears too. Just as quickly however her hands fell to her sides and she rose— scythe in hand and that same sickly green hue as before coating the whites of her irises. Her pupils were impossibly small.

Yehna.

“What you?” Yehna snarled, and for once, an expression came over Jenna’s face— twisting up her placid features into a terrifying visage, teeth bared. She lunged at Noi, scythe cocked back in a deadly arc, and the force of her push off sent Carlos toppling. “Jenna!”

The static noise grew louder, to the point where Carlos felt a wetness begin to ooze out of his ears. That’s blood! He thought in a panic. Yehna threw Jenna’s arm back, parchment white and covered in black veins, contrasting the grip of her dark, human colored other hand gripping the weapon above it. She swung.

Nothing happened.

Rather— the chattering stopped, as abruptly as it began. Carlos scrambled for his glasses, pushing them onto his face.

The right side of Noi’s body was still there, however, the left side… Carlos couldn’t process it. It reminded him of the morning Graciela woke him up with cries of a “monster” chasing her through her dreams; she’d described it, then came home from school with a drawing of it: a mass of dark, unidentifiable scribbles taking on the silhouette of a man. Yehna’s scythe was hovering inches from its— Noi’s— neck.

“Ỵ̷͚̳̄ȍ̷̮ṷ̴̅ ̶̪̔c̸̙͖͔̆a̷͔͎̝̾̽ň̵̳͇͓̓͐ṅ̷̖̝͓͝ọ̶͙̘̓ẗ̴̻͒̾ ̸̛̘͎ͅc̶̹̆̂u̵̯͙̔̄ẗ̸̳̖̈́̚ ̷̭̟̩͘m̷͙̼̖̌͗e̴̞͎̻͋̏̒ ̴͍̈̆ͅw̶͉̲͌͋͌ḯ̵̢̭t̸̠̾̽͝h̸̺̋͛͠ ̶̢̩̾͌̑t̶̥̳̰̎h̸̙͔͛̿a̵̘͇͋t̵̡͈̱͌ ̸̼̾̒t̶̡̛̞̒̑h̴̡̦̏̒͆ĭ̶̺͎̽͘n̷̟̲̼̊̋g̵̜̦̽.”

With the swipe of Noi’s hand, Jenna flew backwards, scythe clattering to the ground and skidding, killing everything that it touched as it slid. The grass underneath it was dead and black, leaving a dark, oozing, trail in its wake. Carlos stumbled to his feet, running over to Jenna when her body thwacked against a tree.

By the time he reached her, it seemed Yehna had momentarily retreated; Carlos cradled Jenna’s head, checking for concussion and when her eyes fluttered open, her irises were crisp and white.

Whatever the fuck Noi was however— was still very present, and slowly ambling towards them.

“Jenna?? Jenna!”

“... Carlito…”

“Dammit, don’t die on me! We need to get out of here!”

The static sound screeched loud once again and Carlos nearly dropped her head to instinctually cover his ears— it took everything in his willpower not to, and the blood flowed from them once again. Jenna fared no better and he grabbed her ears, covering them with his hands. He felt her blood gush over his fingers.

“Y̶͍̲͉̽̔o̷̗͛û̸͖͙͛ ̷̣͍͛̏ĉ̷̬̒a̸̳̬̍͜ǹ̴̬ṇ̸͛̐͘ô̶̘͙t̶̩͚̞̑͠ ̴̺̎̾ė̸̩̪͓̎s̸̼͙̒͛c̵̛̪̲a̵͇͊̐p̴̗̎̃e̷̗̝͆̈́̌ͅ ̷̬͚͙̔̊̑ḿ̶̘͋e̴̮̅̏.̷̡̀̕ ̵̧̈́́I̴̛͙̥̗͂͛ ̴͈͚̾̑͘ͅa̴̞̋̕m̵̪͍̬̎̿́ ̵̙̟͎̂͒f̶͖͂̿͗r̸̞̟̟͠e̸̟̻͊̌͝ë̴̪̟̩́d̴̯͎̗̍ ̵͈͌͘f̶̜͈̩̓̌͑r̵͈̻͈̿̈ǫ̵̗̅m̶͖̥̍ͅ ̵͚͊ţ̵̆͆h̷̝̳̎a̶͉̝̘͋̽̏t̶̮̿͠ ̴̧̟̫͆̀̈́w̴̢̙̎̀͆r̸̥̿̅ȇ̸̪̣̑t̴̖̿̔c̷̹̪̔h̸̻̭̐͌͝e̵͓̟͐d̷̥̆̓͛ ̷̝̰̈́̿͒m̵̡̔̌a̷̗͒̿̕r̵̭̝̙͗k̴̢͕͙̊͐.̷͇̤̍̕ ̷͚̻̦̔̒̋ .”

Carlos chanced a look again, and the chattering, twisting, reviling half of Noi’s face was making their head tilt to the side, unnaturally, he might add. The crack of bones in their neck, leaving their head entirely horizontal sent something more primal than fear rushing through him. He grabbed Jenna’s shoulders, shaking her violently.

“Jenna! Wake the fuck up!”

Jenna’s eyes flashed open again and the sickly green was back. “Jenna no move.” Yehna told him, her deep voice curling inside his head and around his nerve endings. “Paralyzed. Hit spine.”

“Fuck!” Carlos scooped Jenna up in his arms as best he could, but the static noise suddenly quadrupled and crushed him to the floor with its weight. He remembered screaming out in some kind of agony, his bones literally morphing under the pressure. He was going to die here. He was fucking going to die here.

“Lose your eyepatch, dearie?”

A different voice cut through the fray and it was like sunlight slicing through this oppressive, all encompassing darkness. Carlos didn’t realize he’d shut his eyes (that would explain the darkness, though his vision was swimming) but when he peeled them open, a dark leg was standing in front of him. It was barefoot, white ink sigils dancing up and around it, changing and swirling, but constantly in motion like a rushing river. An anklet was tied around the leg with old, worn twine, but the twine sparkled in his vision— something that made him pause.

What kind of magic is that? Carlos found himself asking. Managing to pull his other eye open was a task, but he did, then pulled himself up to drag himself over to Jenna. Her eyes were open, irises white.

“Mom.” She whispered. Mom, not mother, meaning this was—

The woman stepped towards Noi, the chatter, static and chaos seeming to siphon every step she took closer to them. She bent, picking up the cloth patch from the grass, dusting it off with beautiful, long fingers, and with ease, she reached around the half-human half-defunct silhouette and tied the patch around their head. Light returned to the forest instantly, and the chatter stopping felt like taking the first deep breath you can after almost drowning.

“You need to be more careful with that dear.” He heard the woman say to Noi. Noi’s expression was hard to make out with this tall, long limbed person blocking his view, but he could tell from the tilt of their head that they were looking down, ashamed.

“My apologies.” Their voice was mouse-like. “... It must be getting stronger…”

“No harm, no foul!” Carlos absolutely begged to differ. “My wife is excellent at containment spells! I can have her cook you up something stronger.”

“I— My thanks…”

With that settled, the woman turned to he and Jenna, striding over in a few steps. She knelt, grasping his free hand, and Carlos tried not to start.

“You must be Carlito! My, Jenna has told me so much about you, and I can’t thank you enough for looking out for her while I’m away.”

“I… she… Jenna’s hurt.”

“Oh?” The woman frowned. She reached over and easily pulled Jenna into her lap. She put a dark hand on Jenna’s forehead, thinking for a moment. Then, she hummed. “Her new friend seems to be healing her up quite nicely.” At the mention, Jenna’s vision focused slowly once more and she looked up at her mom, something like joy lighting up her dark eyes.

“Mom, you’re home.” The woman laughed and it was like bells. “I am! I wanted it to be a surprise for your mother, but she’s probably already sensed my magic by now. Let’s get you kids back home.” She looked over her shoulder, beckoning Noi closer. Noi shuffled towards them. Carlos watched them, warily.

“Don’t be shy!” Once Noi was standing mere inches from them, a different white inked sigil appeared on the woman’s hand and she snapped her fingers. Suddenly, they were sitting in the tiny living room of the Magboo household, the fragrant smell of Kashmira’s cooking easing some of Carlos’s frazzled nerves.

“Is that you, starlight?” Kashmira called. The woman stood, carrying Jenna with her, and set her gently on the couch. The woman turned to him. “Be a dear and get her a blanket, would you?” Carlos nodded to her request and finding his limbs much more attached than broken and gelatin like, he stood, helping himself to the hall closet. It took a moment (the magical depths were hard to search through when you still didn’t have much magic of your own), but the closet pitied him, as it always did, and chucked a blanket out at him and into his arms. He rushed back to Jenna with it and wrapped her in it, adjusting her pillow once he was done. She looked up at him with a wry-for-Jenna expression.

“Haven’t put it together yet, Carlito?”

“Haven’t put what?”

“That’s my other mom. Adunni.”

Understanding morphed onto Carlos’s face. He’d heard so much about her but had never seen her once in the entire 10 years that he and Jenna had been friends. In the kitchen he heard something akin to laughter and cooing, and my god, he’d never ever heard Kashmira make any noise that wasn’t talking, or stern tutting.

“Nooré cheshm-am, doudou. I have missed your handsome face.” Kashmira said and he heard a soft pucker of lips, so perhaps they kissed. Jenna looked towards the kitchenette. “Get a room!” She called and laughter bubbled from the small room. The two women stepped out of the kitchen hand in hand.

“Carlos,” Kashmira addressed him first. “This is Adunni. I know the two of you have not met yet—“

“But it feels as though I’ve known you for years!” Adunni beamed and Carlos couldn’t help but smile back, it was contagious. When he looked back at Jenna, her eyes were smiling, and he supposed that was good enough.

“It’s really nice to meet you.” He said sincerely. Adunni laughed, stepping towards him and scooping him up in a hug. Her arms were long and strong and he gasped, but hugged her back. “Don’t be a stranger! I’m your other mom!” Carlos laughed again.

“Don’t break him, mom.” Jenna chided. “I need him for things.”

“Oh? Such as?” Carlos asked, turning to Jenna when Adunni released him. “Who else is going to save the poor, defenseless people of Braebrooke from unseen horrors, Carlito?”

“God, I hate when you call me that.” He smiled.

Eventually, Carlos glanced at Noi sitting quietly in the reclining chair, looking at their hands. Jenna also noticed.

“Is that what you meant?” She asked. Noi slowly looked up at her, eyes lifeless. “By what?”

“That humans are vessels.” Carlos finished. “... You’re a vessel… aren’t you?”

Noi didn’t say anything for a moment. A long moment.

Finally, a simple: “Yes.”

#s: the liminal space series #s: jenna the reaper #ren writing

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nicetrynicetry · 5 months

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107

Tuesday and the cold is in my chest, I sip cough syrup while walking to the train. I have a massage on the books but postpone for the third time, because I know my nose will drip through the head-hole, and I worry having a Thai woman press my lungs into the table might start a coughing fit that won’t stop. I am so thrilled to have this genre of problem. I think of a question I got on Instagram yesterday: “worst dating experience?” and how I initially typed “Rape!” before changing my answer to “he vaped during sex”, prompting several follow-up questions about whether I had slept with Leonardo DiCaprio, a known sex vaper

I finish the audiobook of child actor Jeanette McCurdy’s memoir “I’m Glad My Mom Died”. It reminds me of problems I never had but have been party to - the girls in my eating disorder group who worked for months on trying to reduce the calls from and to their mothers from 50 to 40 a day. It reminds me of problems I do have - the damaging and nihilistic interaction between bulimia and drinking alone, which still seem to go so well together even after 7 years of not drinking. I notice how I give myself free passes when McCurdy describes her bulimic patterns and they differ from mine, especially when they seem more severe than mine. “Purging 10 times a day?”, I think to myself Spotify feeding the next chapter into my ears, “there but for the grace of god go I”. (Reader, I went there every day between 2009 and 11)

I seize upon the times McCurdy exhibits less self-control than me and feel smug, and when she describes running more and for longer than I do, I ball my fists in jealousy. I wonder whether it feels this much like a contest to every other girl with an eating disorder. Impossible to parse, since so few admit to it. I don’t act on the competitive urges anymore, but they are there, ambient, like a waiting room television. I think of V always wanting to know how someone died so she can evade death for longer, and how maybe the morbid curiosity about other people’s eating disorders is just the opposite, namely we want to know how to die most efficiently, with the most perceived glory. Or perhaps, like V, we don’t want to die, and want to learn from others where the brink is, how to make life bearable without ending it

Tuesday evening is spent in a heated back and forth with C, whose name I mentioned when someone asked me “who do you most hate being compared to?”. C is upset, and correctly so. There is what modern parlance calls “spilling tea”, and there is wanton cruelty. I meet her first text with indignant rage, then quickly begin crying as I type each subsequent response, softening with every tear. Rarely does my anger so immediately turn to sadness, even though the former is only ever a smokescreen for the latter. There is so much going on in my feelings about C — resentment, jealousy, embarrassment, judgement, longing, awe, competition — that it is hard to study one at a time. So much of it seems common in female friendships, almost intrinsic. There is the face to face interaction and there is what you each say about the other in private. The rewards are ginormous when it works, and it has worked with C. Then she does something I don’t understand or respect, I move away out of exasperation, there is distance, everything that made us allies suddenly makes us adversaries. “I have stuck around for 7 years”, C says, “even though it has been hard”. We actually met in 2019, but I don’t say this, and simply assume that the bond has been so arduous for her it almost feels like double the time. We leave off in a more measured place. I apologise three times, drink more cough syrup for good measure, cheersing myself with the bottle and some flat San pellegrino

All signs point to crawling back to therapy. There is a lot I am not allowing myself to feel. My granny is having the glands in her neck cut out this month because there is cancer there. I haven’t yet looked directly at the possibility of losing her. I miss M, whose new recovery life has rejigged our friendship and our schedules. I am lonely and despondent and in a rut. This will be 2024’s resolution: to feel everything

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youresomebodyelse · 2 years

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Relapse.

I was clean for almost three years. Thought I was over it. Of course I still thought about it. Not everyday not every week. But I guess I did thought about it at least once a month. I didn’t cut myself for almost three years even tho I was really close to it sometimes. The thoughts and emotions you get after you relapse are a big thing to me and I didn’t want to feel them so I stayed away. It was long period of time. Three years in which happened a lot and sometimes I wasn’t really able to handle everything but somehow I got thru it without hurting myself.

It’s 2022 now and this years I relapsed. Not just once. No I relapsed twice and I hate myself so much for being that weak and dumb. The first time I relapsed a few days after my birthday. I was full off emotions but mostly bad ones I couldn’t handle. There were too much emotions and they were too strong. Mostly sadness, hate, selfhate, jealousy and anger. At this time I wanted to punch a wall, cut myself, beat a specific person up or get beaten up but I never did till this day. It was just too much and I wanted to calm myself down and didn’t wanted to think about something. I knew I still had a razor from 3 years ago I never used but kept „just in case“. So I used it. It was pretty late that day and I was pissed off by myself and how I’m not able to handle normal emotional situations like a normal human being. I was listening to some music and suddenly a song was playing and I was like „yea no that was the last straw“ so I took the blade and started to cut myself. I didn’t wanted to let myself go off on myself so I controlled myself on how often I cut. While I did it the thoughts went quiet. The emotions weren’t present anymore and I just cried. The blood started dripping and everything went quiet. I felt calm like I haven’t had in a long period of time. It helped so much but after a few minutes the selfhate came up. Couldn’t believe I just throw away 3 years. For what? Just so my head is quiet and I feel calm for a few minutes? Why did I put more scars on my body. Why have I done something so god damn stupid? I hated myself so much but I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again…jokes on me…

Yesterday I relapsed again but this time I didn’t felt anything and wanted to feel something. I don’t really have any emotions at the time and kinda just exist and do my job. I don’t really feel anything (a few exceptions) since almost over a year now and I have no clue why it is like that. Everything goes according to plan. I‘m figuring things out and I live on my own again since a few month. I felt kinda good for awhile and everything was fine. And now I don’t feel anything. I‘m numb and kinda feel like nothing. I don’t really care about anything and nothing really phrases me. There is nothing. Day after day there weren’t any emotions and I feel like they won’t come back in the next few months. Yea there are a few good sides on feeling nothing but mostly it’s just exhausting and I kinda hate myself cause I was on the right track to become better. But there are periods of time when I feel something. But as I already said just bad emotions. Mostly it’s just anger, jealously, hate and so on - of course there are days on which I feel happy and everything’s fine but those days are kinda rare at the moment. I felt like cutting again for like 4-5 weeks but I didn’t have had any time and if I had time I wasn’t able to get myself up so that’s kinda good for me I guess. Yesterday it was different. I felt miserable but not because of emotions no. I felt miserable cause I didn’t felt anything and there was just a big hole inside of me that absorbed everything. The razor was still there and I knew that - so I grabbed it. I disassembled the razor and took the blades. There is always this moment before you cut yourself. I asked myself if I really want to do it and if it’s worth it, tried to fight the urge and don’t give in - everything was quiet and there were a million thoughts running thru my head. Then I cut. I didn’t looked while doing it cause I already felt like a fool. I cut once I cut twice, then the third and fourth time…it ended up with 14. While harming myself I felt nothing and that was kinda a problem. It didn’t stop bleeding for almost an hour and I couldn’t do anything except wait. Within this one hour I started crying and built up so much hate and selfdoubt. Didn’t knew why I did this again even tho I promised myself to not do it again. Even tho I knew how I would feel after I still did it. But why? At what cost? It didn’t change anything I’m still numb and there aren’t any feelings. The only thing that changed is the selfhate because I’m so god damn naive

Relapse.

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seilon · 3 years

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yet another night spent looking at top surgery places that take my insurance knowing damn well im trapped in this hell indefinitely just as I have been for like seven fucking years and there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s all in my mother’s hands despite the fact that I am turning 21 this year

#kibumblabs #I’m going to seriously fucking kill myself if this doesn’t end it’s been too fucking long and I’m so tired I’m so fucking tired #I was hopeful about T too and I was so fucking close I have the care plan and everything but I can’t go through with it unless it’s okayed #by her which it never fucking will be like I can’t believe this is still happening like I’m a minor who needs consent when I am twenty #with an extensive documented history of dysphoria I can’t fucking do this anymore but what choice do I have lol!!!!!#not to mention now is the perfect time to consult for top surgery because I won’t be in school again until spring so I’d actually have #recovery time if I could just fucking GET THE GOD DAMN SURGERY #uahshshdjdjdjffjfjjgjg #that ones even more concrete than T like you can’t fucking gaslight me on that cause it’s not all in my head #I mean neither is my reasoning for wanting T but top surgery’s to another extent #I’ve worn binders for literally years. I used to bind with ace bandages knowing they were horrible but too fucking desperate to care #that’s…. I just……how can you legitimately say to me that I don’t know what I want or that I don’t actually have an identity?#honestly how fucking dare you. legitimately from the bottom of my heart #I just constantly think to myself more and more I can’t take it anymore I can’t stand it I can’t do it anymore but I’m still sitting here #taking it. cause what the fuck else do I do. I mean obviously there’s only one way out of it but I’m not.. god #it just feels like mockery becuase it’s all extremely accessible to me I have everything I need to do both of these things and EASILY. she’s #the only thing in my way. literally the only thing right now that’s in my way. this an invisible wall fully made up of my own necessary #respect in order to keep living in my god damn house with my god damn insurance #well it’s almost 5:30am and im going to get a headache from crying who knows if I’ll be able to sleep with ythe sun coming up. doubtful #god I haven’t had the urge to cut in years and I won’t because it’s summer and I can’t get away with it w a jacket but boy!

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strawbxrryneptune · 3 years

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Level Two

Word count: 2.6K

Cw: pussyjob, exhibitionism, slight voyeurism, oral (fem!receiving), infidelity if you squint, unedited.

This fic and the fics following will contain monster fucking, cucking and threesomes!! If you are not comfortable, try out some of my other works, and Miggi's creations, but if you wish to proceed, remember, sharing is caring.

Prev~♡ Next ~♡

@miggiisdumb

From a young age you were taught to keep your emotions in check. Queens must never show weakness to enemies. Crying and screaming were to be left in private, so that you came off as cool and collected. The Mushroom kingdom needs someone level-headed. They need someone they know won't act rashly.

You came to a conclusion that you were the one they needed, the Queen that could handle herself in any situation. You could get a husband, rule a kingdom, maybe even raise some spawns of yourself. You were convinced you had the bag, but now, sitting on a boulder at the falls and watching two sweaty, bulky men wrestle and growl at each other, you weren't so sure.

You had been trying to keep your emotions in check the whole week. Kirishima was constantly inviting you to hang with him and Bakugou, and you didn't know how much you could take. Kirishima's kisses had you on fire,, his big hands grabbing at your ass and tongue sliding against yours, but Bakugou's heated stares and occasional touches had your head spinning in confusion and arousal. He had a weird thing for grabbing and kneading at your hips, and it was starting to get to you.

Kirishima had invited you to join him and Bakugou in a swim at the falls, the water there crisp and beautiful, said to bring years of youth to whoever was worthy. Of course, you agreed. Any princess would jump at the opportunity to swim in a magic body of water with her suitor and his dreamy friend. Kirishima had shown up in blue swim trunks, an extra change of clothes cradled in his strong arms and some sandwiches to munch on later. Bakugou wore a black loin cloth, bigger and a little longer than the one he usually wore. His choker and bracelets were laid out in the grass next to Kirishima's clothes and the food, but he didn't look any less intimidating. If anything, he looked even scarier, hair drenched and falling down around his eyes, glowing red as he growls and bares his fangs, pouncing on Kiri and snarling out threats.

"M'gonna destroy you, Red."

"You have to catch me first, Bro!"

Kirishima dives under the water, Bakugou following shortly after, and you chuckle to yourself.

Soon, though, you start to get worried, cause it's been almost 2 minutes and they haven't come back up.

Calling their names, you shrug your cover up off and get in the water, shivering slightly at the chill. As you get deeper and deeper, water up to your chest, you start to panic.

"Kiri? Bakugou? If this is a joke it's not-ah-!"

You scream in surprise and slight fear as you're suddenly lifted onto a broad, scarred chest. Your thighs are on either side of it, and tense up when you feel the vibrations of a deep, raspy chuckle, and you fight the urge to thread your shaky fingers in ash blonde hair.

"Bakugou, put me down."

You try to keep your voice leveled but he picks up on the tremble, big, warm hands reaching up to grab at the fat of your hips, lifting you up further onto his chest.

"That wouldn't be fun now would it Princess?"

You gasp, glancing down at how your cunt is inches away from his mouth, drool spilling around the corners as he struggles to keep his eyes on yours.

“Seriously, y-you gotta…” your voice wavers as you meekly push at his drenched hair, momentarily losing your train of thought when he’s tongue lolls out, sticky with saliva and long. “What if Kiri sees us?”

“If ya keep quiet, he won’t.” The fleeting look of hunger and a nip on your thigh is all the warning you get.

Bakugou guns for your cunt before you can answer and you act like he shocked you by the way you lurch forward, jaw slanted, clinging to his curved horns, entire body shivering from the firm laps on your mound. Even with the bottom half of the swimsuit on, you could still feel every lick in pin point detail, every nudge of his hot muscles between your folds, just barely pressing into your hole and tongue flicking over your clit. Bakugou can feel it too- the way you're throbbing on his tongue, can even taste the mix of his drool and your arousal seeping through quicker then he was lapping. It drove him wild.

He groans, eyes a little crossed to watch his handy work, hoists you higher and shakes his head further between your legs and your eyes roll back when he starts sucking on your entire pussy. Too hard for you to keep quiet. Too hard for the slurps not to sound exactly like what it looks like.

“B-Bakugou, it’s too much!” You pant, quick and shallow, yet use your weak grip on his horns to hump his face desperately. “I think I’m g-gonna… gonna…!”

He growls, literally growls like the beast he is, and you almost do cum just by his fiery look up at you with a mouthful of your twitching cunny, unlatching with a wet pop that has sticky strings of your slick smacking on his chin.

“Take it off.” He demands, words coming out muffled because he’s already back on your cunt. “Wanna taste you cummin’ in my mouth. C’mon, Princess. Lemme drink you up, baby.”

A shaky hand slips between the two of you, pulling your bathing suit to the side, and the next moment you’re squealing to the heavens above when Bakugou curled his tongue into you, spreading your walls apart on his tongue. His eyes flickered closed with a deep moan at the sensation of you spasming around him, juices nearly flooded into his mouth, but he gulps it down greedily, Adam’s apple bobbing and cheeks hollowing.

You have no idea how long you stayed arched in his mouth riding out your orgasm, unable to tell if you were seeing clouds or if your vision really went that blurry. For one last time, Bakugou shook his head on your cunt and pulled back with a “puah!”, hot huffs of his breaths panting on your drenched up sex. God, you tasted better than you smelled. Bakugou would live between your thighs if he could, make you moan and squeal like you did, make you flush and look completely fucked out, so pretty as you stare down at him with lidded, hazy eyes, plump lips parted to catch your breath, gentle fingers raking his hair and the base of his horns that sent shivers down his spine.

He’d have you forever if he could. If only you weren’t promised to-

“Bakugou, you drowned or something? Where are you, man?” Kirishima’s voice comes from behind some boulders a small distance away from where the two of you are and your heart skyrockets to your throat, the sudden tightness in your gut clenching all of you up in dread. Bakugou on the other hand just slid you down into the water, trying to keep any splashing sounds to a minimum, though both of you had to swallow back a sound when you brushed over his bulge on the way down.

Bakugou swims by you in time to Kiri finally rounding the rocks, brows creased and a little pout on his lips, and you relaxed a bit when you realized he was upset over swimming alone all this time. His eyes flick from Bakugou to you, pout disappearing as he perked up a bit in surprise.

“(Y/N), when did you get into the water?”

You open your mouth but don't get a word out. “Came in lookin’ f’us.” Bakugou says nonchalantly, glances over his shoulder to you and you don’t miss the heat of his stare bouncing up your form for a hot second. “Clearly worried over nothin’.”

Oh, this bastard…

Kirishima hums as he swims your way, gives you his million dollar sweet smile with a gentle cup of your cheeks. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Your bottom lip puckers in a pout even though you’re already long since mad, specially with his thumb brushing drawing circles on your cheek. “Just warm me next time. Thought you idiots drowned yourselves…”

“Sorry sorry.” He laughs and pecks you a few times all over your face, until he’s kissing you on the lips, a kiss that goes on longer than expected as he slots his mouth with yours and moves his lips with passion and adoration. Your mind gets fuzzy, consumed by Kiri’s kiss and body still reeling from your moment with Bakugou, your thighs clenching underwater because your insides craved for more.

When Kirishima pulls away, you catch a fleeting glance over to Bakugou, a heavy and solemn look on his face, conflict in his eyes before he turns away too late once he caught you staring and it all comes rushing down on you- the clear weight of guilt on your shoulders. The worst part is that you don’t know what it’s aimed at- for going behind Kirishima’s back like this? Or for making Bakugou see you with someone else while he gets scraps of affection?

You tell Kirishima that you’re alright when he asks if something is wrong, then go back to growing when he turns to resume wrestling his friend.

Way to keep your emotions in check, huh?

The rest of the morning goes by fast, the guys wolfing down their sandwiches and still being hungry, Kirishima offering to run into town quickly and grab some more food.

You agree, standing up to go with him but being surprised when he pushes you back down, a look you can't place in his eyes as his own flicker to Bakugou, who's uprooting weeds next to you.

"Stay here, 'kay?"

You nod, dazed, and watch him disappear into the bushes, stealing a glance to Bakugou.

"Bakugou…"

"M'sorry."

You tilt your head at him, but he won't meet your eyes, a scowl on his face as heat creeps up his neck.

"I said I'm fuckin' sorrry. I went too far. You belong to Kiri, it's not m'place to-mmpf!"

You cut him off with a searing kiss, sliding yourself in his lap and grabbing his hair, making him stutter out a moan into your mouth, big hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto his abs, grinding you against him.

You furrow your brows, the feeling of his abs rubbing against your puffy clit feels heavenly but you wanna touch him. You felt him when you were in the water earlier, throbbing and pulsing against you. You wanted him in your mouth.

He snarls against you, demanding attention back on him as he nips at your bottom lip before sliding his tongue against yours, panting heavily as his hands flex against your hips. You try to slide down a little more, moving your hands to rest on his meaty pecs and getting distracted by his puffy nipples.

They were so plump and flushed, they looked so sensitive it probably fucking hurt. You pull away from his mouth with a whine, trying not to smile when he chases your lips.

"You sure about this, Princess? If Kiri finds out he'll be-fuck, baby, Whaddya'doin?"

You don't answer, just give him a look under your lashes as you suckle on his nipple, eyes closing in bliss as the smell of him envelops you, fresh and crisp from the water but still musky and smoky.

You scrape your teeth against him gently, then lick over the reddened area and moan as you suck once again.

You notice he had gone almost deathly still, and you look up at him only to almost cream yourself at the sight.

His eyes were rolled back in his head, fist in his mouth and drool spilling around the corners, dribbling down his flushed face and neck. He was trying so hard not to moan, cause he knew if he made a sound it would be loud enough for the whole Mushroom kingdom to hear.

He fucking loved getting his nipples played with, but virtually no one knew and he tried to play it off but fuck, you had him melting.

"Yhew don' like it?"

Your words are muffled around his tit, saliva slowly trailing down his chest and forming a puddle in the divets of his abs.

"I-fuck, cut it out brat."

He tries to sound authoritative, but his voice is whiny, and you can already feel the bruises he's pressing into your hips. You hum, leaning back to look at his flushed chest, earning yourself a sigh of relief-quickly turning into a choked whimper when you switch to the other nipple, using one of your hands to tweak and pinch one while the other hand threads into his hair, grazing the sensitive base of his horns and knocking his eyes back, mouth dropping open and hands coming up to silence himself, allowing you to try and shimmy your way down onto his lap.

His unoccupied hand grips your hip even tighter, trying to keep you up and away from his cock.

"Bakugou-! Wan' yer cock"

You slur, grinding your hips onto his stomach, covered clit rubbing against his bushy pubes.

"You couldn't handle it sweetheart. We shouldn't even be doing this."

You roll your eyes, popping off his nipple and withdrawing your hands from him, reaching down to pry his hand off of your hip.

"Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot handle? You don't know what-oh."

You're cut off when he drops you down, cock sliding through your folds even over the bathing suit, so big and veiny you could feel every pulse and twitch through your bottoms.

You immediately push your swimsuit to the side, rubbing your slit up and down his dick, clit getting caught on various ridges and occasionally twitching when a throbbing vein rubbed against it. You couldn't keep your sounds down even if you wanted to, leaning forward to moan into Bakugou's ear, feeling a shudder rip through his spine.

You were making his mind foggy, he couldn't stop his hips from rutting up, knot starting to swell even though he tried to hold it back. He couldn't do this right now, even getting this far dangerous, he was way too close to his rut and couldn't risk getting you pregnant, no matter how much that thought made his head spin. Fuck, he couldn't stop thinking of you slamming those perfect fucking hips down onto his knot as you begged him to give you his kids, pleaded with him to make you a mommy-shit

His head falls forward and sharp teeth dig into your shoulder, a snarl vibrating your body before your thighs, pussy and stomach are drenched with thick cum. He can't stop, hips jerking and thighs shaking as he roars into your skin, knot still swollen and sensitive but the burning need inside of him is satiated for now.

Before he can even lift his head up to say something, he catches a whiff of arousal, and strangely enough it isn't yours. It smells more woodsy, intense with a sweet musk, somewhat...manly?

Oh fuck.

Kirishima.

Bakugou scrambles to get up, looking at you in horror and then looking over to the trees, catching a glimpse of dark red eyes before they disappear behind a nearby tree.

"Clean yourself off in the water, Kiri will be back soon."

You stare dreamily up at him, confused as to why he looks so uneasy all of a sudden but obeying nonetheless, standing on wobbly legs and feeling dense and gooey cum drip down your legs in long streaks, a nagging feeling in the back of your fuzzy mind telling you how much of a waste it was that none of it was inside you. You make your way back to the water, unaware of two sets of red locked onto you.

#bakugo smut #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugou smut #bakugou thirst #kirishima eijirou smut #bakugou x reader #bowser!bakugou #mario!kirishima #kirishima thirst #kirishima smut #kiribaku x reader #kiribaku smut #neptunewrites🪐#galacticcollabs #prettymiggi🪐

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arty-shadow-morningstar · 3 years

Text

A Failed Betrothal /Betrothal AU: Take Two

So here is the second part of the betrothal AU that I decided to name "A Failed Betrothal. This takes place before Part 1 which in hindsight should have been done first. Part 2 got too long so I cut it and started Part 3. I have no idea and nothing planned on how long this will go. Hope you enjoy ❤.

[Masterlist]

(Part 1)

PART 2

Marinette also wasn't having a good day or a good week.

Lila Rossi had been up to her usual tricks. You know, spewing lies from her mouth. How she met these awesome celebrities during this trip and they worship the ground she walks on for her amazing and humbling help. There were stories of these charities, trips and galas that she had been to or was invited to. She has problems with her wrists and can't do simple stuff like carry her own bag or do her homework. She has tinnitus in her ears so she needs to sit in the front where the only seat available would be next to Adrien.

And for the finale.

The desert after feeding the class a banquet of lies.

"Mari...nette..has been bullying me, she...told..me not to tell anyone..*sobs*..that she would kill me if I did.."

Lila dramatically gasped and slapped her hands over her mouth. Turning on the waterworks for a more dramatic effect. They all ate it up, jumping on the ‘let’s hate Marinette, a bad person’ train.

"She is going to kill me now and I am so scared." That snake managed to snuck an evil smirk past her glaring, oblivious classmates.

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Marinette, at this point of her life, had frankly given up caring for them due to the class's lack of brain cells and Agreste's spineless 'High Road' Approach.

For Kwami's sake, she went through a brutal torture that was training in some jungle temple in Asia before Sabine Cheng, former mercenary/assassin, kidnapped her (Little Marinette took a risk. She ran away and followed her around until Sabine begrudgingly accepted that she was now the 6- year-old girl's mother because screw it, Tom said he wanted children.) to raise/train as her own while she settled down with a baker whose mother may or may not have ties with the Mafia and other illegal activities.

(Mother-daughter bonding days became much more fun once she had Guardianship of the Miraculous. Sabine was ,at first, furious at Master Fu for dumping everything on the girl and losing his memories before swearing to help protect the jewels. Adopted or not, Marinette is her daughter and no one should let a child, even one with training, fight a war. A good thing to come out of her reveal was that her mother was a great tiger to have as back-up. But now, her training regime had become harder and challenging.)

The point was that Lila Rossi would be dead and body missing since that first time she threatened Marinette in the bathroom. The Italian was in perfect health despite what she claims otherwise, because Marinette didn’t want to be the person she was raised to be and also she didn’t want to disappoint Tikki, she was fond of the little red kwami. But sometimes, she just wanted to give into the urge to kill.

She had met and dealt with unsavory characters of all types and she can safely say that Lila Rossi was a manipulator that thrives on attention and like a parasite, latches herself onto the fame of others. None of the unsavory people she had met get under her skin like Rossi had.

Marinette had enough self-preservation to drop the nice girl act and sometimes let the dragon underneath to surface. She stopped doing last-minute favors and giving away free stuff which Lila uses to her full advantage to further destroy her relationships with her ‘friends’. It was better than sticking her neck out for classmates that were no longer worth her time. Attempts to expose Lila had backfired due to the denial they are in, believing the liar to be a sweet, nice girl living the high life.

Adrien with his rose-tinted glasses firmly stuck to his eyes was not happy at all with her decision. That may also have to do where she suggested he shove his advice after he tried to reason her to take the high road for defending herself for the umpteenth time. She felt like the biggest idiot to ever have a crush on him. Every time, Rossi blames Marinette for a problem, he would shoot disappointed looks in her direction.

Alya being Lila's biggest guard dog tore into Marinette for her newfound 'bad' behaviour. The rest of Lila's supporters backed her up with "How could you do that to Lila","I can't believe you changed." Nearly all her so-call friends had turned their backs and lost all common sense to the Italian's manipulations.

(Alya was supposed to be her best friend, aren’t you supposed to listen to your ‘bestie’ over a complete stranger)

The designer took it all with a bored expression on her face, used to the lecturing which was a waste of time because her behavior isn't going to change, no matter what, Lie-la will keep up the act of being the bully's (*cough*Marinette*cough*) victim.

Her heart that cracks the tiniest bit at the accusations. A small part of her, she admits, is hurt that they think so low of her.Was she really that worthless to them? All those times and efforts helping them out on last-minute favors and giving them free treats. Were they not enough to earn their friendship? Their trust or at the very least, a benefit of doubt?

The only ones who didn’t join the berating to 'correct' the raven-haired girl’s attitude were Chloe (who had proven herself to have changed after the miracle queen incident and Lila stole the spotlight and Sabrina. There were a lot of apologizes, gifts and ‘making up to do’) Alix (she came to her senses when the supposed bullying started) and Nathaniel (Lila blatantly claimed to be the artist for the Ladybug comic to his face).

“Girl, Marinette, are you even listening to me?”Alya demanded.

“Maybe. Did you say anything that doesn’t have to do with Lila or how I did her wrong or how I am no longer the person you knew?”

Marinette knew that being sarcastic would backfire but nothing she does or says will change what they think of her. One word from Lila and they will turn back on her. As much as she hates to admit it, Lila’s threat has fallen through and she was alone. Mostly.

She still had Chloe, Nathaniel, Alix, Luka and Kagami as friends. The trust-worthy and loyal kind.

“Girl,” Alya says in a disappointed tone, shaking her head,“when I look at you, I don’t see that girl who stood up to Chloe the bully-”, Chloe snorted, she had changed but they were too blind and prejudiced against her to notice her efforts, “-Picking on Lila, threatening and harassing her. This isn’t you and you know it. Just get over your jealousy on Lila being close to Adrien and apologize to her.”

If Alya had talked to her in the past 12 months other than demanding things that took away her time or anything relating to Lila, she would know that her infatuation had turned into annoyance.

Marinette sighed, too tired of this routine, tired of trying to knock heads so the brain cells can work again. Apologizing would mean that Lila had won. She was petty and stubborn enough to allow that to happen. Lila said she will take the class and Adrien. Fine, she can have them but Marinette Dupain-Cheng will not admit defeat. Bigger men had fallen to the ravenette for lesser offences. A year has passed since the expulsion and the class still hasn't regained common senses, so they can deal with the consequences after the inevitable downfall of Lila and Marinette will be there to see them lay in the grave they dug.

Steeling herself for the pain that will come with the execution of her plan,

“What if I don’t. I won’t apologize to her because I have not done anything to her or even interacted with her. If I apologize, it would be insincere and a lie. And I hate liars.” The former assassin said evenly.

“Lila is not a liar. I don’t know why you are like this.” Alya said, frustrated.

Marinette knew there would be a small chance of an akuma with Gabriel Agreste having an important meeting to attend on this day that would last for the next hour. This was the small window of opportunity to start the plan and also further confirm the identity of Hawkmoth. Killing two birds with one stone.

“Alya, this has always been me, you just never took the time to get to really know the real me.”, she replied, the last part with an icy tone.

“Well-... I- ..You-, fine, then if you can’t say those simple three words, we can’t be friends. I clearly don’t know what a selfish bitch you are. God, I can’t believe I wanted to be best friends with you. You are now replaced by Lila because unlike you, she is genuinely nice and selfless.” Alya declared. The rest of Lila’s supporters murmured in agreement.

Phase 1, complete. Lure the Lie-la into a false sense of security by making her think she won.

Marinette tried not to show how hurt she was, to be replaced by the scheming bitch. But at the same time she felt relieved, she no longer had to walk on eggshells in fear of losing the friendships of people she used to care about. It felt final as she maintained her stoic expression, hoping they didn't notice the glassy sheen her eyes had.

“Then, it is official. We are no longer friends.”

They haven’t been friends for a long time.

Mme. Bustier finally walked into the classroom to start the afternoon classes, signalling the end of the conversation. After class, Marinette resolves to inform them that she was resigning as class president which she was sure the class will be glad for. She was right.

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

Ladybug was, as the Americans say, pissed at Hawkmoth which was nothing new. He had sent out another akuma just as Marinette was back home and trying to relax after the stressful day. The akuma was not any of her ex-friends which she wasn’t sure to be thankful for or not.

Louise Martin was a boy about Luka’s age and mad at his friends who had blamed their fifth loss-in-a-row on him despite the fact that it was his skills that were getting them any progress. They were playing one of those recently released 5V5 skills and strategy battle games. (League of Legends or Mobile Legends. Take your pick, I am going with the latter)

He was akumatized into Hayakuma as proof of Hawkmoth’s lack of creativity. Hayakuma was a bleached out version of Louise’s chosen hero avatar, Hayabusa whose outfit was basically what the media portrays ninjas to look like with some samurai aspects.

Unfortunately, he also had the hero’s ultimate special powers which were making four shadow copies of himself and being able to switch positions with them. Thanks to Rattlesnake’s Second Chance, they know that he can only make a switch once every two minute. Hayakuma also wields a sword, showing off his skills.

Just lovely.

Hydra and Ladybug were the only ones able to counter his attacks with Hydra’s sword and Ladybug’s summoned one. (Let’s go with that headcanon(?)/trope that she can summon weapons for plot convenience and the others can too but just don’t have enough practise yet.)

The others managed to dodge and shield themselves from Hayakuma’s really sharp sword.

The shadows themselves were annoying as they would distract or hinder the miraculous users by grabbing them by their shadows and making them unable to move. Until Bunnix had the brilliant idea of shadow boxing which gave the heroes gain more even ground.

With how strong and handful the akuma was, it was code ‘all hands on deck��. Ladybug, Stinger, Rattlesnake, Hydra, Bunnix, Trickster. Well, nearly every hand. Lady Mǔ lǎohǔ was busy with the bakery. Chat Noir was nowhere to be seen or very late which had been the norm for the last year ever since Ladybug wanted to form a new miraculous team consisting of permanent heroes.

(He didn’t show up for the first few months because the first permanent member was Ladybug’s mother who did not like his attitude towards her daughter. He ran away with his tail between his legs once he found out how she was related to Ladybug. His face when he realized it, was something Marinette will cherish forever)

At least when Lady Mǔ lǎohǔ was around, he would not dare act out of line. When she is gone however, he is back to his old ways.

After saving one of Louise’s teammates from Hayakuma’s sword, they gathered the rest of the team and hid them someplace safe. Using Trickster’s illusions to trick all the shadows and the original to one place, the heroes were going to surround and ambush them and get the akumatized item. The plan would have been a success if it weren’t for Chat Noir hugging Ladybug from behind, making her miss her cue.

“Hey~ Bugaboo~ Did you miss me~? Your Chaton~?”

Thwack! Smack!

Chat Noir was on the rooftop, groaning pitifully in pain. Especially his crotch area. Ladybug glared at him and looked to the ambush point to see the illusions had disappeared and everyone else gone from their hiding place.

She sighed and turned on the comms, (Thank you, kwamis)

“Sting, did you venomed the akuma?”

“No, he escaped before I could. What happened, LB?”

“A certain cat got me delayed. What’s the status update?”

“Hydra is holding him off and Bunnix found that an umbrella is a good substitute for a sword. The rest of us are keeping track of the shadows. They split up but none of them are getting near where we hid the targets.”

“Where are you? I will meet you later with back-up.”

“Near Notre Dame and tell Mama Tigress I said hi.”

“Tell her yourself.”

She looked down at Chat No-, no he is not worthy of being a hero anymore with the amount of times he had derailed and hijacked the plans to defeat the akumas just so he can ‘earn’ Ladybug’s heart.

She looked down at Adrien Agreste, who was sitting and sulking like a child that was unfairly punished. (Once she got over her crush and started looking at the right things that she managed to piece together her ‘partner’s’ identity by accident. Tikki’s confirmation sealed the deal.)

“Chat Noir, this partnership of ours,” she said, gesturing to the two of them, “ is going to change tonight. Meet me at the ‘spot’ at 11 sharp. Now, go home.”

He left with a small glimmer of hope in his eyes at her words. She felt a little bad about the subtle manipulation but with the way things were now, it can’t go on. He was hindering more than helping and the people of Paris that weren’t shipping ‘Ladynoir’ saw that.

As she jumped towards Notre Dame, she called the bakery with her yoyo.

“Mama, are you free now? I need a little help with the akuma and can you bring the horse miraculous.”

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

Chat Noir waited excitedly at what they both dubbed at their ‘spot’, in the good old days when it was just the two of them. Maybe Ladybug was finally open to the idea of dating. Or maybe she must have seen what a great hero he is and was going to get rid of the team. Or realized that having her mother on her team was a bad idea. Parents are the worst and they both can be two rebellious teenagers in love. Like Romeo and Juliet. So romantic~.

He was so deep in his daydream that he didn’t hear his lady land.

“Chat Noir.” Startled, he nearly fell off the roof. No, don’t make a fool of yourself in front of Ladybug.

“Yes, Bugaboo.” Hoping she didn’t know that he was very distracted. His attention will always be hers 100%.

“Don’t call me Bugaboo. Tikki wants to talk to Plagg about Kwami stuff. So you go over and hide behind that chimney. Then, we can talk about why I told you to be here.” Adrien frowned and then smiled. His lady must be very embarrassed about her mistake that must be why she is taking her time. He tried listening to what they were saying but the kwamis were talking in their special Guardian Language. Was it him or did Tikki’s voice sound more like his lady’s voice?

Whizz!

Adrien was tied up with Ladybug’s yoyo. “M’Lady? Bugaboo!? LADYBUG! WHAT IS GOING ON?!! PLAGG-”

Ladybug cut in, “Adrien Agreste, you have been slack in your hero duty and choosing your own feelings over supporting your partner, me, the holder of the Ladybug Miraculous and current Grand Guardian, in the efforts to defeat the enemy of Paris, Hawkmoth. Due to those reasons, you are no longer worthy to be the Holder of the Black Cat Miraculous” in one swift motion, she took the ring off his finger, “As such you are hereby revoked of Plagg’s Ring.”

“NO, YOU CAN’T. YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! I LOVE YOU AND I KNOW YOU LOVE ME BACK. WE ARE SOULMATES, WE ARE MEANT TO BE-”

Adrien went slack at Lady Tigress’s pinch on his pressure point.

“I don’t what you ever saw in the boy.”

“I don’t know either. I think I dodged a bullet here. Can you carry him back to his home? I think I have dealt with enough of him tonight.” Ladybug muttered, as she erased Adrien’s memories of being Chat Noir.

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Tag list: @alysrose-starchild, @buginetye, @lookatthestars1, @blackroserelina, @macncheesemonster, @mochinek0, @myazael, @tonicxworld, @thewitchwhowaited, @t1dwarrior-of-earth, @kissa-chan, @iwantasecretidentity, @theymakeupfairies, @user00000003, @woe-is-me0, @kashlyn, @mochegato,@moonlightstar64 , @greatcatblaze, @moongoddesskiana, @tazanna-blythe.

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

(Part 3)

#maridami #maribat #damian x marinette #mlb x dc #Betrothal AU: Take 2 #A Failed Betrothal #sorry. No Damian this chapter #there is salt #Alya salt #Adrien Salt #Lila salt #class salt #I don't know if it is mild or not #Marinette is an assassin

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extasiswings · 3 years

Note

“i’ll keep you warm” eddie has a nightmare post-shooting 👀 (or however you wanna write it!)

This was not supposed to be this long...rated M-ish for some mild smut at the end. On ao3 here.

The thing Eddie remembers most about the shooting isn’t the shot itself, or the pain, or even the fear—it’s the cold. The icy numbness of shock curling down his spine, twisting through his veins like tendrils of frost creeping across a windowpane in winter. Cold, as his pulse skyrocketed, his body’s signals all crossed and confused and trying to circulate blood, not seeming to grasp the fact that his blood was seeping out onto the asphalt beneath him, that trying to circulate it faster was just making it worse. Cold, like he was a stupid kid at camp diving into a frigid lake before dawn, except above him was blue sky and a bright sun beating down and the fact that it was Los Angeles in May didn’t do a damn thing to help.

He couldn’t feel it. He could only feel the cold.

Buck, though—Buck, he felt. Buck’s hands burned, on his chest, his neck, his face, so warm that Eddie almost wanted to flinch away, but he didn’t. He was aware enough to realize that if Buck was warm, he was probably telling the truth when he said he wasn’t hurt. And that was good. That was all he needed to know.

The cold—

Eddie’s been through enough in his life to know that his subconscious works in weird ways. After Afghanistan he dreamed more directly of burning helicopters and gunfire, blood in his mouth and smoke on his tongue. Shadows and screams and guilt. After the well his dreams were of Christopher, Shannon, waves crashing on a beach. And Buck. Sunlight.

This time...this time Eddie dreams of drowning. Trapped beneath ice, his hands slamming against it, eventually forced to inhale—water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs—cold, cold, cold—

Sometimes after he wakes he’ll spend hours shivering. Phantom chills that won’t go away even when he wraps himself in blankets.

The therapist he’s mandated to see before he can be cleared for work tells him that the brain doesn’t always process trauma by taking the most direct path. Eddie doesn’t know why his has fixated on this. The cold. Maybe it’s just easiest. Because the shooting—

His chest gets tight when he’s walking in open air. Sweat breaks out across his brow when the sunlight glints off of windows. His pulse races.

He can’t breathe.

It feels a little like drowning.

“Do you feel safe?” Dr. Kingston asks one session. And Eddie thinks about freezing in a grocery store parking lot, gripping the edge of a cart to keep his hands from shaking, thinks about Buck curving a hand around his shoulder, solid and warm—

“Sometimes,” Eddie admits. “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

He tastes the lie on his tongue before it slips out.

“I don’t know.”

When the world shut down and Eddie had to leave Christopher with his abuela so that he could keep working without worrying constantly that he was putting his son at risk, Buck’s was the obvious place to go. And Eddie doesn’t know if things would have been different if it had been just the two of them but Hen and Chim deciding it was also the obvious place for them to go meant there weren’t a lot of options for sleeping arrangements.

So Eddie shared the bed with Buck. And it didn’t matter if either of them wound up wrapped around the other, the lines of their bodies pressed close enough to bleed together. If they curled into one another like plants twisting to find the light.

It was...instinct. To seek comfort. Warmth. Touch. Both of them alone for so long, and just needing—

Needing.

They never talked about it—there wasn’t anything to talk about. If it made Eddie’s heart race, if it made him ache for something he hadn’t expected and didn’t wholly understand, if when he returned home alone again his own bed felt too empty, that was his own problem.

Now, though—

Now, he knows. Because he stood frozen on the street and stared at Buck with Carla’s words in his head—make sure you’re following your heart—and realized oh. It hadn’t just been convenience, it had been love. Need and desire and love.

Now, he knows, but doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge, with the awareness he has suddenly. Buck is living in his house, in his space, helping him with Christopher and with his own recovery, making sure he takes his meds and gets to his appointments and does his exercises. Buck is there all the time and it’s a blessing and a curse because Eddie burns whenever Buck touches him.

And Buck touches him. A lot.

He hadn’t at first, right after Eddie came home from the hospital—Eddie would catch him sometimes looking like he wanted to, but holding back, reaching out but stopping himself, and Eddie never asked why. Even now he doesn’t think he ever needed to—he knows what it’s like to be afraid, to be unsteady, adrift, worrying that touching something you expect to be solid will reveal it’s just an illusion. Not wanting to find out if it is.

But Buck touches him now. And sometimes Eddie will wake up to find that Buck’s migrated from the couch in the living room to a chair by his bed, folded in and fitfully asleep. Buck never says, but Eddie’s pretty sure it’s so Buck can reassure himself that Eddie’s still breathing.

Eddie understands that need too. Sometimes he isn’t sure himself.

The first time it happens after Buck’s relationship with Taylor has flamed out—for himself, he and Ana have been over since just after he left the hospital—Eddie finally just gets up.

“Buck.” He curves a hand around the side of Buck’s neck and passes his thumb along the edge of his jaw.

Buck startles awake, looking somehow guilty.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I? Sorry, I know it’s—I can go back to the—”

“Will you just come to bed?” Eddie interrupts before Buck successfully talks himself into leaving the room. “Please?”

Buck’s eyes flick down to his shoulder. He swallows hard.

“I don’t want to—”

Oh.

“You won’t hurt me,” Eddie promises. “Okay?”

Buck searches his face in the dark, but if he sees anything, he clearly doesn’t mind because he nods and gets up from the chair. When they both resettle on the mattress, Buck only pauses for a moment before curving around him like a parenthesis, his arm falling across Eddie’s waist.

Eddie’s breath catches.

“Is this—?”

Eddie closes his eyes and sinks into the embrace. If it feels just a little bit like cheating because he hasn't told Buck how he feels, that’s between him and god.

“It’s fine,” he assures, then adds to make it a little more fair, “you aren’t the only one who needs—you aren’t the only one.”

Buck relaxes at that, his grip tightening a little with newfound certainty.

When Eddie dreams, he doesn’t drown.

“You look good,” Dr. Kingston acknowledges two weeks later. “You’ve been sleeping better?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “I stopped having nightmares, so I haven’t been waking up as much.”

He catches the surprise that flickers across her face.

“They stopped completely?” She asks. “Have you been doing something different or—?”

Eddie shifts in his chair and clears his throat. What is he supposed to tell her? That he stopped having nightmares when he started sleeping with Buck every night? He’s not really ready to unpack that with his therapist—he’s barely ready to unpack it in his own head.

“Just lucky, I guess,” he says. Dr. Kingston puts down her pen and levels him with a long look that tells him she knows that’s bullshit and is trying to decide whether to push or let it go until another time.

She lets it go.

“Well,” she replies. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Eddie feels like he’s dodged another bullet.

Later, though, he wonders if he shouldn’t have said more. If he shouldn’t have asked questions. Because he goes to sleep and—

The water is pitch black and freezing. Eddie’s eyes sting, but it doesn’t matter whether he keeps them open or not—there’s nothing to see. He kicks his legs anyway, swims up, up, up, even though it hurts to make his limbs work when they’re so cold. There’s a faint light—the surface—and he kicks harder, desperate to reach—

Ice. Nothing but a sheet of ice, solid and thick. His lungs burn from lack of air, his palms beat against the ice—

He can’t keep moving. It’s too cold. He can’t—

“Eddie. Eddie.” Hands seize him from nowhere, almost too warm, and Eddie could have sworn the ice had no cracks, but he’s being lifted out—

“Eddie.”

He snaps awake, gasping. Buck’s face swims into view, worry painted across every line. His hands are on Eddie’s shoulders.

They’re so warm.

Eddie shivers.

“You were hyperventilating,” Buck says. “I thought—”

“Just a dream,” Eddie grits out, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He still feels frozen. Stupid—it was a dream, it wasn’t real, so he shouldn’t—it shouldn’t be this difficult.

He shivers again.

Buck’s brow furrows deeper.

“You’re shaking—are you cold?”

Eddie sits up and scrubs his hands over his face. He swallows back the denial on his tongue, the urge to run away and hide in the bathroom until a scalding shower makes him feel somewhat human again. Maybe he can’t always be honest with his therapist, but he can be honest with Buck.

“Yes,” he admits. “But it’s not—it’s just in my head. When I got shot I—it’s hard to explain but, yes. I’m cold. Freezing. I don’t know how—”

He cuts off and Buck shifts on the mattress, reaches out slowly so Eddie has plenty of time to stop him if he doesn’t want to be touched, and finally wraps his arms around him, pulling Eddie firmly against his chest.

“I’ll keep you warm,” Buck says quietly. And Eddie—

Something in him cracks. Not like ice during a thaw, but resolve after too much time of being worn down, pressure applied in precisely the right spot. He’s raw and ragged and his scarred heart hardly feels like anything anyone should want, but he’s so tired of pretending he hasn’t been trying to press it into Buck’s hands for a year in different ways. He’s tired of not asking and being afraid and waiting. He’s tired—

Buck makes a soft sound of surprise when Eddie kisses him. But he doesn’t push him away. And Eddie can’t help himself from pressing closer, curling one hand into Buck’s shirt and the other around the back of his neck and kissing him again and again and again, feeling altogether too frantic. He’ll probably find it in himself to be embarrassed in the morning, but want and desperation have left very little room for shame at the moment.

Buck kisses him back. His hands drop to Eddie’s hips as Eddie does his best to climb into his lap.

“Eddie,” Buck pants between kisses. “Eddie—I—” His head falls back and Eddie takes the opportunity to continue his exploration down the exposed line of Buck’s neck.

“Should we talk about this?” Buck finally manages, even as his own hands flirt with the hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Eddie freezes. The answer, of course, is yes. But talking is the last thing he wants to do when part of him still feels chilled to the bone, not wholly alive. He wants to be touched, wants to be consumed, wants to fall into orbit around Buck’s sun and never leave.

And it’s late. Dark. The two of them, the bed, the very room caught in a liminal space where anything could happen, anything could be said, anything could be forgiven. Eddie can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a dangerous one.

His mouth drags along the edge of Buck’s jaw.

“This isn’t because I wanted someone and you happened to be here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t look at Buck’s face. It’s easier to not, to focus on something else. He stopped going to confession a long time ago, but he never had to look directly at his priest either, always some curtain or other barrier obscuring things, lending the illusion of privacy, anonymity.

“I’m in love with you,” he admits, and Buck’s hands flex on his hips. “I’ve been in love with you. So we can talk about this if you want, but—”

In an instant, Eddie’s on his back, the rest of his sentence swallowed up by the tongue sliding into his mouth. Buck is a warm, solid weight on top of him, pinning him, anchoring him, and Eddie finds he doesn’t mind when it forces him to be in the moment, reminds him that he’s fully in his own body.

“I love you, too,” Buck whispers when the kiss breaks, and then he’s pushing Eddie’s shirt up and off and dispensing with his own—

Shannon was his first. Eddie wasn’t hers and he remembers being glad that at least one of them had some idea of what to do because the second she touched him he was so overwhelmed by sensation that he could hardly think.

This is…not dissimilar. Buck’s chest presses flush against his, all warm, bare skin, and Eddie feels like he could drown in a different way. He arches up, seeking Buck’s mouth again, and Buck obliges.

Eddie’s focus narrows to certain points—the slick slide of Buck’s tongue against his, Buck’s hand ghosting along his ribs, the careful space between their hips and the low burn of heat in his gut that makes him want to close the gap—

His hands slide up Buck’s back slowly, his fingers tracing the knobs of Buck’s spine, the sharp edges of his shoulder blades—they dance along the line of his shoulders too, sketching the breadth that he’s noticed but never allowed his thoughts to linger on. His touch is careful, reverent, as if Buck is a holy thing that his stained, sinner hands have no business touching. Perhaps, in a sense that’s true.

He’s never been a very good Catholic, but sex—sex, desire, love—sex has always been something…sacred to him. In high school, he shied away from the locker room-style conversations about who went how far with whom, kept out of any discussion involving lamentations about still being a virgin at graduation. For one thing, he thought they were usually crass and disrespectful. But mainly he just—he didn’t care about waiting until marriage or anything like that, but he always knew he wanted to be in love. Hence, Shannon. And why there hadn’t been anyone after her.

Until now.

Eddie kisses Buck until his lungs ache, but he’s not close enough, feels like he can’t get close enough. One of his hands slides into Buck’s hair, but the other trails back down, presses lightly on Buck’s lower back as his own hips rock up, seeking friction. Buck swears against his lips and closes the distance—Eddie can feel him hard in his sweatpants and flushes, dizzy at the thought of having made that happen, dizzy at the thought of more, dizzy—

He feels very much like a clumsy teenager again, fumbling his way through on instinct. At least this sort of thing is familiar, even if he hasn’t done it with a man before. Buck grinds their hips together, the friction sending sparks through every one of Eddie’s nerve endings, and kisses down his neck, teeth scraping over his pulse point. Eddie gasps and Buck hums, low and pleased, against his skin.

And then, just as he thinks he’s used to the slow burn of pleasure, Buck shifts his weight and slides a hand down to toy with Eddie’s waistband. Buck meets his eyes in the dark and swallows hard.

“Can I—?”

This time, when Eddie shivers it has nothing to do with the cold.

“Please,” he rasps, and Buck smiles before tugging Eddie’s pants down just enough to wrap his hand around Eddie’s cock.

Buck’s touch is a little tentative at first, clearly unused to the angle, and the part of Eddie that’s still capable of noticing that spends a brief moment feeling grateful that he’s not the only one lacking in experience here. But what Buck may lack in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm, experimenting with grip and speed and pressure to figure out exactly what to do to make Eddie gasp again, to make him bite his lip, to make him hide his face in Buck’s shoulder to muffle any louder noises he can’t quite hold back.

It doesn’t take long. Even before the shooting, Eddie rarely bothered to touch himself with any sort of regularity, and during his recovery he had even less of a reason to do so, what little energy he had in the first few months better spent elsewhere. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed it. But clearly his body did because his orgasm hits him like a train when Buck spits into his hand for extra glide and twists his wrist on the upstroke. He bites Buck’s shoulder and Buck’s hips jerk and then he’s just floating—boneless, breathless, and utterly wrecked in the best possible way.

Buck collapses on the mattress next to him as Eddie’s catching his breath—Eddie reaches out, his hand skating over Buck’s stomach, and makes a questioning noise. Buck laughs quietly and catches his hand, bringing it to his lips.

“I, uh—I’m good,” Buck promises, and even in the dark Eddie can see his cheeks flush.

Eddie curls into his side. “Really?”

Buck kisses him. “I don’t think you realize how long I’ve wanted to do that. Or how good you look. So, yes, I already—yes. Really.”

Eddie’s lips curve up. He presses a kiss to the edge of Buck’s jaw. As the immediate aftermath wears off, his eyelids start to grow heavy, his limbs moving a little less easily.

“We should probably shower,” he acknowledges, although the strength of the statement is likely diminished by the yawn that interrupts him halfway through.

“Probably,” Buck agrees, but he too makes no move to actually get up.

Pressed against him as he is, Eddie is warm and sated and content. He drifts, skirting the edge of sleep.

“I love you,” he says again. Because it feels important.

Buck hums. If he says something else, it’s too low for Eddie to catch.

When he dreams again, he doesn’t dream of drowning. He doesn’t dream of the cold.

Instead, there’s just light. Just warmth.

Just Buck.

#chapel writes #buddie #buddie fic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 fic

350 notes · View notes

mae-gi-writes · 3 years

Text

Once Again (Pt.2) | Iwaizumi Hajime (Haikyu!)

ONCE AGAIN | PART TWO

Summary:

Iwaizumi’s broken marriage results in his five-year-old son trying to match him up with his primary school teacher, whom he thinks will make a wonderful replacement for a mother.

Genre: fluff, angst, f! Reader x dad! Iwaizumi

Taglist: @multi-fandom-fanfic, @168-cm-png, @bakugouswh0r3, @yatoatyourservice, @ayocee, @marvel-ing-at-it-all, @astrolcve

A/N: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Thanks to everyone for the kind feedback and for reading my work <3

< PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART >

----

He swings his beer over the counter, "one more."

He shouldn't be drinking. Imagine the damage it's doing to his organs, alcohol sweeping through his bloodstream and purging him of all coherent thought. Iwaizumi can hear Oikawa's nagging voice in his head even within the depths of intoxication.

Does he care though? He should. He should care. Because his job is basically to get people in their best shape.

And here he is, drinking away his sorrow, still shaken up by the way Hoisuke's fingers had grabbed for him that night. The bundle of nerves he'd squashed down had only intensified upon dropping his son on his mother's doorstep the same weekend and though he knew he should've said something to Mizune, he couldn't find the will to utter the words out, lest they came back to haunt him.

His phone buzzes in his pant pocket and after finishing it out with clumsy fingers, he manages to press down onto the green button.

"Yeah?"

"You're drinking!"

"No."

"Iwa-chan~" Oikawa's voice pierces through the receiver, sickly sweet and yet with a dark threatening undertone, "what are you doing?"

"Fuck off, shittykawa."

"Where are you?"

Iwaizumi doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, for Oikawa's already exclaiming the said bar's name as he takes another sip of his newly-filled beer glass.

"I thought you said you wouldn't drink anymore," Oikawa reproaches, "think of what Hoisuke would say--"

"I said fuck off."

There's a small pause where Oikawa bristles, before he says in a quieter tone, "what's wrong?"

Still, Iwaizumi says nothing but takes another huge gulp of his beer. His head feels buzzed, disoriented.

"Iwa-chan."

The said man press his lips in a taut line.

"Iwa-chaaaan."

"I'll talk to you later," Iwaizumi barely hears his friend's protests before he cuts off the call and downs the rest of his beer like a parched man, eyes narrowing towards anyone who dares reprimand him of his behaviour.

"One more," he rasps out towards the bartender, whose sending him a look that closely mimics one that clearly says he's had enough. But he scowls in response and that's enough to make the bartender's eyes slip away.

Seriously. What is wrong with him? It's already been four months goddamnit. Get over yourself. He wishes he could punch himself in the face. God, he sounds like a loser. He looks like one. And it's no wonder that his wife has left him for someone better, richer. Everything that he's not.

Not to forget that this wound will never leave their son's heart.

"One rum and coke please."

A presence lingers in his right and the brown-haired man turns with a glare at the ready, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line to scare whatever stranger that comes a little too close for his liking.

What the--

He stares at you. You stare back at him, just as dumbfounded. Looking the same, yet completely different.

"Miss Y/N?"

"Iwaizumi-san?"

He feels the sudden urge to hide his empty glass, "what--are you doing here?"

"Don't look so surprised, Iwaizumi-san," you chuckle at what you think is his flabbergasted expression, "I'm still twenty-six you know. I came here with a few of my friends."

His eyes slide towards the table in the far corner -- easy to spot since it's one of the loudest -- before he almost misses your question, "and you?"

"I come here often."

"Ah I see."

As you pay the bartender who slides your drink over, you bristle for a bit before you ask hesitantly, "mind if I sit here?"

Iwaizumi shakes his head. It's not like he can say no after all. You're his kid's teacher. And shit, how many beers has he had? He better not run his mouth. It's a dirty habit of his whenever he's shit drunk.

"So," you start off slowly, looking so out of place next to the said man with a scowl so dark it can scare off the most violent of gangsters that the corners of Iwaizumi's mouth tilt upwards in amusement, "how's it going?"

Seriously? You're seriously going to do that? His gaze searches your features for a moment, satisfied when warmth floods your cheeks.

You look away, "you don't have to look at me like that, you know. I just thought you’d want some company."

"What makes you think that?” Iwaizumi says while he flags down another beer from the waiter.

You blink at him, “I can go if you want--”

The man sighs, rubbing his temples with tiredness, “that’s not what I meant.”

A weird, empty gap of silence ensues. Long enough that Iwaizumi gets his fourth beer of the night in his hand and he takes a grateful swallow.

He really should not be drinking so much.

"Where do you work?”

You’re persistent. He’ll give you that, “personal trainer. I work at the sports academy.”

“That’s cool,” there’s a small smile edging upon your lips, “you like it?”

He nods, pauses briefly, before asking, “do you?”

Of course it’s a little too close for comfort, especially since you’re Hoisuke’s teacher and all. But you merely relax in your high stool, swinging your legs while nodding eagerly. He can’t help but notice the tightness of your dark jeans, your black high-heeled boots, “I don’t see myself working as anything else. I’m bad with people most of the time.”

Taking another swig of his beer, Iwaizumi feels the tension slowly ease up from his shoulders, “well you’re way better with kids than I am.”

“You’re pretty good with Hoisuke."

“That’s because you haven’t seen him throw tantrums.”

You laugh, "oh don't worry, I have. I know all about his little fits. All my kids have one, at some point."

You say it lightly, but there's definitely love laced in your words and for a minute, Iwaizumi thinks back to the way Hoisuke kept on praising you, the way he spoke so affectionately about you.

"Do you still play volleyball?" You ask him while sipping on your drink.

He mimics the gesture, "sometimes. The guys are all over town so it's harder to meet up now."

"Dang, your team was so good though."

"It was Oikawa that held us together. We weren't that good," he tastes the bitterness of Karasuno's victory on his tongue.

"That's not true," you protest, fiddling with your empty glass, "the only reason why I watched Aoba Johsai's games was because I liked watching you play."

Dark coffee-coloured orbs sweep up to yours at that statement, as if trying to peel layers off yout shell, as if wanting to confirm the truth of your words. You feel like cowering away but you don't, instead holding his stare in hopes that he doesn't notice how your hands tremble slightly underneath his scowl.

And then, features softening ever so slightly, he murmurs out, "thanks."

You know he means it in the best way possible.

-----

One drink turns to two. And two multiplies by four. And soon enough you're tipsy off your head and singing so blatantly off-key you wonder why Iwaizumi's still by your side. You haven't been this drunk in ages and this sense of freedom makes you bold; you tug him to the dance floor to join your friends, order shot after shot as the music gets louder and your head gets lighter, proceed to blabber your mouth off about literally anything and everything that by the end of the night, you wish the ground would swallow you whole so you won't have to deal with Iwaizumi the next day.

You're not entirely sure how you find yourself being dragged by none other than the said man himself, or how your nose is currently lodged in the crevice between his neck and shoulders. But he smells good, like citrus and a mixture of mint and-- you sniff a little more -- is that cookie dough? Your mouth waters just at the thought.

"You smell like cookie dough," the words tumble out of your mouth in a jumbled mess and you inwardly feel like stabbing yourself.

So pathetic. Pitiful really.

"That's Hoisuke," Iwaizumi replies, surprisingly patient even when he's clearly not impressed, glaring at the lamppost ahead, "it's his flavour of the month."

"That's cute!" You giggle, "just like you, Iwa!"

The man sighs while shifting his grip upon your waist, "let's just get you to bed."

You probably doze off at some point or black out because the next thing you see upon opening your eyes next is the ceiling.

Hoisting your head up and groaning when your head pounds in warning, you lie back down as nausea takes over.

Shit. This isn't your room. You know that much.

What the fuck happened last night?

You remember dancing atop tables, remember spotting Iwaizumi by the bar and talking to him because he just seemed so sad and lonely. You remember dragging him onto the dance floor, dancing together, his hands on your waist--

You danced with Iwaizumi?!

The thought is enough to trigger another pounding. You groan once more, placing your hand atop your head in hopes that it will stop it from throbbing. It doesn't. But before you have more time to wallow in your self-pity, the door creaks open and your eyes almost pop out of your head when you spot a mop of brown spiky hair enter the room.

Iwaizumi.

Oh fuck. Your brain short circuits. Fuck fuck fuck.

Surprise crosses his face, clearly having not expected you to be awake yet. He walks over to place a glass of water by the nightstand and grabs your palm to tilt two aspirins into your hand.

"How's your head?" He asks.

"Fine," you wince. It's far from fine. In response, he holds out the glass and you gladly wash down the pills, warm and feeling suddenly vulerable under his stare.

Chewing onto the inside of your cheek, you muster up all your courage to ask, "what--happened last night?"

You don't miss the way his eyebrows shoot up, "you don't remember?"

"...no."

Is that amusement dancing in his eyes? You're not sure since it's gone just as quickly as it came before he says, "you got drunk. Danced on the table, had too many shots and made out with two different men--"

"I'm pretty sure the last part didn't happen."

"You said you didn't remember," he smirks lightly.

"I can't even flirt, let alone kiss strangers."

That earns you a chuckle from his part, causing your heart to flutter slightly as he straightens up, "you probably want to wash up. Bathroom's on the right. I'm in the kitchen if you need me."

"Okay," and as he turns away, you quickly add, "thanks, Iwaizumi-san."

He nods back, exiting the room and finally allowing you to collapse back against the bed to try slowing down your galloping heart. Jesus christ, you think to yourself as you slowly take in your surroundings. From the lack of furniture and with only a few clothes flung over a wooden desk chair shoved in the right, you guess it's his room. A closed laptop and a small plant sits on his desk. On the left is the nightstand filled with sports books and some manga, a closet shoved in a corner and the floor is made in veneered wood.

There's no sign of family pictures, nothing that indicates the warmth of a cosy household. It doesn't take a genius to understand why. While Hoisuke had begged you not to tell his father, you weren't a stranger to the young boy sobbing in-between breaks because he misses his mother.

Well, it's not like you're allowed into family affairs anyway, as much as that breaks your heart.

After a much needed shower and a quick brush of your teeth -- you had to make do with using your fingers with his toothpaste, too embarrassed to actually ask him whether he had a spare toothbrush -- you walk out into the kitchen to see Iwaizumi already seated at a quaint wooden table laden with eggs and toast. Behind him sits the kitchen stove and white countertops next to a fridge fitting snuggly on the left corner. On the far right of the room is a large dark grey couch and a tv set, and just behind it is a small hallway which seems to be the entrance -- guessing by the coat rack and array of shoes.

"Sunny side up or boiled?" Iwaizumi asks as you take a seat opposite him. He has already poured you a cup of strong coffee and you inhale before sighing in bliss. Your headache already feels slightly better.

"Anything is fi--" you're interrupted by his scowl, quickly changing your answer to, "sunny-side up please."

He grunts, passes you the plate and digs into his own fried eggs, the soft boiled ones forgotten at the centre of the table.

"Uhm, forgive me for point it out, but that's a lot of food Iwaizumi-san," you mumble out, not missing the way his features harden slightly.

"Force of habit," he mutters in-between mouthfuls. He doesn't need to say more, for you're pretty certain he's referring to the family he used to have, those lazy Sunday mornings that started out with brunch.

You eat in companionable silence and though it'a definitely less awkward than last night, your mind still races trying to figure out what to say to erase the permanent furrow between his brows.

Or is that his normal demeanour? To be honest, you're not quite sure yourself.

So you settle for thanking him for last night, to which he replies, "do you usually drink that much?"

"No," you duck your head, avert your gaze, "I got carried away. I'm really sorry."

"Well I wouldn't have expected my kid's teacher to be that wild," he muses while taking a bite of his toast.

Alarm zaps through you, making your eyes go wide, "I swear I'm not usually like that, really. I just--this was an exception--"

"It's fine, miss Y/N. I know," his brown pupils lock onto yours briefly, "I'm not going to report you."

"I--" nothing can really make up for your behaviour last night. You know that much, "still, I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate," you glance up, chest tightening at the intensity of his stare, unflinching. Unwavering.

He cocks his head at you then, a semblance of a smile along his mouth, "I was pretty entertained, if you ask me."

"Was I that bad?"

"No. But let's just say that you won't want to show your face around for the next week or so."

You groan and bury your face in your hands, "what did I do?"

"You might've broken a beer glass or two," he gives you a look, "on purpose. And tried to steal the Dj's headphones cause he wasn't putting the music you requested."

"Oh god," you want to bury yourself right then and there and to your surprise, you see him laugh softly before he nudges your coffee towards you.

"Drink," he orders, "it'll make you feel less shitty."

You're about to retort with a roll of your eyes, only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing. From the way Iwaizumi tenses, you know it's not just the mail man.

Excusing himself to go unlock the door as you twist in your seat to follow his figure, shock courses through you the moment your eyes land on Hoisuke's.

Then, his mother.

An alarm bell rings through your mind.

"I thought you said evening," comes Iwaizumi's grunt, totally unlike the guy who'd been chuckling a few seconds ago.

"Hoisuke wanted to come back early for some reason," the woman says, her gaze flickering to yours for a brief moment. It's enough to cause you to swallow hard. She continues, "I'll pick him up on--"

"Miss Y/N?!" Hoisuke shouts out suddenly and before you know it, you're being tackled into the child's arms as if you haven't seen each other forever, "what are you doing here?! Daddy!" he whips his head around in accusation, "you lied about not really really liking Miss Y/N!"

"Wha--No!" Iwaizumi yells as you frown in confusion, "huh?"

"Daddy said that really really liking someone means you wanna be boyfriend and girlfriend with them, like he was with Mama before she moved houses," Hoisuke blabbers on, totally oblivious to how the three of you keep on staring at him in growing alarm, "and then I asked him if he really really liked miss Y/N because I really really like miss Y/N but he said no, but that's a lie!"

"Hajime, what is he talking about?" His ex-wife is quick to narrow her eyes, "what have you been telling him?"

"Nothing, it's not what you think--"

"I think," she pointedly glances at you, "I should leave now. We'll talk about this later."

And with that, she swivels around and storms out, leaving the three of you to stare after her in a mixture of shock and confusion.

Hoisuke, oblivious to the sudden tension, blurts out, "daddy, why is Mama angry with you?"

----

The few weeks following the tiny incident that had resulted in an awkward misunderstanding between you, Hoisuke’s parents and the said child himself had caused you to retreat back into the shell of professionalism that included avoiding Iwaizumi whenever it was deemed possible. It hadn’t been hard since he was usually present and waiting outside class to pick up Hoisuke right on time, making it much easier to avoid conversation with him altogether.

You’d texted iwaizumi right after reaching your humble abode the day he’d practically saved your drunk ass and though you spent a few spare moments to chat in-between the bustling activities of life, it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s still Hoisuke’s father, one of your dearest students. That, and the fact that you don’t really find it fair to put Hoisuke in-between the two of you, if there’s anything worth digging for anyway.

Who are you kidding? It’s not like Iwaizumi would ever be interested in you in that sense. Having spotted his ex-wife once or twice proved that his style was of more refined women, the type that would drink wine instead of chug down beer and who’d enjoy gifts such as perfume and romantic dates instead of going on grocery trips and meal-prepping for the entire week.

“Miss Y/N!” Hoisuke’s voice pierces through your thought bubble and your eyes quickly find his grin as he jumps towards your desk, "are you coming to our house this weekend too?!"

"Wh--What? Uhm-- no I don't think so--" eyes quickly flitting over the classroom, you're relieved to find that the rest of his classmates are long gone, "I don't think that's appropriate."

"But why? I even told Mama that I wouldn't be coming this weekend because you were," he pouted and it took all of your determination not to melt, until his words registered in your brain and your eyes widened, "o--oh, but that's--"

"Hoisuke?" You both turn to see his father's head poking through the door. Your body reacts instantly, warmth flooding through your limbs and flushing through your cheeks.

"Daddy!"

"H-Hello, Iwaizumi-san," you bow your head slightly. He returns the gesture, facial expression not giving anything away. His son bounds up to him with just as much vigor, "daddy, can we invite miss Y/N this weekend too?"

You might have laughed at Iwaizumi's shocked face if not for the fact that you are the person in question.

He splutters, "Miss Y/N has things to do--"

"But she came last weekend!"

"Yes well, it's bad manners to impose on someone when they're not free," Iwaizumi replies sternly, "come on now, we're gonna be late for Karate."

With a loud sigh and a scowl that resembles so much like his father, Hoisuke mutters out his goodbyes while Iwaizumi catches your eye, bowing slightly and muttering a silent "sorry" before he guides his son out of the room. You're glad he's out of earshot that he can't hear the stuttering of your heart against your chest.

You place a hand on your chest, sigh tiredly before looking down at your students' papers, "get a grip, Y/N," you mutter to yourself.

But it's not that easy to control yourself when Iwaizumi is making it so easy to like him.

----

Iwaizumi: sorry about yesterday.

Y/N: it's okay. Hoisuke’s young, it's normal for him to want for a motherly figure around.

Iwaizumi's fingers drum over his knee as he watches with slight interest the newest male volleyball team practice their serves. He shouts after a few, calling them out for theit lazy postures, but other than that he can't seem to stop his thoughts from winding their way back to you.

"Who is she?" Mizune had asked him on the phone on the day following their encounter. Her tone was friendly, yet held that tone of warning that he was so accustomed to.

"How does that concern you?"

"I want to know who you're bringing around to hang out with Hoisuke."

"She's an acquaintance of mine," he paused, "and Hoisuke's teacher."

"That's inapropriate if you ask me."

Scoffing, he replied, "like what you did's so appropriate?"

A small pause ensued. When she spoke next, there was no mistaking the edge to her voice.

"You can't keep using that against me, Hajime."

"Don't tell me who I can or can't hang out with."

He'd hung up without bothering to wait for her response, seething and red hot with rage blubbering through his stomach.

Of course now that he thinks it over, Mizune has a point. Mixing the professional and the personal have never ended in happy endings. Not that this has ever stopped him before. He doesn't believe in what everyone else thinks is right. That's also one of the main reasons why Mizune couldn't handle it anymore. Or so she said before she went to suck someone else's dick.

His phone vibrates and fishing it out, a scowl instantly shadows his face upon seeing Oikawa's name flash across the screen.

Oikawa: Iwa-chan ~ have you asked her out yet?

Iwaizumi has to force himself to stay in control and not pound his phone to pieces when he types out his reply.

Iwaizumi: No.

Oikawa: BUT WHYYYY~ YOU SAID YOU FOUND HER CUTE.

Oikawa: and Hoisuke likes her. He already knows her.

Iwaizumi: I didn’t say that. And she's not interested.

Oikawa: Just because you suck at picking up cues doesn't mean she isn't throwing them at you 😏😏😏

Iwaizumi: shut up, shittykawa.

Oikawa: Just do it or I'll do it for you.

Iwaizumi: I don't even like her that way.

Oikawa: why'd you rant about not wanting to hurt her feelings yesterday night then?

Iwaizumi's hand rubs at his face with a groan. Oikawa's a little shit most of the time, but he's a perceptive little shit.

Oikawa: I mean it. Ask her out or I'll do it for you.

Oikawa: gotta go now. Match is starting. See ya!~ muah ❤

"Dumbass," Iwaizumi growls under his breath before shoving the phone back into his pocket. Easier said than done to ask someone out so casually, especially when she's Hoisuke's teacher.

If she accepts, great. If she doesn't, he'll have to suffer through humiliation for the rest of the year or avoid picking up Hoisuke altogether.

Oh fuck it.

He lets his body send the message before his brain can catch up to the way he has thrown himself under the bus, shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to put the thought out of his mind even though the device suddenly feels hot and heavy in his pant pocket.

Iwaizumi: we're having takeout and movie night on Friday. You're free to join.

----

512 notes · View notes

jackrrabbit · 4 years

Text

Runaways /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You were like an older sister to Dabi back when the two of you were teen runaways together; now that he’s found you as an adult, it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him.

A/N: I could write a term paper on all of Dabi’s pathologies in this fic...I forgot how much I love writing smutty angst. Good shit 👌

I was planning on making this a ficlet so it’s kinda structured like that even though it ended up a full-length piece. Also, Dabi says some bullshit about sex work that I absolutely do not agree with or condone so please keep that in mind.

➠ see also: [homeowners association]

Tags/warnings: Dabi victimizes you, noncon/dubcon, light yandere, threats, cheating, NTR kinda?, mentions of past sex work, degradation, rough sex (breath play, impact play, crying), mild violence, very brief mentions of past child abuse in the Todoroki household, sad stuff/angst idk lol, *Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood plays in the background*

Dabi would know you anywhere.

You’re different now, which makes sense. It’s been years. Your old uniform of raggedy denim and hand-me-down leather has been replaced with a prim linen dress, designer label at the collar. You used to dye your hair religiously (it was neon pink when he saw you last) but now it’s styled back to your natural shade, a color he only saw back then when your roots grew out. You smell good, expensive. It does take him a second to recognize you without smudged pencil eyeliner drawn under your eyes like in the old days, but once he catches your gaze the realization is immediate.

It’s you. You. You.

You recognize him too, but your reaction is different—shock, then panic; you tug the arm of the man at your side, urging him to walk faster so you can pass Dabi on the sidewalk. The rejection stings for a second, but he isn’t too surprised. You did abandon him, after all.

Dabi doesn’t let it bother him. You’re not going to get away that easy. He pulls you into conversation, grinning when you reluctantly introduce him to your companion (who is, apparently, your husband) as an old friend from school. You didn’t go to school—Dabi knows that, and you know that, but your husband doesn’t. Which means your husband isn’t aware of your sordid past as a runaway.

This is going to be fun.

Once he knows you’re in town, he doesn’t have much trouble finding you. Your husband is a very wealthy man, well-known in this city now that he’s moved here. So this is what you’ve been up to all these years? Shacking up with some ugly motherfucker who’s at least 20 years your senior because he can afford to dress you up in pretty things and take you on overseas vacations? Dabi has to admit, he wouldn’t have thought it of you. Back when he knew you, you were so sincere, such an idealist, even in your darkest nights.

Then again…you always were willing to get your hands dirty in exchange for a warm meal and a place to sleep. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.

Dabi comes to your house in the middle of the day when your husband’s at work and you’re stuck at home because that’s what you are now, a housewife. From a cocksucking whore to a pretty housewife with a dirty little secret. He’s getting hard just thinking about it as he watches your internal debate on whether to let him in or not. Eventually guilt wins out and you usher him inside, hoping the neighbors didn’t see a known villain lurking on your doorstep.

You make Dabi coffee (and aww, you remember exactly how he likes it). He gets you to talking, and you don’t seen surprised to learn about his current line of work; when he presses you, you admit that you’ve been following him in the news. Your life, in comparison, has been wholly uninteresting: you met a man, he proposed, and you married him. Very little has happened to you since. After a long silence you timidly apologize to Dabi for leaving him behind when you two were teenagers, and he tells you he understands.

He doesn’t forgive you.

Overall, things are good, he tells you. But you know, sometimes he misses the old days. Being on the run with you, stealing food from gas stations, breaking into fancy summer homes and pretending the two of you lived there. Stitching up each other’s cuts, because one of you had always gotten in a fight in the past few days. Sometimes he still has dreams about the smell of the balm you used on his fresh burns…and your cool hands, smoothing gently across the tender skin on his face, but he doesn’t say that.

You look down into your monogrammed coffee mug and tell him you know what he means.

When you turn your head like that, Dabi can see the tiny dots running up the side of your ear where your old piercings have scarred over from lack of use. Do you remember when he gave them to you? You did his first, running a needle through the lonely flame of your lighter (he offered to use his quirk, but it was still hard for him to control then so you declined) and then threading the metal through his ear. You promised it would only hurt for a second, and you were right, so he let you do the others.

Then you offered to let him do yours. Just one on each ear—you already had an impressive collection of piercings, but you wanted to let him return the favor, so he did. You were older and more experienced and had lived on the streets for longer, so when he held the needle in his hand and heard your voice saying you trusted him, it was the first time he ever thought of you as fragile, something delicate, something that he was capable of harming.

He chose twin helix piercings for you, cresting the shell of each ear, silver band rings to match his. When they were done you pulled him to a mirror and asked him what he thought. It hadn’t been long since he got the worst burns on his face (the ones under his eyes, wrapping around his chin and down his neck) and he was still getting used to the knowledge that the ugly, wrinkled scars were never going to heal. “I look like…” he started.

A monster. A freak. A victim.

“A badass,” you said. “You look fucking cool. Any asshole who wants to pick a fight with you will take one look and know you’ve been through worse shit than whatever they can dish out, and that’s something to be proud of.”

Now that Dabi thinks about it, he probably wanted you even then.

…But the longer he reminisces, the more nostalgia’s going to distract him. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have coffee with you and talk about the good old days. What he’s about to take from you—what he’s about to make you give—is long overdue.

You’ve still got a little fight in you. Dabi likes that. But you’ve gone soft, filling out and losing muscle in places where you used to be lean and hard from the constant running and fighting of your old lifestyle. Besides, even if you were as strong as you’d been back then, he’d still be stronger than you—he’s a man now, and it’s incredible how small and weak you seem now that he can look at you as a man.

Were your punches always this light? No way…and your wrists couldn’t have always been this delicate. It’s really no trouble at all for him to wrestle you down to the couch and pin you there so he can tear off your stupid little housewife dress and tug your panties down past your ankles.

Once he’s got you fully naked, though, you pretty much give up trying to fight him off. It’s sad, really—like you’re remembering the past, remembering all the times you let other men hold you and fuck you just so you could have enough money to take yourself and Dabi to McDonalds for a few days. And now look, you’re plenty well-fed, but Dabi’s the one holding you down against your will. Funny how things change like that.

He does appreciate your submission, since it gives him the chance to get a decent look at you. The years have been kind—you look so much healthier than you used to. No more visible ribcage stretching out your skin; no more unhealthy pallor from going outside only at night. Your hands are as soft and manicured as if you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, a far cry from the bitten nails and bloody knuckles of your youth. It’s good to see you like this, and he lingers for a second, drinking in the sight of you and committing you to memory.

Dabi’s pictured this moment for years. He used to think he’d savor it, be sweet with you, slow and gentle to show you what you were missing with the trashy guys you used to hang out with. But now, hey—he’s the trashy one, he’s the one who wants to hurt you and own you and ruin you. May as well act like it.

Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?

You’re unbelievably tight for a former whore. Dabi can barely hold out when he first pushes into you, licking the tears off your cheeks when apparently it hurts too much for you to keep up a brave face. It takes real effort to fuck himself all the way into you, pushing past the tense squeeze of your muscles while you…well, you’re not exactly wet, but he’ll get you there. As soon as his hips are grinding up against yours, he’s hitching your legs up on his shoulders and pounding you into your stuffy antique couch so deeply that he thinks it might splinter into pieces underneath the two of you.

God, you’re so, so, tight. Dabi feels like a virgin with his cock buried inside you, biting his lip so he doesn’t cum in thirty seconds and thrusting into you with a rhythm that comes from nothing less than pure animal instinct. And you’re getting into it too. Can you tell that your pleading and begging him to get off you is turning into moaning? Can you feel your hips bucking weakly back against his, reverting to the position of the submissive bitch your body remembers even if your mind has tried to forget?

It’s perfect, right and good and perfect, everything Dabi’s been waiting for since he first knew what it was to want someone—no, not just someone. You. It’s always been you. A person never forgets their first love, right? It’s perfect, except—except you won’t look at him, you keep looking off to the side and sniffling, and that’s not going to cut it. So he slows down and wrenches your head back to center and makes you kiss him, sliding his tongue over yours and trying to see if he can feel the place where you used to have a piercing there, too. It’s kind of thrilling, actually—wondering whenever his face dips into yours if you’re going to bite him, if he’ll come back from you with blood in his mouth.

He’s only got to thumb over your clit a couple times before you’re clamping down on him, your body begging to be used and abused. Your husband hasn’t been treating you right, though Dabi doubts the old bastard can even get it up without a blue pill. Sure, you look like a sweet little doll, so darling and delicate and breakable, but Dabi knows you better than that. You’re strong, you can take it. He knows you want it rough, so that’s how he’ll give it to you—and hey, hey, he can feel your cunt quivering around him—you’re cumming, aren’t you? So you like it. You like it.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long before, but when you cum and tighten and squeal so high he thinks you could lose your voice, the tension in his abdomen rises up and he digs his fingers into your hips and—shit, you’re saying something, what are you saying? You’re pleading, begging him not to cum inside—but, ohhhhhh fuck he can’t help it, he can’t, he can’t, he’s cumming all the way deep into your tight little snatch, cockhead jutting up at your cervix, fucking his semen all the way through you until your slit is smeared white from top to bottom.

Stop crying. Dabi’s sick of hearing you cry.

You’re still pretty nimble, even though your current exercise regimen probably doesn’t extend beyond periodic jogs around your neighborhood and weekly pilates with all the other bored trophy wives. He’s kind of surprised when as soon as he lifts himself off of you, you have the strength to roll off the couch and scramble around on the floor for your clothing.

You don’t say anything, which he wasn’t expecting. You don’t scream at him, demand that he leave, or ask him how he could do this to you after everything the two of you went through together. You probably still think of yourself as an older sister when it comes to him.

When you’d first met the scarred kid trying and failing to live off the streets, you knew he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d known pain before, plenty of pain (icy-blue fire roasting the skin off his face—spiral fracture from callused hands twisting his arm behind his back—cold, aching muscles after what he thinks is the fifth hour spent locked in a closet), but he’d never known hunger. Hunger was a different kind of beast, one that would chew the kid up and spit him out and leave him broken if you didn’t take him under your wing, so you did.

It wasn’t like you had much of anything to spare, but you made it work. For a few years. He didn’t talk at first, but he took what you gave him, so you gave him what you could: food, if you had it; a place to sleep at night; the knowledge you’d gathered in your own years as a runaway on how he was supposed to survive in a world that didn’t care whether he lived or rotted away in a gutter. You cared.

Until you didn’t.

‘Going to be traveling alone for a while. Don’t wait for me. I’m sorry,’ your note had read. You left it in his backpack along with $43 in cash—not much, but he knew it was more than you could afford. It was all you had.

And now you have all of this! Don’t you feel lucky? You have the rich husband who barely looks at you, the big house with so many empty unused rooms it makes him sick, more food than you could possibly eat in one lifetime. All of that, and you also have Dabi’s semen leaking out of your cunt. It’s a real rags-to-riches story, he thinks.

Dabi picks a cigarette out of his jacket and you stop fixing up the buttons on your dress to ask him not to light it inside. How will you explain the smell to your husband? Every move you make, every syllable that comes out of your mouth, is weighed down by despair. You look like you’ve been beaten.

He lights the cigarette anyway.

///

Before he had you the first time, Dabi thought once would be enough. Pretty naive, huh?

He makes it his mission to fuck you in every room of your husband’s gluttonously enormous mansion (what with your history Dabi has a hard time thinking of the house as yours, and considering the way you tiptoe around and seem like you’re afraid to move so much as a vase, he suspects you feel the same). There’s a lot of rooms.

When he shows up at your door again you don’t even bother to hear him out, instead just trying to shut it on him, but he forces his way in. You wouldn’t want to make him mad, would you? Not when he’s got such a filthy secret hanging over your head? Will your husband keep paying for your designer shopping trips when he knows you’re a street rat who used to steal everything she wore? Will he still kiss you goodnight when Dabi tells him you used to wrap those pretty lips around strangers’ cocks for money?

If you want Dabi to keep quiet, you’re going to have to convince him the best way you know how. A cockwhore is a cockwhore. That’s not the kind of stain you get to wipe away with time and distance and expensive clothing.

In the kitchen: standing up, your back to his front and your hands barely holding you up on the counter, so hard and rough and deep that the dishes are rattling in the pantry. One of your teacups falls out of the glass china cabinet and shatters into a million fragments in a four foot radius over the tiled floor. Neither of you notice until after. Blunt red lines press themselves into the tops of your thighs where he’s shoving your body into the edge of the counter and there are bruises on your tits from how hard he’s groping you.

In the dining room: sitting on the edge of the table, one of your legs hiked up beside you and the other on a chair while Dabi kneels on the ground in front of you, his head between your thighs and his tongue flicking over your pussy. You start off thinking that you’re going to have to sanitize the entire mahogany surface before you can eat off it again and then he licks his lips and sucks on your throbbing clit and you don’t really think about anything else after that.

In your husband’s study: doggy-style on the floor in front of the fireplace, facedown, his body folded over yours, pressing you so deep into the tacky lion-skin rug that you can taste it. He sighs in your ear—actually, you’re not sure if it’s a sigh or a growl—and his hand comes up to cover yours. You feel the metal stitches and the rough burned skin scraping on your own and it reminds you that it’s him. It’s Dabi.

(A few days after his 13th birthday, the Dabi you used to know told you that he was going to dye his hair—he wanted to be unrecognizable, and you understood, so you found some old scissors and stole hair dye from the pharmacy and you spent three long hours chopping his hair into rough spikes and painting it black. When you washed the dye out of his hair in the sink, your hands were stained inky black too. When he saw, he looked worried and weaved his fingers in with yours and asked if the dye would hurt your skin if it stayed on too long.

And you looked back at this kid—small for his age then, burned by his own quirk, trying so hard to look older and tougher than any 13-year-old should have to be, and you thought to yourself, I would die for you.)

Now you hear Dabi growling out your name and squeezing your hand as he reaches his climax and you think, I would kill you if I could.

///

Dabi saves the master bedroom for last.

Your husband is hosting a party at your house. Dabi knows because you begged him not to come today, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes, offering things you never would have offered if it weren’t important to you that he stay away on this particular evening. But he still comes to crash it. He arrives just minutes before your husband does, and you have barely enough time to tuck him away on the dark bedroom balcony and pull the curtains closed before your husband is opening the door and greeting you.

Dabi settles himself into one of the tasteful Adirondack chairs on the balcony and listens to your voice, or at least what he can hear of it through the sliding glass door. You’re sweeter with your husband than you are with Dabi, and he should’ve known you’d be, but it still makes him hate your husband more than he already did.

On the other hand, there’s something strained and high and nervous in the way you’re speaking. Probably because your husband is standing about twenty feet away from the man you’re cheating on him with.

It takes a while for the two of you to dress for the party, but finally Dabi hears you tell your husband that you’d like to take a little longer to get ready and bid him goodbye. “Love you,” you say to the old man as he leaves the room, so casually Dabi might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening.

Then you’re opening the door and ushering him inside and telling him anxiously that he has to get out before anyone sees him. But, oh, you look nice like this, dolled up in your evening gown and makeup and diamonds, trying to pull him to the door even though you must know by now that he’s not going to leave it there. Instead of following, he backs you up onto the bed and peels down the straps of your dress and slides his hands up under the skirt, and all the while he can’t stop thinking about what you said to your husband.

You used to say that to Dabi.

The first time it was an accident—you’d mentioned it off-hand during a night when it was snowing and his unnaturally high body temperature was the only thing keeping the two of you alive. “God, I love you,” you’d said, draping your arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to share his heat.

It had stunned him and you could probably tell. Maybe the next few times were just you taking pity on a kid who had never been told so casually and so simply that he was loved. But eventually you meant it, the little love you’s before you went to sleep or when one of you went off to do something alone for a few days—a familial love borne of mutual reliance. For the years Dabi was a runaway with you, you were the only person he could trust, and he knows the feeling was mutual.

Now he wants you to tell him you love him again.

It would be hot, wouldn’t it? You telling Dabi you love him while he forces you into a mating press on the bed you share with your husband. Isn’t that hot? You’re never going to be able to sleep on these sheets again without remembering his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock filling you in ways you haven’t been filled since you were 19.

How are you gonna lay next to your husband in this sad cold bed? ‘Cause that old fuck isn’t touching you, Dabi knows that much—if he was, he’d’ve noticed by now that you’re always covered in bite marks and hickeys that he didn’t give you. How are you gonna sleep at night knowing what a nasty slut you are, telling another man you love him?

So say it. Say you love him.

Oh, you’re going to be like that, aren’t you? What did he tell you about being a fucking brat when he’s talking to you? See if you’re still so defiant when he’s got his hand stroking the length of that pretty throat and then sealing down on it, squeezing gently on the veins running up the sides of your neck, not too hard, but enough that you’re probably getting a little dizzy while he continues to fuck into you. Does it hurt? Your face is turning pink. Uh-uh-uh, don’t try to pull his hand off, or he’ll show you just how good he is with his quirk these days.

You’re trying to choke out the words but you can’t quite make them make sense. There’s something endearing about the way your whimpers vibrate through the skin of Dabi’s palm, how he can hear you as well as feeling you. Oh—could you say his name too? He knows you’re feeling all fucked-out and wet and sloppy, every moan rising and falling in time with his cock stretching your pussy open, but can’t you give it a little more effort? He’s sure you can get his name out if you really try.

And if you’re not going to cooperate, Dabi may as well just dig the heel of his knuckle into your windpipe, because you really do tighten up so deliciously when you cough and sputter like that. Fuck, if you keep doing that, he’s going to cum, gonna cum right here in your syrupy pussy and spill it all over your marriage bed—but no, he wants to hear you say it first, so when you’re gagging and turning red and your eyes are watering he finally stops choking you, loosening his grip just enough that his hand is resting on your neck in a lover’s touch. It takes you a second and your voice is so hoarse he can barely hear it, but then you’re speaking and something jumps in his chest—

“I…I love—love y-you, Touya!” you sob. “I love you! I—love you, Touya—Touya—Touya—!”

And ah fuck it’s almost exactly right, your voice saying you love him, saying his real name, a name he hasn’t heard for years because you’re the only one who really knows it anymore—but you’re crying, real heavy sobs while you gulp in frantic lungfuls of oxygen. Your ribcage is heaving underneath him and—god, fuck—your guts are clenching, sucking down on every inch of his cock, every vein—

—oh shit fuck fuck he’s cumming, and he presses his face into your neck, into your hair, kissing you and thinking I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

—please stay, forever.

///

When he’s done, he goes for another round just to make sure you’re going to have cum dripping down your thighs when you go back to the party. No panties, unless you want him to walk through the grand foyer with all the other guests on his way out.

You don’t look at him as you fix your dress and your hair and wipe at your smeared makeup. With your eyeliner rubbed down to the bottom of your eyes, Dabi’s reminded a little of how you used to look—and the reminder is doubled when you slide your legs across the side of the bed and limp over to your vanity, walking hesitantly, your hips rocking from side to side. Damn, did he fuck you that hard?

Reminds him of the old days, you shuffling back to the hideout with that same awkward pain in your gait, purple marks around your neck, and a dim smile decorating your face—for his sake. Oh, and cash in your pockets. You’d tell him that the two of you were going out to eat that night and refuse to let him look at the injuries. God, it made him angry, it still makes him angry just thinking about it—angry at the men who bought you for treating you like that, angry at you for letting them. Angry at himself for not being old enough or strong enough or rich enough to stop them.

Anger, yes…and other things too. There had been a sick, insidious part of him that wanted to be in their position. He’d hated himself for it back then, until you left and the desire to punish you for abandoning him got twisted up with the desire to own you and keep you his. Maybe if he let himself think about it, he’d still hate himself for what he’s doing to you.

By now, you’re too good at covering up the bruises. A sweep of foundation and powder passes over each hickey he left on your throat and it’s like he never touched you. You have to push him off the bed so you can strip the sheets and replace them. When you’re done, you tell him to wait a few minutes after you leave to sneak out the back and he makes another half-joke about joining the party and introducing himself to your old man—

—and you shove him up against the wall with all the strength left in you, wrap your hand around his neck, and dig your fingernails under the line of piercings in his cheek. If he even looks at your husband, if he even thinks about it, you’ll rip his goddamn face open, you tell him in a low snarl.

It’s an empty threat (you and he both know who would win in a physical altercation) but there’s real hatred behind it. Dabi hasn’t seen that kind of fire in your eyes since he found out you became a trophy wife. It makes him want to have you again so he does, pulling your arms away from his face, standing and holding you up against the door to your bedroom, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him to keep from falling.

He’s lubed up by his own cum, and the wet squelching of your pussy just reminds him what a mess you’re going to be when you return to high society tonight. Maybe your husband will be able to smell it on you—the cum, the sex, the other man who’s been keeping his darling wife warm while he’s at work.

Well, probably not. If that stupid fucking cuckold hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s not much of a chance he’ll get it on his own. As Dabi sinks into your tight, gummy cunt again, he decides that he might just have to help the process along. A man deserves to know if his wife is being unfaithful, right?

///

Your husband’s office phone number is written on a post-it note that’s tacked to the desk of his study. It takes Dabi 40 minutes and $30 to buy a burner cell phone, leave a message on the man’s voicemail, and toss the burner in the kitchen trash at your house while you’re in the shower.

The message is short and straightforward. Dabi introduces himself as ‘the man who’s sleeping with your wife’, describes the floor plan of your husband’s house and what position he fucked you in for each room, and finally finishes it off with the evidence—the precise size and location of every hickey he’s left on your body that will still be visible by the time your husband returns from work.

Dabi almost wishes your husband had picked up the call—he’d’ve had a good time explaining in pornographic detail the way your tits look under those too-formal dresses, the way you moan when you cum in his mouth, the way you told him you loved him while he choked you out—with your husband in the house, no less. But this is fine too.

Besides, it’ll be so fucking funny if someone else at your husband’s company hears the message before he does.

///

Whore. Your husband called you a whore.

You’ve been called a whore a lot, actually. More than most people. You should be used to it by now. But it’s different when your husband says it. Your husband, the man who rescued you from a life of poverty and starvation, the man who has given you everything you own, the man who slid a ring onto your finger under a wedding arch and promised to love you in good times and in bad. The man you’ve almost convinced yourself you love back.

He called you a whore and slapped you when you tried to explain yourself and shoved you out the door and locked it. You can still hear his voice telling you the only place he wants to see your face again is in a casket.

So that’s why when Dabi comes to collect you, you’re hugging your knees to your chest on your front porch in your shiny lace-edged slip nightdress, hair in a mess around your head and your lip bleeding onto your chin. Your feet are so cold—your husband didn’t even give you time to put shoes on before he threw you out.

The night is cool and dark but the porch light buzzes on for half a minute when Dabi climbs up the steps to come crouch next to you on the doorstep. You try not to look at him, but he tilts your face toward his, electric-blue eyes skimming over the red mark and blue-black discoloration blossoming across your cheekbone; the blood drying on your split lip.

Dabi asks calmly if your husband hit you, and you nod.

Good, he tells you, and his body lights up blue in a roiling cloud of flames. He’s been waiting for an excuse to kill that old fuck.

The fire is like lightning, bright and ghostly in the darkness. The crackling of the flame eats away at the heavy silence of the night and you crawl back from the dry heat of it, sure you can feel your eyebrows singeing from being near. Dabi looks different backed by the inferno—bigger, crueler. Frightening. He reaches at the door but you shout at him to stop.

Why? Don’t you think he should suffer, after what he did to you?

But your fists clench by your sides and you set your teeth and you tell Dabi that if he’s going to kill your husband, he may as well set himself on fire too, because it’s his fault in the first place. And he’s done a lot worse to you than one slap.

Dabi waits a moment, searching your alarmed expression for something, but whatever he’s hoping for you don’t give him and the flames go out. The air smells like smoke and his hands are hot—not burning, but uncomfortably hot—when he kneels in front of you and rubs a thumb over your bruised cheek.

“(Y/N)—” Dabi starts, and then he can’t find a way to finish. So he just gathers you up in his arms and carries you bridal-style down into the lawn and to the driveway, where he’s got a car waiting to take you guys back to his place. You don’t resist, which surprises him again. He thought you’d push away at him, scream, get angry—he thought he’d have to convince you. Or force you, like he usually does. But you just let him deposit you in the seat next to the driver’s.

Before he gets in, he asks you if you need anything from your house. He can go get it for you. See if any balding motherfucker in his forties can stop him. But you just shake your head.

“There’s nothing,” you say blankly. “I have nothing. I…have nothing.”

Just like back then.

“Not nothing,” Dabi tells you, turning forward to the road so you can’t see the look on his face. “You have me.”

///

In the end, he does understand. He understood it the second he held that goodbye note in his hands and knew you were lost to him.

You were 17 when you met him and 19 when you left—hardly older than a child yourself. You barely had enough to provide for your own needs, much less a teenage boy’s. By the time you left, Dabi was more than capable of surviving on his own and already falling into ugly crowds, gangs and syndicates who saw money in his quirk, people you’d sacrificed a lot to keep him away from. He no longer needed you, and it was time for you two to go your separate ways. Dabi understands that.

But now you need him. Just like you needed him when you were fucking strangers for food money; like you needed him when you ran away; like you needed him when you got trapped in this mundane, sparkling-clean life, a life that was never going to fit you. Only this time—this time, Dabi’s old enough for you. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s a man. He’s got an apartment and a good job (well, kind of) and he’s got money. He can provide for you the way you’ve always needed him to.

Dabi’s going to take care of you, and you’re never, ever going to leave.

6K notes · View notes

compressingsins · 3 years

Text

Trouble Maker

Requested by; @dekuslilhousewife

Pairing; Dom! Daichi x bratty! chubby! fem reader

Warnings; Dom Daichi, sub reader, vaginal penetration, overstimulation, creampie, oral (m!recieving), (Daichi is kind of mean in this, but doesn't means it).

Summary; Daichi, has had a long day at work. When he comes home, he's tired, exhausted but YOU. You think he isn't as tired as he says he is, and now you're really starting to piss him off. Your begging, and nagging, is aggravating him so much. He wants to just relax, and chill but you're just so needy.

You sighed to yourself, the sound of your sigh echoing a little through your empty living room. Only you're home, your boyfriend every since your first years in high school, Daichi Sawamura, is at work. He's on the way though, but you're getting impatient.

His job is hard, besides having coach Ukai asking Daichi to come mentor and help the new first, second, and third years. He has a hell of a lot on his plate, but you... you just really miss him.

The thought of cooking him dinner before he came home, did cross your mind. But you don't feel like it, and you know he probably won't even eat it because he'll be tired, as soon as he walks in.

But not today! Tomorrow, he has the day off so you want him up with you the entire day. Does he see it that way, though? You don't even know, nor do you necessarily care. You just want him UP and awake, enjoying his day off with you.

Laying on the couch with your covers over your body, you sighed, picking up the tv controller to increase the volume. You chucked, hearing a quite vulgar joke from the main character of the cartoon series, Family Guy, that you loved.

Daichi would always complain to you about it. That it's really not appropriate, and since he sometimes act like a dad, he always try to change your channel whenever he catches you watching it. Which is total, dipshit because what the hell? You love that show!

As you were getting into it though, a knock was heard on the door, your eyes darting over. You instantly, jumped from your seat, Family Guy being forgotten in the meantime.

You stood at the door hearing him put the key in from the outside, and turn it until that little click was heard. You smiled brightly, both your hands behind your back just waiting to hug him.

Once the door opened, your face lit up even more. "Welcome home, babe!" You greet-shouted, but when you tried to hug him, he dodged it moving to the side, you almost hitting the door.

You didn't even mind, still smiling at your boyfriend who was exhausted. You followed behind him. "Hey, babe!" You said once more, as the both of you went into the kitchen, him preparing himself a drink. "How was work?" You questioned, leaning on the counter.

He looked at you, with a small smile. "Uh... yeah, it was good, babe-" He informed, you still smiling at him watching him take a glass bottle from one of your cabinets. "-how was yours?"

"It's better now that you're here." You informed him, he smiled with a huff of air coming from his nostrils. He popped the cork to the bottle, you watching his every move while keep looking up at his face. "So, I was thinking... could we possibly-"

"No." He immediately cut you off, which made you gasp. You were slightly confused, but thought he was playing therefore, you walked over to him and hugged him from behind.

"Oh come on, you didn't even let me ask you the question yet, babe."

Daichi sighed. "Well-" He turned to you, and picking up his cup. "-what is it?" He questioned as you let him go to take a step back.

You looked him in the face, still smiling. You were kind of embarrassed to ask this question, for you've never asked this before, so you fiddled with your fingers trying not to mess up with your words.

"I was thinking, since you've got the entire day off-" Daichi hummed, letting you continue. "-why don't we, spend some time together?"

He took a sip of his drink then turned slightly to put it down behind him. As he turned back to you, he shook his head leaving you confused as he walked towards your shared bedroom. "I can't babe, sorry."

You followed behind him, all sad like an unfed puppy dog. "Oh come on babe!" You complained as you both entered your bedroom, him beginning to take off his work clothes which you didn't say nothing about. Well, it's not like you haven't seen him naked before so you didn't care.

He entered the room fully, as you stood at the door. "You've been working so hard, and I just wanna be your..." You looked away, thinking of something to say. "...uh, your stress reliever."

Daichi sighed. "Baby, I'm tired, okay? I've been working all day, and plus!" You crossed your arms with a roll of your eyes. "Coach needed me to help his students, so that's an extra hour of work."

You knew he was right, but you just want to spend some time with your boyfriend. You love him so much, but you do understand where he's coming from. However, your urges, are getting in the way of your understandings.

You watched as he sat down to untie his shoes. "I need your help too, babe!" You pouted like a little kid, knowing he was going to help you, when you did that. So you kept pouting because, he always-

"That cute little pout baby-" He stood up and walked in front of you and caressed your cheek. "-won't work on me today." He pecked your lips, and went into your bathroom that's in the room.

You gasped, following him once again. "How dare you kiss me, and won't help me you asshole!" You complained, all dramatically but you really wanted that kiss, and you definitely want to feel his lips on yours again.

Taking your bottom lip in between your teeth, you leaned agaisnt the wall and crossed your arms, just watching him fumble through everything.

"Because, your lips are mine Y/N-" He boldly said, smirking at you making you blush. Before you could protest, he cut you off. "-and, because you really wanted that kiss, I know."

Your head jerked back. "No I didn't." You tried to sound cold, but only cute to him which made Daichi chuckle. He walked over to you, and caressed your cheek once again.

"Really?" He chucked, and pecked your lips again before walking into your bedroom again. You turned to him, watching as he began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"Yes really! That kiss, was disgusting..." You lied, and he knew it. You love kisses from Daichi, because to be honest, his lips are actually quite soft. That's the main reason, you love kissing him.

He turned to you, still unbuttoning his shirt. "Come on babe-" You said to him. "-I just want your attention sometimes." You pouted, turning your head to look at anything but him.

"I'm sorry babe, but I'm tired." His reply, which made you sigh and roll your eyes.

You began walking to your door to go into the hallway as you mumbled, "Always neglecting me." Which made your boyfriend gasp.

His voice stopped you in your tracks. "What did you just say to me?" He asked, his tone low and not joking at all. When you didn't answer, he said, "Y/N-" You turning to him slowly, seeing his more than pissed off expression. "-what did you say to me?"

You looked down at the floor. He then walked over to you, and slammed the door behind you, making your entire body jump. You were still looking at the floor, only his legs and feet in sight.

"Did you say, what I think you said?" He questioned, staring down at you. His hand that slammed the door, caging that side of your body in. As soon as he saw you shifting, he slammed his right hand on the other side.

You could see he was shirtless, only his boxers, and pants on. "Look at me, now." His tone extremely cold, your body froze up. "Y/N." He said your name, you slowly began looking up at him.

He looked beyond pissed. His eyes narrowed, his previous smile dropped into a frown. "Why did you say that?" He asked, observing your face.

Your lips started moving, but nothing coming out until you stuttered, "I-I said-"

"Don't, lie to me." You could tell by his tone, that he wasn't freaking playing with you. You jumped a little, knowing you made your boyfriend really upset from that little comment you just had to say. You tried looking down again but, "Uh no-" Your gaze shifting to Daichi. "-look at me, and answer correctly."

"I-I said that-" You gulped harshly. "-you always... neglect me." Even though he heard you say it, he seemed to get even more pissed off, once you repeated yourself.

"And why did you say that, Y/N?"

You closed your eyes and gulped once more. "Because, you never wanna spend time with me-" You stated. "-you always come home, and then go to sleep." You looked away, not turning your head. "It's never, any time spent with me."

Daichi sighed. "You gotta understand Y/N. I'm tired, working nine hours a day, okay?" Yeah, you knew that but like... "I can't speed every second with you, because of my job."

"But-"

"Did I ask you to speak?" Your mouth immediately shut, trying your best to look him in the eyes. "Good girl. Now, how can I spend time with you if I work that many hours?" He questioned, staring you in the eyes deeply.

"I'm your girlfriend-" He gasped, but let you finish. "No matter what, you should find some time to spend with me." You tried to sound like you weren't nervous, but he knew you were but it didn't make him happy or anything.

He suddenly gripped your shoulder. "Daichi, what are-" He cut you off by shoving you down on your knees, your face right in front of his crotch.

"You think I don't know what you want, you fucking whore?" Oh God, he's in the mood but you'd be lying if you said you weren't too. "I see how you strut around me, whenever I get home from work, slut."

You were never really a fan of the name calling, but you tolerated it. Daichi quickly began unbuckleing his belt, your face getting even more flushed. "I'm tired of your shit Y/N-" He said, snatching off his belt, throwing it to the side.

"-you know I'm doing these hours for us." He unbuttoned his pants, zipping down his fly as he yanked his pants down his meaty legs. "I guess you're just too much of an cock hungry whore, to wait until I can spend time with you."

He stepped out of the wholes of his pants, straightening his tone body up. His boxers tent was huge. You know your boyfriend isn't little, bigger than average and he was really hard.

Though, you two only had sex three times in your entire relationship, just because he's forever busy with work. Using both thumbs, he tucked them into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, his cock slapping against his abdomen making a smack sound.

It was thick, long, and hard leaking insane amounts of pre-cum. You didn't know how to react, his tip an intimidating red.

Your eyes went wide because for some reason, he looks bigger... than the last time, you seen him naked fully. He saw your facial expression, but didn't care at all. Gripping his cock, he jerked it a couple of times, then pointing it directly in your face.

You looked up at him with big innocent eyes. "Suck." He wasn't asking you, he demanded you to suck him off. He wasn't about to tolerate any of your bullshit, so he grabbed your chin with his left hand titling it to look at him, and his cock with the other. "I said, suck." His voice even deeper than before.

You gulped and wrapped your chubby soft fingers around his cock. Instantly, he groaned at the contact. You gave him two warm up pumps of your hand, then slowly maneuvered your mouth to his cock.

He watched your every move, as you took the tip into your mouth, his head titled back as he moaned. You haven't done this before, so you honestly don't know what the hell you're doing. Considering the fact that he's already mad, you're going to do it anyway.

You wrapped your lips around his head, your tongue gliding over his slit collecting his pre-cum. He moaned loudly at this, looking back down at you as you suck his cock.

His right hand caressed the back of your head, only gliding his hand through your hair. His head titled back up, letting you do what you do. Your tongue constantly grazed his slit, his body shivering each time it did.

He began moaning deeply, your free hand grasping the base of his cock, stroking hard and slowly to the tip. His gasp, let you know you where doing good, so you began squeezing his cock harder while stroking it at a medium pace.

His hand gripped some of your hair, you moaned around his tip, earning a moan from Daichi. You felt as if you needed to do now, so you grasped his cock with both of your hands, tugging and pulling up to the base, as you sucked his tip.

Daichi bit his lip trying to conceal his moans, but was failing each time you pumped him harder. Then, both his hands grasped the back of your head, as he began thrusting himself into your mouth.

You tried your best to keep a hold of his cock, which you did. His rough thrusting of his hips making saliva drip from your mouth, but he didn't care. "This is what you -Ah- wanted isn't it, Y/N?~" He asked between thrust, and moans.

You were struggling to breathe, but he still didn't care. He stood still, just to continue pulling your head back and forth on his cock. His tip hitting the back of your throat, causing you to gag and push on his legs. "Stop complaining, and take whatever the fuck I give you, slut."

He was panting like a bitch in heat, your eyes closed tightly trying to breathe through your nose. "You wanted my attention, ahhh-" He moaned deeply. "-and now... I'm giving it to you!" His voice cracked at the end, as he liked your nose agaisnt his abdomen.

Your nose pressing agaisnt abdomen, his body jerking and you feeling the back of your throat heat up with his cum. Thick spurts went down your throat, you trying your best to not spit it up.

Daichi was breathing heavily, gently rocking his hips into your mouth getting out all his cum. His eyes were closed tightly, and so were yours. "Take it all, Y/N." He said, slowing his hips until finally, he came to a stop. He stayed inside your mouth for about five seconds, then slowly began pushing you off.

Once you fell on your back coughing, Daichi instantly picked you up and tossed you onto the bed. You tried sitting up, but he grabbed your wrist and pinned you down, staring into your eyes. He was still mad, but not as much since you just gave him one of his best orgasms ever.

Your eyes were narrowed a bit, due to the abuse of your throat. You coughed, but Daichi put his hand over your mouth. "I don't want you to swallow, or spill a drop of my cum until we're done, you got me?"

You nodded obediently, not wanting him to break your plush body. When he sees it completely exposed to only his eyes, he can't control himself like at all. You're only wearing a big t-shirt, his, and panties because why not?

"Actually-" Daichi tapped your thigh. "-I want you on your stomach, now." You obeyed without hesitation. As you did, you felt him slide your shirt up over your plush ass. His hand grip your right cheek, him humming in satisfaction of the jiggle.

You gasped, for he smacked your left cheek hard but you still didn't open your mouth. "You're so beautiful, Y/N." Daichi complimented, like he always does you when you're doing something like this.

He's well aware of your insecurities, but he also knows you don't have any when it's just you and him. Though, he still wants you to know it. Your cunt was leaking of your fluids, and spasming from desperation.

Daichi hooked a finger in the middle band of your panties, you moaning at the contact his finger made with your clit. To be honest, you know you aren't prepared for this. You and Daichi haven't had sex in a while, and you know you aren't prepped for this.

You haven't been pleasuring yourself, because you know it wouldn't feel as good as Daichi's cock. Your body jerked forward, once you felt spit drip down and into your clenching hole.

Daichi smirked at hearing your cute little sounds. He gripped his cock, that was still hard, and began jerking himself off a little then spit on it too. His left hand went to your lower back to hold you in place.

He stared down at his cock as he held you down, while jerking himself. You were getting impatient, but as if he could read your mind, you could feel his tip intruding in your heaven.

Your thighs squeezed together, his cock feeling thicker than it looked and felt in your mouth. Daichi groaned whilst closing his eyes, still pushing himself deep into you. Your hands bawled into fist, eyes clenching shut as his thick cock ripped your insides.

You reached both hands back trying to get him to stop, because it was slightly hurting, but he grabbed both your hands and pushed them into the empty spaces beside your head. "Don't try and stop me Y/N-" He groaned in your ear. "-this is what you wanted, so you're gonna fucking take it."

His hips reared back, as he then pushed forward almost knocking the breath out of you. Your eyes clenched tighter, your forehead pressing agaisnt the mattress, with sweat seeping from your pores.

His grip on your wrist tightened, as he began thrusting harder, your cervix already being abused and he's barely started. "You can't- ah- take it, babe?" He asked almost mocking you, but you couldn't say anything back.

Daichi chuckled, thrusting slowly but slamming in hard, almost penetrating right through the entrance of your womb. Your head was fuzzy, the veins of his cock tickling your plush, slippery, wet walls. He began kissing your neck. "Your little pussy-" One hard thrust. "-is mine." And another hard thrust.

You were about to scream because he increased his pace. His thick tip hitting your g-spot repeatedly. Your walls now clenching tightly on him. "You about to cum Y/N?" He asked, chuckling letting go of your wrist only to wrap his left arm around your body, and his right hand went to your clit.

Your body jerked forehead, yours own hands went to the sides of your head. Daichi was kissing, and tattooing hickeys over your entire back. "Come on babe-" He said with a particular hard thrust that had you almost clenching your fist, until it was about to pop literally.

"-I know you wanna- ah! cum~" Your walls clenching down tighter on him as he sat up a little, his left hand gripping your hip and the right one still rubbing circle eights on your clit.

Your body was on fire. His cock was grazing your insides slowly, but when he went back in, his tip would hit your cervix with a brutal amount of force. "I'll make you cum~" His hips began snapping into yours, that you actually tried getting away.

He gripped your hip with his right hand, penetrating you deeply with an increased new speed of pace. He would occasionally go slow, if he felt himself about to cum again, but then go faster once it went away so he could make you cum.

His hand smacked your ass, a snack that sent a jolt of electricity to your clenching cunt. "Cum~" Daichi demanded, and on que, you came all over his cock. Your eyes streamed slight tears, and you accidentally swallowed his cum because of the insane amount of pleasure.

Your orgasm was intense, his hips going slowly, but don't think he didn't notice you swallowed his cum. He stopped for a second, holding himself still deep inside of you. "Y/N-" You looked back at him. "-you swallowed my cum... didn't you?"

You nodded, hesitantly. "Y-yes..." You couldn't help it. The way he was bruising your g-spot, literally made you feel like you were in heaven.

Daichi smiled. "I thought I told you not to-" His smile wasn't very convincing at all. "Well then~" Daichi began snapping his hips into yours again, he pace relentless.

Your eyes snapped open. "Ba-" You couldn't get your words out, his cock demolishing your insides. You were full on crying now, the overstimulation ripping through your entire body.

"Shhhhh-" He moaned out. "-you can't even follow simple rules, Y/N." He groaned out, his tip bumping your cervix with every push and pull of his cock. You tried sitting up, doing anything to stop going because the overstimulation was too much.

However, he pushed your head into the mattress. "No, baby-" He said, with a hard thrust and then slow, deep, grinds of his hips. "-you was begging me for attention, and now you have it." He moaned out the last word, now reaching his limit.

But then, Daichi pulled out. You were relived... until he flipped you on your back and instantly, sunk himself deep inside you again. "Babe!!!" You moaned out, your back arching tremendously.

He was so deep in you, you could bet he was in your stomach. His cock was humping your g-spot hard, your hands went to his back pulling him down on top of you.

"Don't complain-" Daichi's thrust became even more violent, and deep. You were borderline screaming, but he loved it. His hand went to your clit, padding at it as your back arched. "-I love you so much, Y/N."

You couldn't even say it back. Your mind was blank, the only thing you felt was his warm body, and his massive cock probing your cervix. You were about to cum, but this time, it was coming more violently.

"Daichi! It's- it's too much!" He put his hand over your mouth, burying his head in the crook of your neck. You were being so loud, and you couldn't help it at all because of him.

You were cumming, and so was Daichi. His pace increased, and he wasn't even concerned with the pre-cum dripping out of his tip, that's destroying your cervix.

Your eyes were wide as hell. You were kind of afraid of the pleasure, Daichi's cock absolutely abusing your cervix. His eyes were even watering up, not really able to handle the tight squeeze of your plush and wet walls.

His free thumb went to your click, massaging it reluctantly and that was it. Your second orgasm almost murdering you, as you literally saw white light you were about to go towards.

Daichi came as well, his body jerking violently as his hips keep it's pace, until it slowed. He was moaning in your ear loudly, both your orgasms intense and probably the best you've ever had. "I love you... I love you so much, Y/N!" He moaned, the overstimulation a little too much for the both of you.

He removed his hand from your mouth. You stuttered, "I-I love you... too!" Daichi sat up, still buried inside of you, looking down at you while his hips still moved a bit. Your arms were on his triceps, both of your eyes closed tightly as he rid you of your overstimulated orgasms.

Once he washed over you both, he stopped and fell on top of you. The both of your eyes still closed, as you tried catching your breath. Your hands were on his back, having him as close to you as possible.

You could feel his cock softening inside of you, but he still didn't pull out. He sat up, and looked you in the eyes. "I love you, Y/N. So so much."

You smiled and leaned forward to peck him on the lips. "I love you too, Daichi." You both smiled at each other as you kissed again. But, Daichi sat up on the palm of his hands, looking in between both of your connected bodies.

You looked too, and your hands went to his chest as be began moving again. "Daichi!" You screamed moaned, but he grabbed your hands planting them to your sides.

"We're not done, Y/N-" His hips snapping into yours. "Not until you stop being the trouble you are, and knowing that I don't neglect you."

You came at least, twenty times that day. Honestly, you don't even remember, because he never stopped. Not until like six thirty, the next day. You couldn't handle it, and passed out a lot but he just thrusted you away.

Well then, that was a bit much! It was so detailed, what the hell is wrong with me?! Anyways, @dekuslilhousewife, I hope you liked this. I don't know, if it turned out how you wanted it to, but I do hope you like it! Request, anytime! (But not now..)

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu lemon #anime #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #daichi x reader #haikyuu daichi #daichi smut #hq daichi #lemon #hq smut #x chubby reader #haikyu x reader #x reader

425 notes · View notes

lilacsandwhiskey · 3 years

Note

Angst prompts 12 - Tom 💛

Choices

Pairing: Tom Holland x reader

Warnings: language, angst, not necessarily a happy ending but maybe a part 2 in the works, perhaps?

angst prompt from @your-fluffy-murder-writer

Tom hated the way he couldn’t lay down and feel comfort in what he was sure was the most comfortable bed in the entire city. The hotel room was seemingly too large anymore, knowing there was one less body occupying the room.

He swung his legs over the left side of the bed, his feet hitting the cool carpet. He glanced at the clock. It was only 11:02pm, but everyone else had already fallen asleep in the suite. He tiptoed into the small kitchenette, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, thankfully stocked by Harrison earlier that evening. He took himself out to the balcony, sitting back on the cold metal chair that decorated the outlook.

Tom sighs as he pressed the bottle to his lips, sweat from the bottle falling onto his chest. He’s quick to rub them away before setting the bottle on the tiny garden table in between the two chairs. His fingers fumble with the other side of the chair as he stares at it, as if the one face he wants to see will appear. But he knows it won’t.

His mind takes in the still bustling city below him. He knows if you were here, you’d be whispering softly stories you’d made up about each person that walks around on the street. “They definitely are on their first date.” You’d say at the awkward hand holding couple crosses the street. “She looks like she’d drive a Benz. I’d like to drive a Benz.” Tom found himself letting out a laugh through his nostrils, immediately feeling tears sting the back of his eyes. If only you were here to make those comments.

Tom wondered what you were doing right now. It took everything in him not to call you, for the first time sober. There was no doubt drunken calls had surfaced on the nights he’d gotten absolutely hammered. Harry would try to stop him, but Tom never listened. He’d shove his brother away from him, closing the door and locking himself in there. He wasn’t proud of it. It didn’t exactly help his pride that you never once called back.

“You’ll always choose it over me.” You cried. “Every. Single. Time. You’ll choose anything it all over me.” This wasn’t the first time this had been a fight. Tom groaned, pushing his hand through his brown hair. “It’s my fucking job.” “When will you realize that I know that? But you’ve changed. I haven’t even gotten a text from you in over two weeks. I’m not going to be in a relationship with a radio silent telephone. I deserve more.”

And that’s when you left. You had enough and you finallt chose your feelings over your own. You were supportive of Tom and his endeavors, everything about his job, you supported. It wasn’t until the partying and clubbing commenced more than usual, earning you not even a check in text. You felt selfish for getting upset but you also recognize that what the two of you had going on wasn’t healthy either. If he wanted it to work, he would make it work, you told yourself.

Tom was awoken by clanking in the kitchenette. The place would be home to him for the next two weeks, so there was no question that Harry had ran out to get groceries for the three of you. Tom rolled out of bed, not before grabbing his phone. Did he ever call you last night? He checked. Nope. Thank God.

Tom made the decision then to try to get over you. No response to any of his calls or messages was a response to him. With a shaky sigh, his feet carry him to the kitchen, only to hear the tail-end of a conversation. “I miss when y/n would make us those cheesy eggs in the morning.” Harry said, cracking an egg over the pan. “She’d always put the right amount of cheese.”

With a groan, Tom looks to his brother and best friend. “Don't ever say her name again.” Tom pleads, sitting down at the stool. Tom knew his whim of a decision to forget you would be more difficult than not. Harry and Harrison share a look that goes unnoticed by Tom. “Sorry mate.” Harrison responds, giving Harry one more look.

The rest of breakfast goes as normal as it usually could. Tom craved more than his breakfast though, and the craving was almost overbearing to the real food in front of him. He looked over at the stool next to him, where you would be if you were still with him. He imagined what this morning would look like - the type of morning you’d shared several times before. Your knees pressed into his thigh, feet perched on his own stool instead of yours to get closer. Your body would be turned towards his as you scraped your food off your plate, laughing among the people he loved so much.

One thing Tom struggled the most with, was when you decided to leave, you left the family too. Tom wasn’t sure if you still communicated with him, but there was no doubt some hurt when Tom had announced your break-up. You’d become so close to all of them, that you sitting here next to him in the morning eating breakfast would have been domestic. Your laughter would have lightened the thickened air between all of you. You’d crack a joke or two, pushing Harry’s buttons like you always did.

The first time Tom ever saw Harry genuinely get upset at him was when he told him. Harry took it the hardest - he had grown close to you. Of course, Tom had other girlfriends in the past that Harry had met, but he had never gotten so protective over someone like he had you. He was sure you were it for Tom. So when Tom announced it at a family dinner when his mom was poking about your whereabouts, Harry’s chair screeched loudly, a napkin was thrown on his plate, and out the back door he was to the garden.

“You really fucked up, didn’t you?” Harry hadn’t even turned around to notice Tom’s presence. He knew already. “Why do you assume it was me?” “It’s not an assumption, Tom.” Harry is quick to turn on his feet to meet his older brother. “You pushed and pushed her away. We warned you. She begged for you to give her a sliver of that reassurance you gave her in the beginning but you couldn’t get it through that thick skull of yours.” Harry’s words cut like a knife but Tom knew he was right. “I’m sorry.” Tom whispered. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” Harry pushed by his brother, inside to help clean up before he was gone to their own home.

Harry apologized soon after but didn’t fail to mention that he was still pretty upset. To Tom’s knowledge, no one had spoken to you. But that wasn’t true. Harry was the first to reach out, someone you confided in. He was like your little brother after all, you’d spent a few years by their sides. Then everyone found it in them to call or message you. You had ran into Nikki at the grocery store. She spotted you down the aisle looking at pasta. You turned to see that familiar face, that familiar smile. “Y/n.” She said, before you opened her arms and allowed her embrace. She didn’t fail to express how much she missed you, which only made getting over Tom harder.

Leaving Tom was one of the hardest things you’d ever done. When you made the decision, it wasn’t quick. You lingered for months. You thought there would be a change that would snap you back into the relationship you held so dear to your heart.

The phone calls were fairly continuous for a while, a drunken Tom confessing he was wrong. You’d squeeze your eyes shut listening to the messages, telling yourself not to cry. Your finger hovered over his contact several times. But there was one thing you knew - you couldn’t say hello to him and risk another goodbye.

——————

Tom was onset for his newest movie - one about a girl and a boy finding theirselves back to each other after a rough breakup. It was a rom-com, something Tom had always been up for, but it felt different not having you by his side during filming. Though he’d had a rather great break, he spent the majority of it sulking and attempting to prepare.

Tom saw several familiar faces walking onto set, familiar with the director as someone he’d worked with times before. “Where’s the lady?” He asked, shaking Tom’s hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Harry’s face drop into a frown, attempting to insinuate that it wasn’t a good subject for now. “Uh, we ended things.” “Oh man, I’m sorry to here that.” The director gave a sympathetic smile before calling for the objective of the scenes today.

Tom felt jittery as it was determined that they would be working on the break-up scene. He stood in front of his co-star, preparing body language to show they were angry. His co-star looks to him, feeding her selves thoughts to bring tears to her eyes.

“You never cared, did you?” She spits. “You know I did.” Tom remembers how small he’s supposed to feel in this moment before the anguish begins. “You are better off without me. Just say it.” “I can’t.” “Why can’t you?” The woman is hiccuping through tears. “Because… I love you.” “You’re pathetic. You’re a liar. You’re lying to me.”

Tom recalls his actions are to become angrier with each degrading comment. But in that moment - he’s sparked. “You really think I don’t love you?” “How could I when you treat me like this?” Tom feels the tears rushing to his eyes, face turning red. “I would do anything for you.” “Then do it! Stop treating me like this!”

This felt all too familiar. A fight way too familiar. The actress is doubled over in tears, and Tom’s character is to feel urged to hold her and apologize. He does, tears streaming down his own face. If only he’d handle your arguments differently. If only his fuse didn’t get the best of him.

“God, I’m so sorry.” Tom mumbles, holding the actress close. He becomes aware of how it’s not you he’s holding. He becomes aware of how this could have been different if he would just listen. The scene continues with mumbles I love yous and a tired girl packing up her clothes.

Tom watches in the corner, real tears falling down his face as he remembers watching you sling things into bags. You had slammed pictures down on the way out. And he knew it was goodbye.

“And… cut! Absolutely beautiful acting, you two! Don’t think we could’ve had you do that better.” The director gushed. Tom was still fed with a lump in his throat. The director reports they can take five, bringing Harrison and Harry walk to the curly-haired boy. “You okay?” Harry asks, squeezing his shoulder.

Tom hesitates, eyes staring forward. “No.” He lets out. “I fucked up. I should’ve handed it all better. Why did I hurt her?” Tom knew people were probably wondering why he was unable to snap back to reality. But that was thing - that conversation had been a reality and it cut too deep.

“I’m in love with her. I am. I know she won’t give me the time of day anymore. But God, I’d do anything for a second chance.” This was the first time Tom had let himself really feel his heartbreak, and he knew it wasn’t the time. So like the great actor he is, he snapped out of his trance and prepared to listen for directions as they called for everyone back.

Tom made his way to the crew, Harrison following close behind. “Keep an eye on him. I’ve gotta call to make.”

Harry walks out into the warm summer sun. He’s quick to pull his phone out and go to the number he needs. With a couple of taps, the phone is ringing. The ring is broken by a simple hello. “Y/n? Hey! Got a minute to talk?”

#tom holland angst #tom holland #thomas stanley holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot

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songbirdstyles · 3 years

Text

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly.

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp.

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do.

The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry?

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record.

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends.

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants.

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

~~~

The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off, waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd.

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles series #harry styles drabble #harry styles one shot #im sure im going to regret starting this as a series and not trying to make it one long piece #but honestly??#im working on another fic right now so i just want the beginnings of this to be out there #i hope u enjoy

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after-witch · 3 years

Text

Yandere Ransom Imagine

“That's some heavy-duty conjecture.”

Word Count: 2700ish

notes: unhealthy relationships, emotional and physical abuse, financial abuse, yandere

Imagine being a struggling adult working a full time job plus freelancing gigs just to get by in your one-bedroom apartment where the ceiling always leaks when it rains and you have to perform a complicated maneuver to make sure the door doesn’t jam up on you and you’re constantly worried about your landlord raising the rent.

Maybe a well-meaning friend gets you a gift card to an upscale bookstore because they know you haven’t had a new book on your shelves in years, or maybe you find $20 on the street like a veritable Charlie Bucket but instead of buying a Wonka Bar you head into a this fantastic artisan coffee shop on the rich side of town, a place that everyone always raves about on Instagram, just so you can try an expensive latte with hand-ground beans and flavors you’ve never heard of before--because don’t you deserve a treat, for once?

Whatever it is, wherever it is, Hugh Ransom Drysdale is waiting inside and sees you there.

And oh my God is it obvious that you’re out of place right off the bat. I mean, what the hell is someone like you doing in this part of town?

With your worn out clothes that are worn from necessity and not from being fashionably thrifted and your ratty purse stuffed with papers and candy wrappers that spill out when you dig in for your card or cash and your winter boots that you’ve probably worn 5 years in a row, ripped in the hell and patched with black tape that you hope people don’t notice.

It becomes even more obvious that you’re out of your element when something goes wrong. The gift card isn’t activated. The $20? A fake, probably a movie prop that blew in the wind. Whatever goes wrong, it means that you’re suddenly at the register, impatient people with real money tapping their expensive shoes behind you, unable to pay. You’re left standing there like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do or say.

Normally he might just roll his eyes and remind himself that people like you ought to stick to your own shops, your own place. But something about the way your eyes go all downcast and you seem to shrink down in embarrassment makes him take pity on you. Like a stray cat in the alley hoping someone will toss it some scraps.

So he strides up and flicks out a card and hands it to the cashier, dropping a friendly greeting to them because he spends like crazy and they probably know him by name at this place, and he’s the one who hands you your coffee or your bag and your hands touch ever so briefly during the exchange.

He leads you away from the register--don’t want to piss off the spoiled debutantes and assistants on lunchtime coffee runs--and you stammer out a thank-you-thank-you and you promise you’ll pay him back as soon as you can and Jesus Christ, isn’t that just adorable? Someone like you, some lost kicked puppy who can’t even afford new boots, promising to pay him back?

He doesn’t care if you pay him back, but he finds that he would like something out of this exchange, so he says that instead of paying him back you can do him the honor of going to lunch with him. His treat.

He insists. And you can’t really say no, can you? You are hungry and he did just pay for your things and it’s the least you can do to oblige his request.

He’s not stupid. He doesn’t take you to some razzle dazzle fancy restaurant where you’ll feel embarrassed and out of place. Instead he takes you to a quiet diner, classy not greasy, where you can have an easy conversation and tell him all about yourself.

It’s funny. Normally he brings up his family name, his grandfather’s books, to women he picks up, to get them impressed and hooked and pliable. Something about you, though. Something about you is making him want to turn this into more than a lunch date and pressure for a quickie in the car to repay him.

So he holds back to see what he can do with you on his own. No quickie in the car, but instead before he drops you off--at a bus station, you insisted--he brushes his hand over yours. Can he get your number? He swears he can feel the heat coming off your cheeks as you fumble for your phone and let him put his number in your contacts.

He waits a day, then asks you out again. Dinner, this time. He asks you if you know any good places and you recommend a dive bar that you can go to after work (because 1) schedule and 2) cheap) and shit, he’s all for it. There will be time in the future to impress you with restaurants that have dress codes instead of sticky floors. You sit close on the stools and you buy him a drink (real cute, real real cute) and just for you he keeps the baggie in his pocket there all night instead of heading to the bathroom to liven things up.

Your relationship develops with an almost shocking speed. He knows just how to reel you in. I mean--look at you. Working your ass off at some dead end job, living in an apartment so shitty it takes you almost a month before you reluctantly agree to let him see it.

He can understand, though. Because you’re not that stupid and you know he’s wealthy, even before he casually brings up his family in a “it’s no big deal but I don’t want to keep things from you because we’re getting serious” sort of way.

You pretend to be casual about it all, but he can tell you’re suddenly wondering: why the hell would someone from this wealthy family want anything to do with me?

It’s a question Ransom asks himself a lot. He asks himself this when he’s snorting coke off another woman’s stomach (hey, you’re dating, but he’s got needs and they aren’t met with hand-holding) or when he’s eating another greasy burger at a shitty bar because you refuse to let him buy you a nice dress to wear so he can take you out somewhere fancy.

You’re not the type of person he normally goes for, not at all. He has strings of girlfriends and flings, but they all tend to fit that same cookie cutter mold: wealthy do-nothings with their parent’s credit card who want someone else to spoil them for a while, without caring who it is or what they’re like. They’re easy pickings that Ransom can burn through and then toss aside when he’s bored of them. Some of them cry but a few days later he’ll see them on someone else’s arm, it’s the circle of life.

With you, though, there’s more. You don’t expect him to pay for dates or anything at all (even when he wants to spoil you a bit) and you have actual conversations and you seem to actually give a shit about what he says and does. You argue with him, too, when he wants you to do something (just let him take you shopping, for Christ’s sake!) or he asks you to move in (again) and you say no (again). I mean, you really fight with him, spitting words and all.

And unlike his previous girlfriends, you don’t come crawling back a few hours later because you want to buy a new purse with his shiny credit card. Instead, you make him apologize first. Fuck, that’s hot. It’s also something he tucks away in the back of his mind to work on later--but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t admit that he sometimes has the overwhelming urge to push you against the wall and fuck you for the first time right after a good argument.

But he knows that would destroy your image of him entirely, so he holds back. He’s good at crafting a version of himself that appeals to others when he has to, and you’re maybe the first person that’s been worth all the effort he’s put into you so far.

But you need a push, a push that makes it so you can’t go running back to your shithole apartment when you fight or when you question whether or no you two have a future. You do, you’re just too naive--too inexperienced with money, to say it charitably--to realize it.

So he tips off the fire marshal about your apartment building’s shoddy fire escapes and well, damn, in the process of the investigation all the little corners that your landlord has cut come crashing down. At least they were discovered before it was the building that came crashing down.

But the evacuation of the building leaves you--and countless others--high and dry. You don’t have any family in the area, and your only half ass-decent friend in the city lives in the same building but her parent’s aren’t going to let a stranger move in.

When you finally realize you have no options and call him, voice tentative and embarrassed, he knows just what to say to get you to pack your meager belongings and wait for him to pick you up. He’s no-nonsense about it.

He knows how to avoid deflating your pride, how to keep you from deciding you’d rather stay in a shelter than take his charity. You’ll pay him back, he says, you’ll figure out a rental plan or whatever. He even teases--he’s not the best landlord, but he won’t take 2 weeks to change the toilet if you submit a maintenance request. It makes you crack a smile and bam, just like that, he knows he’s gotten in.

That night, after takeout and wine and a Netflix movie neither of you paid attention to, you fuck for the first time on his expensive sheets on his expensive bed and afterwards, when you’re both sweating and cuddling and reveling in the afterglow, he makes a note to buy you some new lingerie.

It’s all very homey, for a while. He could do without you leaving for work and working your ass off, with your freelance shit, sometimes staying on the computer until two, three in the morning. But it’s nice to have you close all the time, available to him whenever (almost whenever) he wants. He brings home takeout and you snuggle on the couch and he finally even convinces you to go out with him to a nice restaurant wearing something he’s bought and hot damn, do you look good, head-to-toe in the clothing he’s chosen for you. Especially, later that night, in private, in the lingerie.

Does he love you? The word hasn’t left his lips yet, hasn’t crossed yours either, but he can feel it underneath the surface. No. It’s more than love. He wants you. He wants to have you. And not just for the afternoon or the summer, but forever.

He spins daydreams about how he’ll clean you up nice and introduce you to the family. Probably to Harlan, first, because everyone knows that’s whose opinion really matters. Harlan will like you--he would probably like you without any primping or fixing, actually, which is more than he could say for his parents or anyone else in the family. Then once you’re in, you’re in--you’ll come to family dinners and vacation retreats where people always end up in ridiculous arguments, and you two can exchange snarky comments about the family on the ride home.

And yeah, sure. You fight sometimes.

He throws out your old clothes and buys you a wardrobe befitting someone he wants to integrate into his family. You fight about that.

He makes comments about you how you should quit your job or at least try to get a degree--he’ll pay, as long as you agree to go to a university within driving distance--to work somewhere more respectable than a chain restaurant. You fight about that.

He gets pissed when you want to meet some “friends” at a bar without him, because why would you need to go anywhere without your loving boyfriend in tow, unless you were trying to flirt with someone else? You definitely fight about that.

And, okay. Maybe he’s hypocritical.

Maybe he goes out late at night when you’re stuck doing your “freelancing work” and he’s in a rotten mood about it, and he ends up on the floor of a swanky club with drugs in his system and lipstick on his neck. He doesn’t come home until the next morning and you’re pissed and red-eyed and arguing with him, accusing him even, but you have no shitty apartment to stomp back to anymore so you’re stuck.

Until you’re not stuck. Until he casually snoops through your phone and sees that you’re looking up cheap-ass apartments and hey, you’ve already booked a few interviews already. The thought of you slipping through his fingers makes him more sober than he’s been in a while. He’s got to do something. Not to himself, of course. But to you. To keep you with him.

It’s easy enough to get you fired. He’s a ‘Thrombey’ after all, and some nice crisp bills anonymously sent to the right hands is all it takes for you to come home one night, cheap mascara (he notes: buy you some better quality makeup soon) running down your cheeks. Your freelancing isn’t nearly enough to get you into an apartment.

He assumes that you’ll give up on the idea after losing your job, but you’re nothing if not stubborn (one of the reasons why he likes you) so you start the job hunt the next morning, fresh mascara in place.

Damn, do you keep him busy. Anonymous calls. Cash in nice white envelopes. Rejection after rejection. You get so sad, so depressed. You don’t even want to go out to restaurants, so he orders in and you snuggle in his lap while he feeds you bites of orange chicken and rubs your back. It almost brings you two closer again, starts to mend the rifts that began when you refused to get over his occasional late night out.

But then you break the uneasy mending by snooping and woah, you don’t like what you find on his phone.

You fight.

Damn, do you fight. This time there’s no pretense of potential forgiveness as you begin wildly throwing your clothes into your ratty duffel bag from the back of the closet, telling him to fuck off fuck off fuck off, telling him he’s crazy, telling him that what he’s doing is fucking illegal and--

It’s the shock that hurts you the most.

The shock you feel when he grips your wrist hard and pushes back on your shoulder when you try to yank away, pushing you against the wall with a hard thud. It’s like having a rug pulled out from underneath your feet when you feel a slight ache in your back, on your shoulders, when you tell him to Let go, goddamn it and he only pushes back harder to keep you in place. It’s Ransom. It’s Ransom who’s doing this.

His voice feels unrecognizably cold when he leans in and hisses in your ear.

“You think you can just leave me? After all I’ve done for you? Let me tell you something--you won’t get another job within one hundred miles of here, within one thousand miles of here, unless I say you can. So just put your clothes back in the closet, chill the fuck out, and stop being such an ungrateful bitch.”

It’s the shock that makes you numbly hang your clothes back up in the closet, fold them again with shaking hands, and sit on the bed until the dam breaks and you cry.

And oh fuck, he’s sorry. Really. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and then he’s the one who’s crying and confessing that he didn’t want you leave him because yeah, he knows he’s a fuck up, he knows he’s got a drug problem, but he loves you.

It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. He loves you. “I love you,” he says, again and again, half-laughing. And he tells you you’re the only person he’s ever dated that made him want to be a better person but he doesn’t know how.

You don’t know what to say because maybe you do love him--but he hurt you and got you fired, but the tears on his face seem so genuine and he tells you he’ll never, ever hurt you like that again and fuck, he says, if you want to go get a job he’ll drive you to the interview right now just-let-him-blow-his-nose-first-please.

You make him sit down and then you’re the one apologizing and the rest of the afternoon is a shaky truce between you two as you drink hot chocolate and order in takeout and watch a movie together.

It’s not until you’re both under the sheets, satisfied and then showered, that you think about what he did to you in a clearer light. The thoughts weigh heavy on your mind, pulling and tugging. You think you might love him. He hurt you. He took care of you when no one else would. He cheated on you.

I love you, he tells you, when your mind is starting to tug itself into sleep.

He hit you. He said he was sorry.

He hit you.

#ransom drysdale #ransom x reader #yandere x reader #afterwitch headcanons #afterwitch writes #I'm not sure what to callt this because it's not a normal fic but it's not headcanons either #just #word vomit about ransom after i watched this movie every day for a week straight

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ameliterature · 3 years

Note

Hey bestie pls could you do a Chameron drabble where the other poets didn't know they were dating, and they find out :) Thank you! <3

"Cameron, you fink, why dontcha bother someone else with your stupid factoid." Charlie insults his roommate from across the cave.

"It's not a factoid, Charlie, all I'm saying is that if we keep-"

"I don't wanna hear it-" Charlie cuts him off again. "Anyway, Neil, go ahead, start the meeting." He tosses his eyes onto Neil, obviously concerned by the friction between the two roommates.

As they recited their opening poem, Neil tossed his own look back at Todd, shifting his eyes to Charlie and back at Todd to signal the subject of his worry. Todd, having built an amazing sense of telepathy with Neil, sensed the concern and signaled him that they'll talk about it later.

Later into the night, a bit past midnight, the poets returned to their dorm undetected.

Neil and Todd retired into their room, the one right across Charlie and Cameron. "What was up with those two, huh?"

"I dunno, I feel like Charlie and Cameron are fighting again." Todd said, sitting beside Neil on his bed.

"Maybe I should talk to Charlie tomorrow, y'know? I hate to see two friends fight, especially during meetings."

Todd shrugged nervously "Yeah, I hope they could stop being enemies for once."

"I fucking love you," Charlie says breathlessly as he closed the door behind him and Cameron. He started pressing gentle yet passionate kisses onto Cameron's cheek. His desperate hugs were enough to let Cameron know he was apologizing for something.

"Really? Seemed like you were really annoyed by me a while ago," Cameron rolled his eyes at Charlie.

"Look, I told you once, I'm not gonna say it again: When you tell the group random facts, I find you REALLY ATTRACTIVE. If you're gonna respect the fact I'm tryin' to hide my rabid attraction to you, you better stop being so cute in public." Charlie kisses Cameron's forehead.

Cameron rolls his eyes, smiling at how he even ended up with Charlie. Perhaps it was that one time he confessed to Charlie-- obviously, but perhaps it was that time he and Charlie got too close too fast during one argument that everything became warm and fuzzy.

Either way, he likes seeing Charlie like this. He was surprisingly affectionate and gentle with how he handled their relationship. He only really "overreacted" how much he hated Cameron in public, but he always made up for it behind closed doors. Charlie is especially cute when he tells Cameron about his entire day before they go to bed, and the fact that Cameron had enough space for all of Charlie's stupid stories in his brain was remarkable.

Charlie Dalton was, in his own words, whipped for Richard Cameron. He'd do anything for Cameron, if it meant making him realize he was sorry for all those years they fought or times he insulted him, or if it also meant trying to show him how much he wasn't as uptight as they both thought. Charlie tried his best to make Cameron see how much he likes him. But he just couldn't risk outing them both to their group. It wasn't fair. Cameron wasn't ready to show their relationship to anyone and Charlie was willing to wait.

One day, in another DPS meeting, the boys were huddled up by the cave again, listening to Charlie play his saxophone (he kind of pointed towards Cameron) and he would sway slowly along.

Something caught Cameron's eye, in his peripheral caught Neil and Todd's hands secretly intertwine while no one else was looking. And at that instant, Cameron didn't feel nervous or alone, or even embarrassed. If the two people he cared about (aside from Charlie) could possibly be in a relationship, then they'd understand him and Charlie. And with their influence, it wouldn't be too bad.

"Hey guys," Cameron started. Charlie lowered his saxophone as he slowly decreased his volume to listen to Cameron. "Did you know-"

Charlie blasted an incoherent jumble of notes to mask Cameron's upcoming factoid.

"That--"

Another louder jumble of notes.

"I--"

An even louder, more annoying jumble of notes. The others were starting to get pissed off.

"Damn it, Charlie, let Cameron finish!" Neil snapped. "I know he and you haven't been friendly recently but, Jesus, could you give him a break?" Todd looked at Neil and back at Charlie, shocked and embarrassed.

"T-thanks, Neil but-"

"It's okay, Cameron, go on, tell us anything, and we won't let Charlie butt in."

"Well, I was gonna say the fact that I love Charlie Dalton, but I was kinda hoping him to butt in and say it with me." Cameron joked sheepishly.

Everyone in the cave had their jaws drop. Neil and Todd, trying to process if he was joking, Meeks and Pitts watching Charlie's shocked expression, and Knox who was rapidly turning his head back and forth to get everyone else's reaction.

"I--" Charlie's eyes were locked on Cameron.

"I know I was ashamed to admit it before, but I think it was because I was ashamed that I wasn't good enough for you. I wanna be good enough for you, I wanna show our friends that I'm not a fink, or I'm not some arrogant guy against you all the time-- Charlie, I really love you."

Charlie soon stood up from his spot and made his way over to Cameron, holding his face fondly.

Todd looked up at his friend, seemingly dazed and impressed, before looking back at Neil. "A-are they coming out before us?" He whispered to Neil.

Charlie gave Cameron a simple kiss on the lips, and even if it embarrassed his red-headed (and red-cheeked) boyfriend, he didn't mind it at all. "You're more than enough to me, Cam."

"Oh my god I think they are--" Neil replied to Todd.

Despite the fact Cameron and Charlie stole their thunder, Neil and Todd welcomed their relationship, congratulating them, urging the others to join in, the rest of them unsurprisingly quite ok with it.

That same night, when Charlie and Cameron returned to their rooms, lying down on the same bed, holding hands as they try to sleep.

"I can't believe you just finked about our own relationship." Charlie said, bringing up Cameron's hand to kiss it.

"Don't worry, they're the only people I'd tell it to, for now." Cameron turned to kiss his roommate good night, giving Charlie shivers down his whole spine. "Just say the word, I'll do it, babe."

Charlie Dalton is very much whipped for Richard Cameron.

#dps #dps drabble #is this even a drabble #it's a one shot #chameron #charlie dalton #richard camacho #richard cameron #todd anderson #anderperry hc #anderperry (minor)#dead poets society

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rhysismydaddy · 3 years

Text

Unholy Matrimony Pt. 5 (Nessian)

Damnation Series

Parts 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

____________________________________________________________

~Cassian~

A week later, I’m exceptionally proud to say I haven’t given in yet. No matter how much I want to.

Tensions the past seven days have been... high, to say the least.

Both of us are doing our absolute best to drive the other insane.

She’s doing it so I either sign the deed and give in or turn to someone else, both which would give her Sera back.

I’m doing it because if I have to suffer, she can bet her pretty ass she does, too.

Ironically, tonight’s our engagement party. A celebration of our undying love and an announcement to the world the Russians and Italians of New York should no longer hate and murder each other.

They’re allowed to be sexually frustrated as hell, but no, they can’t kill each other.

I’m waiting for the little minx who’s spent the week making me regret ever even asking for the club, drinking bourbon so I’m too drunk to even be tempted by her--which is likely enough to kill me--when she finally deigns to grace me with her presence.

I take one look at her, starting at the high blonde ponytail that would wrap around my fist at least twice and ending at the very high, very red shoes I immediately want by my shoulders.

“Fuck.”

Obviously the reaction she was looking for, she smiles.

Her dress is a cream color thing that clings to her curves and is short enough to showcase her long legs. It’s somehow classy, while low enough to draw my eyes to her breasts as she comes down the stairs towards me.

Nesta stops right before me, close enough I smell the jasmine and vanilla of her skin, and looks at me through her lashes.

I turn my gaze to the ceiling, vowing to keep it there until I trust myself to not do something stupid like tell her she’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m so fucked,” I mutter hopelessly.

If possible, she comes closer, sliding all the interesting, female parts of her against me. “You would be if you just gave me back my shit.”

I glare down at her. “I don’t like to lose.”

“Would you really be losing?”

I keep my mouth shut, because the answer to that question is a big fat no. God, she’s good.

“Tell me again why you refuse to put us out of our misery?” I ask in return, trying to remind myself who the fuck I am.

Even though I wonder if it is our misery. I can’t read her, can’t tell if this is affecting her like it is me.

She gives me a cold look. “What do you see happening after we get married, exactly? You think you’ll work a few hours at the club I spent three years building from the ground up, come home and eat a home cooked meal, then fuck your complacent little wife however you want?”

I have no idea what to say, because when she puts it like that, I sound like the biggest douche in the world.

Nesta sees the hesitation in my eyes and rolls hers. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow you to disrespect me like that, stronzo.”

“I respect you,” I say immediately, meaning the words.

“Just not enough to value my career.”

“Nesta-”

“Deal with it. If you somehow keep the board from voting you out in the next two weeks and manage to not sleep with me--which is unlikely, considering the way you look at me--the club will be yours.” She takes a step back, steeling her spin. “But I will not.”

I’m conflicted as hell, torn between wondering if she’s just playing me or being sincere.

Apparently done with the verbal smackdown, Nesta spins towards the door.

Hand on the handle, she turns back around and cocks her head. And then she answers the questions I hadn’t realized I’d been too scared to ask.

“No and yes.”

My brows raise. “What?”

“No, it hasn’t all been just me trying to mess with you. Yes, I want you as much as you want me. But I respect myself too much to allow someone who blazes into my life and steals something from me without a care or even a real negotiation to have my body, too.”

She walks out the door, leaving me standing in the living room stunned.

I eventually follower her down to the garage and we leave for the party Rhys is hosting for us downtown. But even though I go through the motions once we arrive, my mind is on the woman next to me the entire night.

I hate admitting it, but she’s right.

I took something that belonged to her, didn’t even question talking to her first, then acted like she was in the wrong for doing whatever she could to get it back.

I’ve said I like how strong and independent she is, but I tried to take that independence and turn her into something else. I bulldozed my way into her life, then acted like I was the one inconvenienced by it.

And seriously, why am I even fighting for this place? Yeah, I like it and think it’s unique, but the place is above board. Which to me translates as boring.

The past two weeks, I’ve had to go to investment meetings, deal with sending out the nightly invitations for entrance, and plan events for upcoming holidays. Things I never do with my other properties.

I hate managing things--I hire people to do that kind of thing for me. But I know I can’t hire someone, because who the hell besides my fiancé would do the job right?

No one.

I realize that on the drive home, and it gets me thinking. By the time we’re inside the apartment, I’m already mentally finalizing the details.

I tell her I have to take care of something, go to my office, and close the door.

Then I pull up the marriage contract, along with the deed to Sera, and hit print.

~Nesta~

A week after our engagement party, I realized I’ve started to lose hope.

Cassian’s managed to wrangle or bribe or threaten the board into not voting him out, and the employees have stopped calling me to ask when I’m coming back. He hasn’t touched me or tried to seduce me in six days--probably a record for him--and I start to feel like I’ve lost.

My club will be his in a week, and after we’re married, only him signing the deed over will get it back. Something that will never happen, considering it’d be a serious hit to his pride to do something as weak as give me what’s rightfully mine.

My club will be his, but like I said, I won’t.

Which honestly is just as upsetting.

Even though he’s a stubborn, boneheaded stronzo with a big enough ego for us both, it’s hard for me to overlook the moments of the past three weeks that haven’t revolved around Sera.

Little moments that have made it harder for me to pull away from him.

He’s made me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met, whether with his foul sense of humor or stories about his violent, wild childhood. He stopped leaving the toilet seat up when I pointed it out. He hasn’t said a word about me ordering take-out all the time or working in bed while he tries to sleep.

He even dealt with one of Alexei’s buyers for me when they tried to renegotiate the price originally agreed upon.

And he hasn’t really pressed the celibacy thing. Sure, he’s complained about it enough for me to want to smack him, but I don’t know any other Made Men, Russian or Italian, that would’ve respected my wish after how much I’ve teased him.

If he would just-

I cut that train of thought off and focus on the report in front of me, because at this point, it’s obvious he won’t.

I sip my wine, which is starting to grow on me, and look over shipment records from one of Alexei’s yards, flagging crates that need to be smuggled instead of brought in through the main channels. Repressing a groan at the thought, I realize I’ll have to go down one night this week and make sure they arrive without problem.

I take another long pull from my glass.

“Drinking to forget?” Cassian asks, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom and looking me over.

I shrug, not much in the mood for banter.

“I got you something.”

Sighing, I reply, “Yeah, me too. It’s on the nightstand.”

His brow furrows as he walks over and picks up the ring box, opening it to look at the titanium band inside.

Just another symbol of our lifelong, happy, sexless marriage.

He puts the ring back in the box and extends a hand. “It isn’t a ring.”

“What is it?”

“Get your ass out of bed and find out.”

I would, except I don’t want to. And I don’t really want whatever stupid, materialistic thing he’s bought me-

He closes my laptop and pulls the cover back, ducking when I swing a fist towards his head. “Violent little wolf,” he teases.

“Stop calling me that,” I demand, trying in vain to keep the blanket on me so he can’t tell I’m not wearing anything underneath the t-shirt I stole from him.

He pauses, sighs, and scoops me up, blanket and all. “I love watching you fight how much you love me calling you that.”

“I don’t have to fight anything except he overwhelming urge to smack you.”

Cassian just huffs, walking us out of the room, through the living room, and into his office. Then he puts me down, smacks my butt to get me moving, and grunts when I elbow him in the ribs.

“Maybe this will fix your bad mood,” he mutters, flipping the light switch on and bathing the office in golden light.

I take an involuntary step forward, eyebrows going high on my forehead.

I’ve only been in here once before, just long enough to notice the obnoxiously big desk and wall of windows behind it. I’d taken in the black leather couch and wing-backed chairs, determined it was a typical male office for a typical male, and vowed to work somewhere else.

But that was a while ago, and it’s obvious he’s done some home improvement.

There are decidedly now two desks in the corners near the windows, angled in to the middle of the room where two cream-colored leather chairs sit. The desks are identical, mahogany and classic without being ostentatious.

A rug covers the hardwood floors, a deep maroon color that matches small details throughout the room.

It’s beautiful.

Cassian leads me with his hands on my shoulders to one of the desks, and I let him guide me around to the chair and push me down in the soft leather.

I look up to ask him what this is about, but he jerks his chin to the desk where to two papers lie.

One is the deed to Sera.

A rush of surprise goes through me as I see he’s transferred the building back over to me, even going so far as to deem the process irreversible. It’s signed and dated a week ago, the night of our engagement party.

My eyes are shiny as I look at the other document and read through it.

“What is this?��

“A partnership, of sorts,” Cassian explains, leaning a hip on the- my desk like he did in his Capo’s office. “You’re now a partner at my businesses, and if you sign, I’ll be yours.”

My eyes find his, and I see that he’s serious but still choke out, “What?”

He smiles and shrugs, like signing over half of your life’s work is easy. “You had me pegged when you first saw me and figured out I’m a fighter. I hate everything about running a business except the in-person negotiating and knitty gritty shit. It’s boring to me, and while I can do it, I’m not nearly as good at it as you are.”

“Cassian-”

“So run them both. I’ll do the day to day shit I know you hate, and you’ll do the rest.”

I can’t hardly process what he’s saying.

“What if we disagree?” It’s a valid question, considering we’ve basically been fighting the entire time we’ve been engaged.

“We talk about it and try to figure it out. And if we can’t, the original owner has the final call and veto power in all situations.” His eyes say he knows how important it is to me as he says, “You’ll still be in control of your property, and I’ll still be in control of mine.”

I don’t know why I’m still asking questions, because it sounds great, but there’s one more thing I want to know.

“Why?”

He sighs, sitting on the desk fully and looking down at me with open, honest eyes. “Because I’m tired of doing this shit alone. I’m tired of going to work and dealing with every single thing and then coming home and having no one who understands.”

He looks out the window, shoulders tight. “I thought you’d be like my friends’ wives, which is why I was such an ass. I thought you’d be just another thing for me to take care of, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to realize you could be my partner, not just my wife.”

His eyes are back on mine, the heat in them making my heart pound. “I’m sorry, Nesta. I’m sorry I stole Sera in the first place, then refused to hear you out and give it back. I have a tendency to be a little stubborn.”

My lips twitch, and his eyes soften at the sight.

“But what you said about respecting yourself stuck. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t respect you, because I do. You’re smarter than me, cool when I’m rash, and have the mind for business I never have.” He smiles softly. “I know you’re just as alone as me, and just as tired of it. So say yes.”

I feel a smile on my face as I get to my feet, moving to stand between his thighs. “Are you just doing this so I’ll sleep with you?”

He sighs, dropping his head in shame to rest against my chest. “You caught me.”

My arms wrap around his shoulders, his going around my waist, and I use the opportunity to play in his hair. It’s so soft and curly, and he makes a content sound as I run my hands through it.

“Are you saying yes, little wolf?” he murmurs against my collarbone, dropping his head to rub his face across my breasts.

I roll and tug his hair to keep the randy bastard away. “Yes, pervert, I’m saying yes.”

Cassian smiles a big, goofy smile so ridiculously charming I lean in and kiss him.

His hands lock at my waist, resting on the curve of my back, and for a moment, he just lets me kiss him.

It isn’t our first kiss by any means, but it’s the first one where neither of us have ulterior motives, so I take my time.

I kiss his top lip, his bottom lip. Find I like them both equally.

My hands work across his shoulders, the thick muscles contracting under my hands, and I sigh his name.

Cassian’s hands fist in the fabric of my pajamas--which happen to still be his shirt--and draws me closer. He kisses my neck, inhaling deeply.

“You smell so fucking good,” he mutters, biting down softly and making me gasp. “It drives me crazy.”

His hands slip to the back of my thighs, then I’m on his lap, knees on the desk next to his hips. “You drive me crazy,” he clarifies.

He kisses me again, hands sliding up my thighs to my ass to grind me against him. Callouses scrape against my skin as he sweeps the shirt off and tosses it behind me.

“Shit,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to take me in.

The fact that he’s still fully dressed while I’m in nothing but my underwear makes me feel even more exposed, doing strange things to my mind. I start unbuttoning his shirt while he kisses down my chest.

He teases one with his hand while he takes the other in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak. I squirm, pressing my hips more fully against is, but he holds me still, kissing and teasing me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Cassian,” I murmur, tugging his hair to pull his gaze to mine. “Thank you for the desk. I love it.”

His brows furrow, and I can see him start to think about how much I’ve teased him, but before he can worry that’s what I’m doing, I whisper, “Now fuck me on it. Please.”

A muscle in his jaw flickers, and his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips.

Before I can say another word, he stands and spins us around, sliding me on the desk. He holds my thighs around his hips, and then an idea seems to dawn.

“Wait right here.”

“Seriously?” I ask, even though he’s already half-way out of the room.

“Don’t you dare fucking move!” is the shouted response.

I roll my eyes, but he’s back quickly, holding the red stilettos I wore to our engagement party. I howl with laughter, and a faint blush colors his cheeks, but he stays firm in his desire and puts them on the floor beside my feet.

Then he leans against the window and watches while I slip them on.

His golden eyes blaze as I lean back on my elbows and slowly spread my thighs, in nothing but lace panties and heels.

“I’ll buy you all the desks you want, if you sit on them like that.”

Laughter bubbles out of me, and he’s suddenly on me, leaning over me to kiss me in a frenzy.

I rip his shirt open, and he doesn’t even break the kiss as he throws it to the floor. I hear the telltale clink of a belt, and then he stands up to slide my panties down, grab my legs, and guide them up.

I feel him brush over the center of me, instinctively lifting my hips to give him a better angle.

But he doesn’t give me what I want.

Cassian just stands there, gaze gliding from the hells on his shoulders to the apex of my thighs.

“Hold that thought,” he mutters, dropping to his knees and putting his mouth on me before I can even blink.

My back leaves the desk, a gasp escaping me.

“Cassian.”

“I want you to come on my tongue, then you get to come on my cock.”

“Cassian.”

He hums, the sensation sending shivers down my spin. He kisses me like he’s doing it for him, not me, mouth on every part of me it can reach.

I can see the lines of his tattoos on his shoulders, the top of his curly hair. It’s too much to handle, so I just lay back down on the desk and throw my hands above my head to hold on to the edge of the desk.

The only time he stops is to tell me things that apparently can’t wait five minutes, but I don’t even care because every word out of that sinful mouth makes me burn hotter.

“Come for me,” he demands breathlessly a few minutes later.

“Don’t boss me around,” I groan, even as I do exactly what he wants.

He lets me ride it out, dropping kisses to my thighs and stomach and hips.

As soon as I catch my breath, he’s on his feet, putting me in the exact position I was in earlier.

And then he’s pushing inside me, and I honestly almost come again from the feel alone. “Thank God,” I groan, the past three reminding me of the misery teasing him put me through.

“Fucking hell, you’re perfect.”

Hands on my thighs, he holds me in place as he starts to move. But as he picks up speed, going harder with each thrust, his hands have to slip to my thighs to keep me still.

I say his name, sounding like I’m begging him for something, and he groans. His head’s thrown back, bare skin shining and making him look likesome sort of beautiful devil.

“Hurry up, little wolf,” he almost pleads.

The sound of that stupid fucking nickname does me in, and I come with a loud moan. I would’ve kicked him in the head if he hadn’t immediately dropped down on top of me to kiss me without abandon.

His hips still but he keeps kissing me until he has to break for air.

I’m boneless and limp beneath him, and he looks me over with male satisfaction.

Then his mouth drops open, betrayal in his eyes, and he says, “I just realized you didn’t speak even French! All these weeks of me fucking fantasizing about that... well, I guess we’ll just have to do it again.”

“Accorde moi un instant,” I pant in French, asking for a moment.

He grins down at me. “Take your time. We have a lifetime.”

My lips twitch, and I don’t stifle the urge to smile.

I’m about to say something, but then his expression turns serious. “You realize I have to fuck you on my desk now. Equality and whatnot.”

I laugh and pull his mouth to mine. “As long as you know I’m still not giving you my side of the bed.”

He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth. “We can share.”

We get married seven days later, surrounded by a crowd of family, dirty politicians, thieves, drug and arms dealers, and friends.

In the past week, we’ve solidified our business model to a thing of perfection. I handle public relations, real estate and development, and negotiations for the shipping business. Cassian handles both the Bratva and Cosa Nostra soldiers in New York, training new recruits, drug distribution, and negotiations for the arms business.

Basically, I do what I’m good at, and he does what he’s good at.

I know it’s ridiculous to trust someone with half my business after only a month of knowing them, but like Cassian said, I was tired of doing this shit alone.

I’d been dreading the future, dreading taking over and doing everything myself. And now I don’t have to.

I have him to lean on, him to trust.

Looking up, I notice him watching me as we dance, not at all paying attention to the crowd. “What are you thinking about, little wolf?”

“I’m thinking how I thought of this marriage as nothing but an alliance at first. I guess it still is that, but... it’s also more.” He spins us around to the music, watching me with a knowing expression. “You’re more to me than that. And I’m... I’m happy. Working with you and the thought of our future makes me happy.”

He smiles.

“You love me,” he states with quiet confidence.

My heart starts pounding, because I’ve never told a living person that before.

But it’s never been true before, and it is now, so I respond steadily, “I do.”

“I love you, too, Nesta Orlov. Have since the moment I saw you.” He sounds so relaxed about it, the words falling from his lips so easily.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” I ask, not understanding how he’s the calm one all of a sudden.

“Anything you love something, there’s the risk you could lose it or it could hurt you.” Cassian brushes a thumb over my cheek. “But I could never be scared to love you.”

I shake my head and start to say something, but he cuts me off.

“Every morning, when you wake up, there’s this little moment where you look around, confused. And then you look at me, and that hesitation in your eyes just... melts.” He dips me, wrapping his arms tight around me. “You look at me like you trust me, and love me, and want me.”

He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “That look is worth every risk and hardship and whatever else loving someone entails.”

I kiss him back as he brings us to standing. “Italians are such saps.”

He shows off the smile I’ve realized he only gives me, and I say the words I know he needs to hear just as badly as I did. “I love you, Cassian. You’re worth the risk, too.”

______________________________________________________

THANK U FOR READINGGG soft ending for the win

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #acotar #acosf #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfiction #nessian archeron

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