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autumnywinter · 13 days

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Filthy Desires - Harper x Reader

TW: Obsessive behavior, doctor/patient relationship, past dubious consent, abusive power dynamics, mentions of hypnosis, male Harper

NSFW! MDNI

Reader is gender neutral + AFAB

You don't know how long you had been here, and you were sure Harper and the rest of the nurses purposefully kept that information from you. Longer than a month, surely. Long enough for the other patients to call you "Harper's bitch", that was for sure.

As offended as you were by the crude nickname they had given you, it was still undeniably true. Harper controlled almost every aspect of your life. Sure, he essentially controlled all the patients' lives as long as they were in his ward, but you were a different case. You got a certain kind of privilege (that's what Harper called it, at least) not afforded to any patient. Your room was always the closest to his office, meaning he could just "stop in and check in on" you any time of any day.

Sometimes, it was a simple chat. He'd ask you how you were, give you a quick peck on the lips, and leave.

Other times, it was more serious sessions. Sessions that went on for far too long and made you extremely exhausted for days afterwards. He hypnotized you into being complacent, dumb, and forgetful, but you knew fully well what he had been doing to you. There were moments he didn't even bother going through hypnosis first. Those times he was obviously more pent up and frustrated, which used to be rare, but now it seemed like he got like that at least once a week.

Occasionally you enjoyed his attention and praise, but the toll it took on you to please him had gotten so mentally taxing that there were days you considered trying to break out or notify the outside world. Unfortunately for you, Harper never let patients use outside technology like cellphones.

As humiliating and invasive as the daily routine was for you, he also showered you with attention you never got outside of the hospital.

"Time for your session," a nurse calmly notified you.

You nodded and walked your normal route to Harper's office. You've memorized the way after having to go there so many times each and every day. Harper sat behind his large oak desk, reading a file on another patient.

"Y/N," Harper greeted. His piercing pink eyes peeked out over the rim of his glasses. He had his straight blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail to keep it from falling into his face while he's working. He raised his hand in the air and made a gesture for the nurse to leave. Once the nurse shut the door behind him, Harper spoke again. "Come sit."

Obedient as ever, you quickly sat yourself on Harper's lap. It had became your usual spot at this point.

Harper peppered gentle, loving kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck, and lips. It was hard to understand anything about the doctor, but one thing he made obvious was he loved kissing you.

When he pulled back, he ran his hand through your hair affectionately. His hand traveled down your torso, rubbing and touching at whatever pleased him. He pressed sloppy wet kisses over your neck and ground his knee against your clothed cunt. You keened and leaned into him, grinding down on his leg in hopes of stimulation. He chuckled darkly, always amused with how needy and desperate you got so quickly.

"Do you know what today is?" he asked in between pecks along your collarbone.

You shook your head.

Harper trailed his finger lightly along your side. "It's your birthday."

For just a split second, you felt happy. But then you put together how long that meant you had been here. Your face fell. Harper hummed, noticing your shift in attitude. His warm, broad hands skimmed over your stomach.

"We've been doing such good work recently, haven't we?" he said, ignoring your sudden dejectedness. Harper was good at shifting topics subtly. You hummed quietly in affirmation. "Then tonight," Harper tilted your jaw so you'd make eye contact with him. "I can give you a special treat for your birthday." He kissed your nose.

"Okay, Doctor Harper," you whispered, leaning into his hold. His strong hands pressed into your sides, encouraging you to keep grinding against his leg. You weren't getting any real stimulation that way, but he loved hearing your whimpers and moans regardless.

You gripped onto the doctor's broad shoulders and arched your back, rolling your hips. Harper watched you with an intent expression on his face.

"What do you want for your special treat, darling?"

"Uh..." Your breathing was getting heavy and he could tell how frustrated you were getting not being able to come from humping his leg. Harper let a hand trail along your torso, stopping to rub your labia through the standard hospital attire you were expected to wear. Your hips shuddered at the indirect touch and a squeaky moan escaped your lips.

"Be descriptive. I can't give it to you if I don't know what you want." Harper rubbed your core faster, encouraged by the high pitched noises and half-formed words coming out of you.

"I-I don't know," you shakily admitted. You just wanted to cum, it didn't matter how at this point.

Harper raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Then would you like to figure it out on my desk?" He didn't even wait for an answer, next thing you knew, he had hoisted you up with a shocking amount of strength. He sat you on the cold wood and made a place for himself by parting your legs open. "So cute, you're soaking already," Harper muttered to himself. He rubbed the dampened fabric between your legs, cooing when you jerked and let out a satisfied gasp.

"Doctor," you whined.

Just as Harper planned on removing your underwear, there was a knock on the door. His usual composed expression was gone, only for a second. He stood up straight to smooth down his hair and fix his tie. "Under the desk."

His tone was soft but stern. You crawled under, sitting on the floor comfortably in between Harper's legs. Harper seated himself in his comfortable, office chair and pulled it in so you would have just enough room.

"Come in," he answered, already back to his professional voice. You sat in the dark beneath the desk and listened to the nurse come in, talking about something related to the medication being stocked low again.

They began exchanging words back and forth, but your mind wasn't on that. It was rather on the obvious sight of his cock straining in his pants right in front of your face. You looked up for any acknowledgement from Harper, but his attention was focused on the nurse.

Without any sense of urgency, your hands slowly trailed up his legs. Harper didn't bat an eye. You played with the buckle, undoing and sliding the belt off. Your fingertips skimmed along his trousers, feeling the shape of his cock with a gentle press and rub. A small sigh left his lips.

Unzipping the zipper, you reached your hand into his trousers and pulled his underwear down just enough to give yourself some freedom to work with. His erection stood tall against his abdomen. Harper glanced down at you momentarily, meeting your eyes right as you were bringing your lips onto the tip of his cock.

His fingers tensed against his pen in his hand but he said nothing.

"Doctor Harper?" The nurse was worried about his sudden shift in focus, which prompted his gaze away from you. "Are you okay?"

"It's fine," Harper answered a bit too quickly. His face was lightly flushed pink and he was trying his best to not give himself away. You enjoyed how swiftly he could lose his composure.

You hollowed out your cheeks and took in the head of his cock, rolling your tongue around to tease the head.

"Are you sure?" the nurse pushed further. You wrapped your lips around Harper and swallowed his cock deeper, inch by inch. A jagged inhale sounded through the office. "Should I go get you a coffee or some water? You don't look very well."

Harper coughed. "That's unnecessary. I- ah -just get back to work. Please. I-I'm busy. Very busy."

As much as you could get annoyed with him, he was cute stuttering like a mess above you. It wasn't a common sight, so naturally you'd want to take advantage of it. You took a slow, teasing drag up his length, stopping just as the tip left your lips. Harper was used to you being needier and greedy by now. Something as simple as a painfully slow blow job threw him for a loop. His hips jerked for the feeling of your hot mouth to be back on him, which you complied.

Once he was sure the door shut behind the nurse, Harper put down his pen, rolled his chair in further, and bucked into your mouth without warning. You sputtered from the intrusion of your throat being filled.

He wrapped his lithe fingers into your hair, holding you in place. Your throat swallowed around the thick length, and Harper shivered from the pleasant feeling. He was frantic to chase his release.

With a shuddering breath, he bucked into you a final time and came, keeping your head pushed down as he did. He looked down at you with a proud gaze. "Make sure to swallow, dear. It's good for you." He freed you from under his desk, still panting. He caressed your cheek once you resurfaced and kissed over your sensitive lips. "Good job."

"It was supposed to be my birthday, and here I was pleasing you," you grumbled.

Harper didn't seem to mind your pouting at all. He glanced at the clock in the top right of the room. "Don't worry, darling, you still didn't tell me what you want for your birthday." Harper's fingers brushed through your hair, straightening any stray hairs and loose strands. "I'm afraid we don't have any more time now, but I could pay you a visit tonight. Would that make you happy?"

Happy wasn't exactly the emotion you'd associate with Harper visiting your room late at night. Yet you nodded. "Can I have some birthday cake, too?" You couldn't recall the last time you had sweets like that. The hospital's version of sweets were fruit cups and yogurt. Harper must've noticed how excited you were at the simple mention of a cake since he smiled, a toothy and genuine smile. You found it a bit hard to believe that Doctor Harper of all people could do such a thing.

"I'll see what I can do."

#yandere #harper the doctor #harper dol #dol harper #dol #degrees of lewdity #smut #dol smut #i've never written smut on here i hope i did ok

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astrobei · 1 year

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for @quinnick: kiss prompt #4 - lips barely touching

The car is out of gas. Will is about ten seconds away from maybe-dying (again). Mike Wheeler has been abnormally quiet today.

At least of late, one of those things is more abnormal than the others.

The car is always out of gas. Will doesn’t know when the last time they’d filled it up was, but he does know that it’s not his problem trying to figure it out. That’s Hopper’s deal. Or his mom’s, maybe. Or Nancy’s, or Jonathan’s, or–

Whatever! The point is that the car is out of gas, Mike and Will are stranded at the currently closed general store, and they’re probably about to die.

Again.

“Mike,” Will tries, for maybe the hundredth time. “It’s not your fault, okay, it could’ve happened to anyone–”

“Yeah,” Mike grumbles miserably, as they round the corner, from aisle four – cleaning supplies and household items – into aisle five – canned goods. Most of the shelves are empty, turned over. Mike picks up a can of pickled green beans, pulls a face, and puts it back on the shelf. “But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to me.”

Will takes a long, deep breath in through his nose. God forbid Mike Wheeler ever let anything go. “You didn’t know,” he huffs anyway. “It’s not your fault.” The store is dark, which is great for being able to roll your eyes without Mike seeing. Will’s flashlight sputters, briefly, the bright circle of light flickering in and out of view. He smacks it against his palm once, twice, and it steadies. “Seriously,” Will adds, as Mike slows to a stop in front of him. “Stop beating yourself up. So we have to wait for a ride. Big deal.”

Mike turns around to face him. His expression is mostly unreadable in the dark, but Will’s flashlight catches the edge of it – worried, a little guilty. “Yeah,” Mike says softly. “Except there are things everywhere and waiting for a ride is just– we’re sitting ducks here, okay,” Mike frowns. “I don’t like it. It feels like tempting fate.”

“Well, the simple fact of my existence feels like tempting fate sometimes,” Will jokes. It works, for a split second – Mike’s furrowed brows smooth out into something halfway amused, and he makes a noise that might be a laugh.

“Not funny,” Mike says anyway. His lips twitch.

“You laughed!” Will insists, smiling. His voice carries down through the hallway in a vibrant echo. “I know you did!”

“Shut up,” Mike whispers, looking away. “Would it kill you to keep your voice down?”

It might. Somewhere in the back of Will’s mind, he’s vaguely aware that they’re not safe here, out in the open, and that the whole point of them coming inside instead of waiting in the parking lot was to hunker down until Jonathan and Nancy could get another car here to pick them up. And also, preferably, get some gas.

Somewhere significantly closer in Will’s mind, though, is the knowledge that this is the most Mike has said – and the closest he’s come to laughing – since the car had stalled on the way from the cabin to the general store ten minutes ago, and Mike had just barely had time to pull into the abandoned parking lot before it had stopped altogether. He knows Mike doesn’t like this – being caught off-guard, out in the open. Even minute changes in the plan – which you’d think they’d all be more prepared for, considering the way things have been going lately – get Mike a little keyed up.

And the sorry, borderline pathetic part is this: despite it all, despite the ever-present threat of danger, and the impending sense of doom that’s been hanging over their heads for what seems like forever, Will feels vaguely pleased with himself anyway, seeing Mike hold back a smile instead of forcing one on his face.

So yeah, it might kill him, if he kept his voice down. That’s okay. Will thinks it would be worth it, sometimes – the danger and the doom and everything else – to hear Mike laugh.

God, what’s wrong with him? That’s embarrassing. That’s so embarrassing.

He shakes the thought off. “Whatever,” Will says instead, praying the cover of darkness is hiding the blush that’s rapidly rising to his cheeks. He angles the flashlight away from them anyway, just in case, and Mike’s face falls back into silhouette. “You know I’m right. You’re doomed just by being here with me.”

Mike shakes his head. “You know I don’t think of you like that.”

Will frowns. “Like what?”

“Like– like a bad luck charm,” Mike waves his hands around. “Or whatever.”

“I didn’t say bad luck charm,” Will exclaims. “Ouch! Stop putting words into my mouth.”

Mike grins. “Would you rather have, uh,” he picks up the nearest can to him, something small and vaguely gray, “tinned sardines in your mouth? Tinned sardines in water? Oh, gross. Never mind, actually.”

“I would rather not,” Will decides, even though the shelves are so bare that they might have to suck it up and take home the tinned sardines in water after all. “Would you like some, uh. Tuna?”

“I guess we know why there’s so much fish,” Mike sighs, leaning heavily against an empty shelf. “Nobody wanted it.”

“You mean the ten people outside of our circle of friends that are still left in Hawkins? Yeah,” Will scoffs, then sets the can back down with a soft clink. “I guess not.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. It’s quiet in the store, the room dark and lit faintly by Will’s flashlight and the display in the corner. It lights Mike up a faint blue, catches the edges of his jaw and where his hair is curling softly over the hood of his jacket.

Will’s flashlight sputters again.

When it comes back on this time, it’s more faint than it was before. It’s dark in here, Will realizes, a bit belatedly. Like, really dark.

He takes a deep breath and shuffles closer to Mike, just a little, like the shape of his body all leaned against the empty shelves is a grounding force. Mike gives him a look that Will can’t quite decipher in the dark.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Will breathes out. The proximity is helping, a little. “Just– waiting for our ride.”

Mike leans in a bit closer too, places an arm under Will’s elbow. It’s a light touch, nothing forceful, but the semblance of support is there. “You sure? You look a little pale.”

Sometimes, Will hates how well Mike knows him. He doesn’t get antsy in the same way Mike does in situations like these, but he’d be lying if he said they didn’t affect him at all. It should be expected by now, the automatic fight or flight.

For some cruel reason, it still isn’t. “You can’t even see me,” he says, but lets himself lean into the touch anyway.

“I can see enough,” Mike says easily. “Do you want to sit down?”

Will shakes his head. The only thing worse than waiting out in the open is sitting out in the open. At least when you’re standing, you can run. “No. I’m fine.”

Will can’t see Mike either, but he’d be willing to bet real money – that he doesn’t have – that he can tell exactly what Mike’s expression looks like. The pause grows, swells and swells and swells, until Will is sure Mike is going to say something–

There’s a clattering outside.

Instantly, Mike’s hand tightens its grip on Will’s elbow. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” Will hisses, twisting around to try and see through the windows. “Of course I heard that, Mike.”

“Do you think that’s–”

“No idea,” Will whispers. With no small amount of reluctance, he tugs his arm out of Mike’s grip. He misses the warmth of it almost instantaneously, and the tugging in his stomach is only amplified by the way Mike automatically leans in behind him, places a hand on his back to replace the absent touch, like it was never gone at all. Will swallows, and flicks the flashlight off. “Now be quiet.”

“The windows are boarded up,” Mike says, decidedly not being quiet. Will wonders where the Mike Wheeler of fifteen minutes ago went – the one that was sulking and fidgeting in silence the whole way down the first aid aisle. “They’re boarded up, so nothing can get in. Right?”

“We got in,” Will points out, which Mike seems to realize at approximately the same second he does. It’s getting a little hard to think, with Mike so close to him.

Will really wishes Mike would pull his hand away.

“Right,” Mike whispers, breath ghosting gently over the back of Will’s neck. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s fine.”

Fine, Will thinks. That’s one word for it.

Another clattering. It’s closer this time.

Will freezes.

Jonathan and Nancy are probably about ten minutes out. Twenty if they had to go back to the Wheelers’ for the other car. So they’d probably be fine if they stuck it out here, because the chance of something happening across them now, in the brief period of time where they’re stuck without a ride, in a building equipped with close to nothing that could help, is small.

Small, but not nonexistent.

Will isn’t really feeling inclined to take that chance. “Come on,” he says, then spins on his heel, grabbing Mike’s hand and tugging him in the opposite direction. “Come with me.”

Mike follows easily, stumbling slightly with the sudden movement. “Wh– where are we going?”

“Just come on,” Will says, then tugs Mike around to the back of the store. He yanks open a door, and shoves him inside. “Get in.”

“Whoa,” Mike says, as Will tumbles in behind him. “Will, what–”

“Would it kill you to be quiet?”

“Sorry,” Mike says, then does, at last, fall silent.

Immediately, Will wishes he hadn’t said that. It’s dark in here – even darker than out in the front of the store – and the only noise is the faint hum of a generator, somewhere behind the walls. It’s grating and stilted. Will wonders when the last time it had been repaired was.

Plus, it’s really–

It’s really fucking dark in here.

Will lets out a long, slow exhale, and reaches out to feel for the wall beside him. His palm comes into contact with chipped paint and he follows the shape of it down, lowering himself onto the ground.

“Will?” Mike says, and Will is in half a mind to say that thing about being quiet again, but–

It’s dark. It’s really dark.

“Yeah,” he says, barely audible even to himself over the faint hum of the generator, and the louder hum – demanding, prominent, persistent – of his blood rushing through his ears. “I just– sitting. I’m sitting.”

There had at least been some light out in the front, but this storage closet might as well be a void. It smells vaguely of dust, something stale and unknown and probably untouched for who-knows-how-long. Will takes another deep breath in.

“Where?” Mike asks. “I don’t want to step on you.”

Will cracks a smile. “Here,” he says, and holds a hand up in the air. “Right here.”

There’s a quiet shuffling sound as Mike moves closer, and then Will feels fingertips brushing against his. Mike latches on immediately, gripping tighter onto his hand and sits down in front of him.

Will still can’t see anything – he can’t see anything – but he can feel Mike’s presence like it’s a tangible thing.

Mike could let go of Will’s hand now. Now that he’s found him.

He doesn’t, though.

“Hey,” Mike says, then there’s another faint shuffling noise. “Where are we?”

“Storage closet.”

“Huh. How did you know it was here?”

Will cracks another smile, despite himself. “My mom worked here, remember? For, like, years.”

“Right,” Mike laughs, and then he’s moving closer, knees bumping against knees in the dark. “I forgot. It doesn’t feel like the same place.”

“Tell me about it,” Will sighs. He’s probably breathing in dust and debris and soot and all sorts of gross stuff, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He presses his knees against Mike’s a little harder, just because he can.

“I remember,” Mike starts, readjusting his grip on Will’s hand – fingers interlocked, a firmer grip – “she’d give me free candy from the front counter. Whenever I came in with my parents, I mean. My mom was so confused about why I kept asking to tag along to Melvald’s with her.”

“That’s not fair,” Will laughs. “She never let me have any candy.”

“You were a menace all hopped up on sugar,” Mike points out. “I knew how to behave myself.”

That’s a damn lie, and they both know it. “Liar,” Will says quietly, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re such a liar.”

“Maybe so,” Mike hums. “But I’m still the one who got free candy, so–”

“Mike!” Will shoves lightly at his knee, and Mike’s answering laugh fills the small space instantaneously. It’s loud – too loud, because they’re supposed to be hiding, goddamnit – but the nagging little voice at the back of Will’s head is vanquished almost as quickly as it came. “Shut up.”

Mike, as always, ignores him. “Why don’t we turn on a light?”

“The fuse is probably blown,” Will responds. “If there’s even a light in this stupid closet.”

“I mean this, idiot,” Mike says, and then clicks the flashlight back on. The batteries must be dying, because it flickers to life weakly, steadying out into a dim yellow-white. “Obviously.”

“Don’t waste the batteries,” Will says at once, trying to grab for it. “Come on, Mike–”

“Jonathan and Nancy will be here any minute and then we can go put in new batteries,” Mike says, holding it easily out of reach. “No point sitting in the dark, right?”

“Mike,” Will tries to protest, but it’s useless. Mike’s made up his mind.

Slowly, and a little far away, Will realizes what Mike is trying to do. He’s not being subtle about it, but subtlety has never been Mike Wheeler’s strong suit. He’s always been exuberant, quick and spontaneous with his actions, and this is no different. Sitting up close, closer than would be strictly necessary in any other situation. Turning the light on, despite the dying batteries. Telling Will about coming here as a kid, all those years ago. Making him laugh. Diffusing the tension.

Jesus, and he’s still holding Will’s hand.

A wave of affection washes over him, sudden and overwhelming enough for Will to feel borderline nauseous.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. Mike can’t just sit here and touch their knees together and hold Will’s hand, and–

“Look,” Mike is saying, and then he’s holding the flashlight under his chin and grinning. “Don’t I look freaky?”

In all honesty, Mike looks fucking hilarious. The direct light casts long shadows across the dips of his cheekbones, the shapes of his eyelashes distorting wildly as he blinks. “No,” Will snorts, rolling his eyes. “You look ridiculous.”

“Really?” Mike grins, in a way that means he knows just how ridiculous he looks. “Not even a little?” He waggles his eyebrows, and the resulting effect is so comical that Will can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, sharp and sudden and real.

“Mike,” he chides, for the millionth time. “You’re going to kill the battery.”

Mike looks way too pleased with himself. “Worth it,” he says anyway, as he sets the flashlight down. It evens out the sharp angles of his face, now that it’s farther away, lights his cheeks and nose and eyes up into something softer, more open.

Something about the steadiness of Mike’s expression is brighter than any source of light. Suddenly, it’s too much. Suddenly, it’s blinding.

God. He’s so screwed. “For what?”

“Getting you to laugh,” Mike says, simple and easy, like he’s reciting times tables instead of proceeding to turn Will’s entire world upside down on its pathetic little axis.

Will feels his lungs stutter on his next inhale. He looks away. “Don’t do that.”

The gleeful expression falters on Mike’s face. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t,” Will says, “don’t– you’re being so– so–”

Mike looks caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “So what?”

“So,” Will tries again, and then Mike moves closer, and the difficulty of articulating a halfway decent sentence immediately increases tenfold. “So.”

“So,” Mike echoes, shifting so the side of his thigh is pressed up against the side of Will’s. He’s being slowly backed into the corner, but the thought isn’t terrifying like it might have been five minutes ago. Suddenly, Will is overwhelmed in a completely new way. “So what?”

“Nice to me,” Will gets out. “Stop being so nice to me.”

Mike pauses, then says, incredulously and half-laughing– “What? Why?”

Bad choice of words. “You heard me,” Will says anyway, because he’s nothing if not stubborn. “You’re being too nice.”

“I should hope so,” Mike says. “I mean, you’re my friend.”

Maybe Will is imagining it, but the sentence feels unfinished. Like there’s a second half to it that Mike is keeping for himself: You’re my friend – right?

The obvious answer here is that yes, Mike is his friend. But that answer feels unfinished too, like a lie by omission. Will tries to imagine it, doing these things with anyone else – what it would be like if Dustin was holding his hand, or if it were Lucas sitting next to him this close.

The conclusion he comes to, almost immediately, is that it would be weird.

It would be really fucking weird.

That feels like– something. An admission, maybe. Because the fact of the matter is that things with Mike have always been like this, and they’ve never been like this with anyone else, and Will doesn’t think they can be like this with anyone else without it being the most unsettling thing that’s ever happened to him.

The silence, he realizes, has gone on just a second too long.

“Yeah,” he blurts out at last. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Something settles over Mike’s face. “Will–”

“Forget I said anything,” Will backpedals, a little bit desperate. “Never mind. Be as nice to me as you want.”

Mike bites down on his lower lip. It looks like he’s holding back a smile. “As nice as I want?”

Oh, no.

“Sure,” Will tries. “Do your worst.”

Mike lets out a shaky exhale. He presses in further, leans in closer until their shoulders are almost touching. “How about this?”

“That’s not nice,” Will says weakly. “That’s just an invasion of personal space.”

“Seems pretty nice to me,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Will inhales sharply. “Mike.”

“What?”

“What are you– doing,” Will whispers, stumbling over his words, just slightly, as Mike places a hand on his arm.

Mike’s gaze does not waver. “Is this okay?”

Is it okay? Will thinks his brain might be halfway to leaking out through his ears. This is–

This is–

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Yeah. Great.”

“Okay,” Mike whispers. He’s so close now that Will could count all the freckles spattered across his nose, if he wanted to. He could, and the thought is dizzying, dizzying – suddenly, it’s not the claustrophobia that’s making him feel like this. It can’t be, because Mike is in front of him, and he’s so close that Will could just lean forward and–

He could just–

“Mike.” And maybe he’s a bit of a broken record, but he can’t come up with any words other than his name. He clutches at Mike’s knee and meets his gaze and prays – to whatever deity allowed him to get trapped in a storage closet with Mike Wheeler two inches away from his face – that Mike Wheeler will find the courage in him somewhere to close the fucking gap.

He doesn’t, though, which is a sign that the universe must be majorly fucking with him. Not yet, anyway. Not anywhere near as fast as Will needs it to be – if this is what he thinks it is, it’s nowhere near fast enough.

In actuality, what it is is excruciating – the way Will’s heart is beating so loud that he’s sure Mike can hear it, in the proximity. The slow circles Mike is tracing over his other hand – the hand that he’s still holding. He’s so close that Will can discern the warmth emanating off him, the familiar scent of soap, can feel Mike’s eyes trained steadily on his mouth, and yet–

Either Mike is actually moving at a speed of one nanosecond per minute, or time has slowed to a near-stop around them. Mike’s grip on his hand is agonizing, caustic in all the places where they’re touching, each slow circle of Mike’s thumb against his wrist driving him slowly and steadily out of his mind. Do it, Will thinks, like maybe if he thinks it loud enough, Mike will be able to hear him. Do it, do it, do it.

Mike’s lips touch his.

The world stops moving.

It must, anyway. Or maybe it’s just that Will doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore – he doesn’t know if he can find it in him to remember how. All he’s aware of is this: Mike’s hands on his arm, his wrist. Mike’s leg under his own palm, warm and steady and pressed up against him in a smooth, unyielding line. The pressure of the wall behind him, the strands of Mike’s hair brushing against his face, and Mike’s lips – gentle, gentle, gentle, and nowhere near enough.

It’s like Mike is waiting for something. Waiting for Will, maybe.

God, okay.

Fuck it, Will thinks, from somewhere far off in his own head. Fuck it. Fuck this.

“Will,” Mike whispers, pulling back a precious few millimeters, and that’s it. That’s all Will can take.

Will lifts his hand off Mike’s leg, raises it to his wrist and tugs. Mike topples into him with a small gasp, Will falls backwards into the wall, and then they’re kissing.

God. Okay.

Mike steadies himself quickly, braces a hand on the wall behind them and leans in, firm and enthusiastic. His hand, Will notices, faintly and with no small amount of affection, is shaking. Just slightly. Will’s trapped between them again – Mike and the wall – but this time he can’t find it in himself to care even the slightest bit. As if there’s anywhere he’d want to go that wasn’t here, as if he’d want to be somewhere without Mike’s hand carding through his hair, or without his lips moving softly against Will’s own, or the noise he makes when Will presses forward, too fast, too eager, too betrayed by his own fluttering pulse – something like a laugh, trapped deep in his chest.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s–

“Mike? Will?”

Shit.

In a flash, Mike pulls away, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked and breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

Shit.

“Yeah,” Mike calls, voice cracking just slightly on the syllable. “We’re in here!”

Shit.

“So,” Will says, aiming for nonchalance. He fails immediately. His voice cracks too. Great. “That–”

Don’t freak out, he thinks. Please don’t freak out.

Mike, to his credit, is not freaking out.

“Yeah,” Mike says, voice a little high-pitched but surprisingly even. He clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. You were–”

“Yeah,” Will finishes, rather lamely. He’s grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t even need to look at himself to tell. His expression is mirrored, perfectly, flawlessly, brilliantly, on Mike’s own face.

The closet door gets thrown open, and there’s a blinding, sudden light– “What the fuck,” Mike exclaims, squinting and throwing a hand up in front of his eyes. “Nancy?”

Jonathan peers around her shoulder. “What were you guys doing in here?”

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t–

Will can’t help it. He looks at Mike, and they immediately burst into laughter.

Shit.

#hiiii quin so sorry but tumblr ate ur og ask #i did immediately memorize it tho bc i read it and i was like Oh Yes #anyways ik u asked for maybe s5 too #and idk why this is where my mind went #there are a million other s5 scenarios that i could've written #but something about byler kissing in dark closets.... haha #yeah <3 #anyways i hope u like this !!#byler #mike wheeler #will byers #fun sized fics #also fun fact for anyone who reads my fics #this was rly close to my og concept for ive come home im so cold #like the third chapter #but that story got away from me so #this isn't the Same but its similar !! kind of.#ok bye

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mammonsfeatheraccessories · 1 year

Text

possession

summary: a demon has come to visit you in the middle of the night. how lucky are you?

pairing: lucifer/gender-neutral, AFAB reader

genre: smut

cw: consensual fear play, mild degradation, religious undertones in some places, lucifer’s demonic features (including tongue/genitalia) and mentions of the blood/violence demons are capable of (but not toward reader), oral sex (reader receiving)

***

the lights blink, more than they flicker.

slow and deliberate, staring down at you as if you had, in some unknown, grave way, disappointed them.

the air was colder, too. it yoked the warmth from your flesh and left you too chilled to properly shiver. your pillows, your blanket, the soft loving nest of your bed were suddenly suffocating, scratchy and tight and you wondered how you’d ever been able to sleep there. you untangled yourself from them, gasping for air that turned to ice in your lungs:

the lamps gave you one final, lengthy glare, before the light was snuffed out, and not even the moon could reach in to guide you.

footsteps replaced the rhythm of the lights; they clicked despite the carpet beneath them. they were meant to be heard. you were meant to be frightened.

they stopped at the edge of your bed. suddenly, the ring you wore on your left hand glowed a harsh and striking blue. it sought permission, or perhaps even approval, it’s brilliance puffing like peacock feathers in the black night.

the quick, assuring jerk of your chin was all that he needed.

“didn’t anyone ever tell you?” cold fingers danced over your exposed ankle, before forming a tight and painful coil. a rough tug yanked you to the edge of your bed. “uncovered limbs invite the monsters into your bed.”

now that he wanted to be seen, he gave off a gentle glow, almost angelic in the way he lit up the room. how strange it was to see him handle you so roughly; his strong hands were built to be clasped in prayer. how awful that his eyes sliced you to pieces under his knowing gaze; they were so beautiful when gazing at the heavenly skies.

his beauty almost soothed you. he was meant to be looked at. created to be adored, but then broken down to be feared. his crimson eyes were framed by his thick, dark lashes. they were the color of fresh blood. his lips, stern-set but sweetly pink, were parted by the sharp points of his fangs. his face. his lovely, perfect face, marked only by the diamond etched onto his forehead — how was it possible for it to twist with such fury, the way it did now?

but that was where it ended, his similarity to the angels.

for next there was the curve of his onyx horns. from experience you knew the tips were sharp as needles. they would draw blood, even on accident. they were not meant to protect the demon — they were meant to gore. to gut. to hunt.

the feathers of his wings were said to contain an immense power, bringing an exacting savagery to any hex or curse or potion even the weakest sorcerer might conjure. but you couldn’t imagine him letting a single feather fall without consequence.

spread before you now, the span of his wings enveloped your vision, the frame to the exquisite portrait of his nude body. once divine and entirely wicked, your eyes could not help but wander from the prideful lift of his chin to the gleaming expanse of his chest. his skin looked so soft. so soft, even stretched over tight muscles, cold blood and eons of unveiled rage.

he must have kept all that in his dick. it demanded respect, swinging heavy between his thick thighs, the bulbous tip shining a pretty metallic teal, darkening indigo to black as it reached the base. the underside was scaled. it looked smooth, oddly vulnerable. the valley of bumps that formed over his shaft were fun to traverse with your tongue. he was already erect, impatiently so, and it was the one tell in the whole scene, the crack in the facade of your mock corruption; damn it, how he had missed you.

your hands trembled, sought creature comfort in the sheets bunched in between your fingers. he tugged you even closer to the edge of the bed and spread your legs wide.

his nostrils flared, his pupils constricted. your cheeks warmed up in shame, already knowing where this was heading. “this excites you. i can smell it.” he clicked his tongue. “humans are vile. predictable. and worst of all, they are weak.”

and so he went to prove it.

you were wearing shorts to bed. you were pretty sure you’d worn panties, too. now they were gone. you hadn’t heard them tear, you hadn’t felt the slide of them down your legs, nor had you lifted your arms for the removal of your shirt, but you were exposed, needy, and utterly humiliated in a matter of seconds.

“congratulations,” he spoke, eyes to roaming over your form almost distractedly, petting your thigh before sinking to his knees. he slipped his fingers between your legs, coating them in your juices. “you have one of the most powerful beings in all three realms kneeling before you.” a smirk overtook his features as you watched him play with the mess you made, eyes catching yours to mock you. “aren’t you proud of yourself?”

you couldn’t speak. his skilled fingers found your clit and coaxed it to come out and say hello. “so cute,” he sighed, circling it with his thumb. “i hope your pussy is as obedient as you are.”

shit. your legs tried to close, flames licking a little too hot in the pit of your stomach. he’d be pissed if you came this early, not when he’d traveled such a long way.

but you couldn’t move at all. he’d paralyzed you — when? you hadn’t heard him cast any spell. you could only watch him, wide-eyed and nervous when he let his tongue unfurl before you.

you considered it the most demonic thing about him, both in its appearance and what he made it do. it was long, navy and pointed, slick where he’d allowed saliva to pool and drip over your pussy.

he was every bit the monster in your closet, coming out to devour you whole, his fangs glinting brilliant and evil as he teased you with their proximity to your most vulnerable place. he turned his face, reaching under you to pull you closer to him, legs draped over his shoulders. the tops of his teeth gently grazed the inside of your thigh, a simple reminder: he could kill you from here, kneeled between your legs like a supplicant.

but then his tongue soothed over the spot, even though he hadn’t bitten down. he sucked kisses into your skin that were maybe a bit too reverent for a demon trying to steal your soul. he caught himself and firmly corrected it, sinking his nails into the fat of your thighs. they were more like claws, and you gasped at piercing sensation. it made you so much wetter, and him so much cockier, the fragility of a useless, desperate human making his mouth water.

“look at me,” he demanded, and your body complied without thought. so you could move, as long as he willed it, similar to the way you could control him under your pact. how odd. how freeing. “you’re mine,” he said, eyes flashing something ancient and primal. “i don’t kneel for just anyone. you understand that, don’t you? nod. let me see that you understand.”

you nodded.

“good human,” he grunted, then finally lowered his face.

ah. ahh. the lights came on again when he tasted you the first time, then shut off with a bang. his tongue dipped inside of you and moved, unnervingly dexterous and all-knowing, dragging your slick juices to your clit to suck it the way he knew you liked best.

lucifer was a methodical demon. he knew nothing other than to give his very best. which was why it was so hot that he sometimes lost himself in you, dragging down by your hips to bury his face in your cunt when he was supposed to be teasing you. it was hotter still that he’d turn around and blame you for it — he could do no wrong, after all — clearly you needed to be punished — clearly you’d have to try again, and don’t cum this time, be good for him —

his tongue could reach places even his talented fingers couldn’t. it was your downfall every single time you did this. by now you’d learned that in this act alone, lucifer would purposely set you up to fail because he liked it when you did. you’d know the moment he’d grown too frustrated at not being inside you, because suddenly his vicious tongue would lash out with such ferocity it made your very atoms submit to him, twisting, and curling inside you as he lapped at your g-spot, how the fuck-

maybe he’d lost too much focus or your own power had broken through the barrier, but your hips flew up when your orgasm finally crashed through you, painting his clever tongue as your walls pulsed around the wiggling muscle. you clutched his horns and rode his face until it was too much, and it wasn’t until you caught your breath that you realized you’d both failed this roleplay, but it was going to be your problem.

for he was still kneeling between your legs, glaring at you, annoyed.

“i see you have yet to learn your place,” he chided, drawing himself to his full height. now he towered before you, monstrous cock bobbing in front of your swollen mouth.

“i think it’s time you kneel for me.”

#asdgksajda it’s been years since i’ve written and i’m self conscious but i miss it #not edited and written on my phone 😬 so bound to be full of errors #i’m also not a luci simp so i’m surprised he’s the first one i’ve written something spicy about?#anyway #hope it’s ok!!!#obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me smut #obey me lucifer #obey me x reader #obey me x mc

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kyoaeri · 2 days

Text

──★ ˙ ̟ 🪩 couldn’t forget you ( ksn / 선우 )

nory’s note : just something short to help me get back to writing huhu >< i hope u enjoy !!

your eyes met sunoo’s from across the room, unmistakable tension threaded within the air. he looked the same as you remembered, yet you knew he could have become a completely different person in the time you’d been gone. you felt bad for leaving, you did, but you knew you would only end up hurting him. he probably had a new girlfriend by now, someone who loved him the way he deserved. the thought struck a bolt of pain into your heart, but you knew he wasn’t yours. it was unfair to want him, to need him, because you were the one who had left.

“did you miss me that much, yn?”

you looked up, startled, to meet sunoo’s eye again, his gaze piercing through you like a knife. he leaned down slightly, his hair brushing against your forehead.

“i’ll tell you a secret,” he murmured, his lips faintly grazing the skin of your ear. “i’ve been waiting for you, this whole time. couldn’t get your pretty face off my mind.”

you could feel heat blooming in your cheeks at his words. it had been all this time and yet he still had this effect on you? it was true, you were a fool for kim sunoo.

swiftly, your hands found their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer until your lips met in a familiar shape. kissing him was exactly as you remembered, stealing your breath away. your fingers ran hastily through his hair, an echo of the memories you’d shared. a familiar feeling sparked in your heart: an overwhelming, all-consuming desire.

“that’s more like it,” he breathed, breaking away for a moment. “i couldn’t forget you, yn. no matter how much i tried to move on.”

you knew the feeling all too well. no matter how many guys you’d kissed, no one could ever compare. you knew he understood how you felt, so instead of saying anything, you pulled him in for another kiss. the way his hands gently held you, the way his lips enticed you more effectively than any drug, kim sunoo’s love was unforgettable. and you were no more than an addict, a fool. how could you resist?

@kyoaeri - don’t repost to other websites !!

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bipbopdepmop · 9 months

Text

short boatem summer fic

based on this post -> (link) by @applestruda

Picture this:

It is the hottest day of the year. The sun beats down relentlessly upon any poor sap that gets caught out in it. The heat can only be described as ‘being hit in the face with a sack full of bricks that have somehow been set on fire.'

We see the Boatem crew going about various activities as the very same sun spills into an overly warm room onto well-worn floorboards. The room is small and neat. There is a crooked green carpet on the floor and pictures on the wall of five laughing people. It is a room that has seen lots of love.

A fan whirs steadily in the background. Impulse turns the page of his book, letting out a long sigh. Mumbo waters his plants, mumbling to himself and occasionally making a noise that is either pleased or disgruntled as he inspects his plants. So far, he has said “Ah!” in a pleased way fourteen times and “oh!” in a displeased way twelve times. Scar began counting an indeterminate amount of time ago out of sheer boredom. He’s been sitting in front of the fan for what feels like forever. It’s only been five minutes. Jellie meows. Impulse turns another page. Time drips by like honey. Every heat-filled second seems to take an hour to pass.

Footsteps. Enter Grian, bright wings flashing at the edge of Scar’s vision. He would look over, call out a greeting but that would mean exposing his face to the heat. Grian is not worth braving the heat, he decides.

“I am never going to move again,” Grian complains. “I am just going to lay here and melt.”

“That seems like a good plan,” Impulse agrees with a small chuckle from the only shady corner in the room. A foot prods Scar’s side.

Poke. “Scar, move over.” Another, more insistent poke.

He turns his head, just a little. The right side of his face is now uncomfortably warm, exposed to the Void-forsaken heat. Grian really does look terrible, hair plastered to his forehead, face red and sunburnt and ear-feathers limp.

“I was here first!” Scar says, a bit indignant. First dibs, right? “Go get your own fan. There’s one somewhere around here.” He ducks a little, but not enough to avoid the wing that whacks him in the head.

“Ow!” he says halfheartedly, turning his head to face Impulse. Ah, sweet, sweet relief for the right side of his face, not so much for his left. “Impulse, Grian hit me!”

“Grian did nothing of the sort,” Grian interjects, tone bright and innocent-sounding. Another wing whacks Scar again. “Scar’s the one hogging the fan.”

With a long suffering sigh, Impulse looks up from his book. The glare that Scar receives is just short of withering. Got it. Don’t interrupt Impulse. Scar yelps as he is rudely pushed over onto the floor and into the sun. The floor burns to the touch. His poor, poor, super muscle-y arms. Betrayal! Blood! Trauma! Death! He will never forgive Grian for this. He will pay.

A thump. Grian’s sigh of sheer relief is almost pathetic. Sure enough, Grian’s face is now inches from the fan, eyes closed in pure joy. Scar groans dramatically.

“Grian, how could you? My very own brother-in-arms!”

Grian scoffs. “Like you wouldn’t do the same.”

“Me?” Scar gasps. “I would never.”

“Oh you absolutely would,” Mumbo says with a snort.

“Fine, fine! I see how it is around here. No love for good ol’ Scar! C’mon Jellie, we can go join the Big Eyes Crew. I bet they have a fan. I bet their fan is bigger than ours. After all, Bdubs’ smile is the biggest there is. He’s probably got the biggest fan too.” Impulse snorts and turns the page. Grian’s wings rustle. Mumbo makes his fifteenth “Ah!” His plants must be doing well.

Scar sighs, pulling himself into an upright position and drapes himself over Grian’s shoulders. “See, this way we can share the fan!”

“Scar,” Grian whines, dragging his name out exasperatedly. “You’re too warm! Go away.”

“Come on Grian, you can say it,” he teases, smiling. “I’m too hot. I’m too hot for you.”

Scar grunts as Grian elbows him in the side, throwing him off his shoulders. Huffing, he leans against Grian’s back instead. If he can’t get the fan, a nice backrest will do. Even if that backrest has really, really pokey bony wings that dig into his back. Maybe he’ll take a nap and when he wakes up, it’ll all be over. He closes his eyes.

After what barely seems like ten minutes, he hears Pearl say “What’s all this? You guys look absolutely pathetic.” Cracking his eyes open a little and turning his head to face her, he sees her in all her moth-y glory, standing over them. She has a shopping bag in one hand. Slowly, she reaches in and pulls out-

A freezer pop.

Scar might cry. He’s never seen such a beautiful sight. He might pick Pearl up and twirl her around in joy if it weren’t so dang-blasted hot.

---

#hermitcraft #boatem #grian #pearlescentmoon #impulsesv #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft fic #mumbo jumbo #hope its ok #never written boatem before #anyways i saw the art and just had to write a little silly thing about it #hopefully its not too stiff or weird or ooc idk #just realised impulse does not. say anything #whoops #hope i tagged everything right #i. did not tag everything right #my writing

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swanmaids · 10 months

Note

Feanor x Nerdanel + 9,kiss prompt?

9. in public

Mahtan's daughter is no great beauty.

That's alright. She has other things to be getting on with.

Nerdanel is going to be a master of her craft. This is something she has known for a very long time - almost as far back as she can remember. The need to create is an ache that burns from somewhere deep within her. It's the force that pushes her out of bed in the middle of the night to recreate the images from her dreams, the gift that lets her give shape to a thought, an idea, an emotion.

What does a fair face matter? Nerdanel is a artist.

So Nerdanel never grows tall, and her body becomes stocky and compact from carrying stone and clay, cushioned with a layer of fat that never quite melts away. So she keeps her hair cut to chin length, all the better for keeping it out of her face when she works. So her hands and arms are scattered with nicks and burns, and her palms are raw or callused, depending on the day. So her hair and clothes are coated in a fine layer of dust, more often than not. It's all fine. Nerdanel wrings all the beauty she needs from her hands.

The only slight problem is him. Fëanáro.

Because Fëanáro is a great beauty - the greatest, perhaps, and not just according to Nerdanel. The first time she sees him in person, come to learn from her father, she thinks - I have to sculpt him.

She does just that, though not immediately. It takes many more such visits of Fëanáro to her father's house, followed by journeys across the nearby lands together, and hushed conversations in the pale early hours; just the two of them. It takes a recognition of the same burning desire to leave the world a more beautiful place than they found it that lives in them both before she can truly draw his likeness out of the stone.

She shows it to Fëanáro when she is certain that it's right, and he gazes upon his own likeness for several long minutes, and retreats to his forge.

When he emerges, it's with a ring.

So Nerdanel doesn't doubt that Fëanáro loves her. She is not somebody especially given to self-doubt, after all. Still, it would be nice not to have to hear the whispers about Fëanáro's dreadfully plain bethrothed. They're not especially quiet whispers, after all.

Even those whispers aren't so terrible, though, when Fëanáro kisses her in full view of his fellow Aulendili, at the dinner parties of the Lambengolmor, on the steps of his father's great palace in Tirion. Fëanáro doesn't think they are ill-matched - he knows, as she knows, that they are moulded out of the same earth.

#i've not written them before i hope it's ok!!#feanel #nerdanel #feanor #the silm #my fic #kiss prompts

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philtstone · 21 days

Note

jaime/claire -- holding the other's chin up

after literally one million years i finally finished this. this is not technically an om-shanti-om au but it's not not one, either

On Wednesday morning, Jamie and his Ghost had a row.

It is now Thursday afternoon, and Jamie is sitting in a hospital room, covered in muck from head to toe and wondering if this isn’t God’s great punishment for daring to leave his bloody flat.

He’s not sure when he started referring to the Ghost as his. Traditionally, if you’re the sort to believe in such things, ownership of ghosts runs through 1) ancestry or 2) a familial home. His aunt Jocasta, for example, had an ornery old Frenchman in the cellar of the MacKenzies’ old brick tower who had no relation to any of them, but wouldn’t let the damned house go generation after generation; Jocasta claims the bastard had been the mysterious lad who seduced that one grand-cousin of theirs into batting for the other side, which led to his divorcing his wife and moving to Cuba – and who is Jamie to have his doubts, really, when he’s got a ghost of his own.

The argument could be made that Jamie’s ghost has taken up residence in his flat — hence his turn of phrase. But he’s only renting after all, and more than that, he’s got a weird feeling she never snooped through the previous tenants’ bookshelves or sock drawers or anything either.

Now she won’t speak to him. It is four months to the day Jamie moved in, and, not two hours later, made her acquaintance while having an angry cry on the toilet. It’d been a rough go of it – between the accident and Jenny and Da —

Jamie had, at that time, resigned himself to the inevitability of his flunking out of graduate work before he’d ever started it. He’d barely been making it to his physio appointments when the Ghost appeared, let alone his classes; either he wouldn’t answer Jenny’s calls or she wouldn’t answer his; and in the twenty four hours he’d been in his new flat, the upstairs neighbours had already had audibly angry sex twice, which was two times too many for Jamie’s fragile mental state (not to mention his resounding lack of girlfriend). It was amidst all of this that The Ghost materialized.

The Ghost glows like a firefly, speaks like she stepped out of a World War Two-era black and white film and can’t seem to stay in one spot long enough for Jamie to see her face properly. She hasn't got a name, has given no indication of a family, and won’t tell him how and where she died. She’s miserable when she isn’t cracking laughs out of him by snooping through his old copy of Descartes and wondering aloud whether he actually reads the books he owns. She herself has no patience for reading (though she accidentally knocked a lamp over exclaiming at his battered copy of Lord of the Rings), endless patience for his sporadic monologues on morphological theory, and a complete fascination with his mobile phone. Also, the soapy mess that is Grey’s Anatomy, which was playing on the telly once.

“How old were ye,” Jamie asked one day, blowing on his instant noodles, which the Ghost had been eyeing with great skepticism for the latter half of the last fifteen minutes. He supposed she had every right to judge, if she were once a twentieth century housewife, but very little about her suggested an abundance of housewifely skills.

“What are your thoughts on knitting?” asked the Ghost, apropos of nothing.

“I asked first.”

“Did you.”

“When ye went, I mean. How old were ye?”

For a moment it was hard to look directly at her, because she was suddenly far less clearly formed than before. Then, quick as a wink, she was young and mostly corporeal again.

“Terribly,” said the Ghost. “I had white hair and everything.”

He mulled this over. “I can imagine it must’ve been quite somethin’ tae behold,” he says. “Sorcha.”

She smiled, all brilliance, all tenderness – very different from the sadness that lingered around her otherwise. Slowly she floated over, under his silent observation, and with hands that were not fully there and made of the stuff of nightlights cupped his face, lifting his chin. There in his sad little kitchen she glowed. Jamie kept blinking behind his glasses, like maybe if he did it hard enough, he could finally see her. Did she have a husband she missed? Jamie thought. Was it paining her something awful to be stuck in his sad little studio, with the two plants left living and the little grey cat no one in the building would properly claim ownership of?

Then, “Knitting,” she said. So Jamie confessed what little his Mam had taught him as a kid.

She knows all the scientific names of the bones and ligaments and tissues in his body that were damaged in the accident, and – perhaps due to her ghostly nature – can preternaturally guess when each thing is paining him. It upsets her to realize that her hands are not solid enough to sooth the hurts, and gladdens her when he assures her companionship is taking his mind off things a bit, before – incomprehensibly – she looks miserable again. She swears like a sailor and would probably fart in her sleep, were she not an incorporeal being with a transmutable form not in need of traditional rest.

She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. Nevermind he can’t really see her; Jamie just knows. Her hair is one large amorphous cloud of curls and she stares at him with such unspeakable sadness and makes a little humming noise when she’s at rest, like the singing of a hundred little stones. And there is a soft sort of buttery halo around her, which was enough to stun him into silence at their first meeting and has become oddly soothing now, enough that he gives her that silly little nickname, and he’s lonely, something feckin’ awful.

It’s not like he’s not self-aware. Problem is, now she might be gone forever, and it’s all his fault.

He keeps playing it over and over in his head. He might’ve been a little churlish, sure – he was tired from his early lecture, he’d kept his contacts in too long, the anniversary of Da’s passing was coming up on Friday and Jenny kept insisting that he ought to come for a visit …

That was it, wasn’t it? Jamie didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to go home, and the Ghost in all her sort of sad floaty care for him snapped in the way of a brittle little twig. She had an awful temper sometimes. He’d heard her yell at the kitchen wall once when she found she couldn’t float through it.

“James Fraser,” she said in her posh little accent, “are you going to continue wallowing in this miserable fucking flat or are you going to get up off your arse and face the bloody world like a man?”

Jamie found this somewhat infuriating. He had left his flat, thanks very much – he went to class now, and he was making real progress in physio, and, well, sure, he’d turned down the lads the last few times they invited him out for a match, but maybe he’d go this time – there was no proof he wouldn’t! So it wasn’t feckin’ fair of her, to talk down to him so. Jamie refused to be called a coward in his own flat.

By a ghost, no less.

“It’s no’ like you ever leave either,” he’d snapped in response, the discomfort of being seen rankling under his skin and sharpening his tongue into something rude.

“I’m dead,” said the Ghost.

“Aye,” muttered Jamie mutinously. “Well.”

“Don’t be an arse.”

“Ye’d be fair lonely wi’out me here tae keep ye company, would ye no’?”

“I’d – read your books,” she defended, unbelievably. “You – you just – don’t you want a happy and vibrant life?”

“What do you think?” he picked up his books, which were strewn over the living room couch, for something to do.

“Well, I don’t know! You keep hiding!”

“I’m no’ hiding!”

“Yes, you are!”

“Mary, Michael and – why do ye care so much, ye irritating apparition!”

“I care because I bloody well have to!”

Had he not been so caught up in his own irritation, he would have noted the odd strand of desperation in her voice.

“Fine,” said Jamie, waving about An Introduction To Language And Linguistics, Third Edition with finality. “Well. I’ve plenty of reasons to be a homebody, ken -- right ones, real ones. But if that’s the case, then yer whole existence is sad.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Ghost.

“Aye,” Jamie was really working up to something, he’d thought, “Ye clearly havenae anywhere else to be, hangin’ about this dump.”

“Where else would I bloody well go?”

“I dinna ken, do I?” He couldn’t see her properly – the details of her face were always a mystery, but now she kept glowing in and out of focus as a general ill emotion build within her in the far corner of the room, “as ye tell me nothing about yerself and spend half the day actin’ like a time traveller and the other half the day lookin’ at me like ye’re about tae cry! I don’t think I’m the one wallowing here, Sorcha, and at least my presence is wanted by the feckin’ landlord! No one asked you tae show up!”

Perhaps he had gone too far; something about the Ghost’s presence blanched, like he’d given her a true fright. Then, after an awful moment of strangulated silence … she snapped back.

It devolved pretty quickly from there. In between the mutual screaming, Jamie got the feeling that she would have thrown things, could she have gotten her incorporeal hands on them properly enough to harness physics.

At some point, he had run out of steam, stormed out, and slammed the door behind himself, intent on finally taking up the offer of rugby with his friends.

Too bad about the torrential downpour. Too bad Rupert tackles like a giant lout, and Jamie slid five feet on the grass before slamming down directly on his shoulder and popping it out of socket.

He sighs, miserably. The hospital room is cold, mostly because he remains so thoroughly damp; his hair is plastered to his forehead and his jeans cling to his legs. So much for going out and partaking in the wide human world like a man properly recovering from a year’s worth of back to back traumas. Hmph. Jamie sniffs and wipes at his glasses (smudged) with his free and un-dislocated arm. He supposes he is recovering, sort of. It’s been easy to miss, given how simple the Ghost has made everything feel, but he feels exceptionally more human now than he did mere months ago. Jamie of September would never have dislocated his shoulder, because he was too busy being depressed.

He squirms in place. He ought to go home and check on the Ghost. What if all the yelling caused her to simply vanish? What if she’s hiding from him, indefinitely? He doesn’t think Edinburgh local business bureau has any reliable sort of ghost hunting service listed on its website. When Angus stopped by to pick up Jamie’s laptop so he could at least get his readings done for class tomorrow via hospital room, he responded to Jamie’s possibly-deranged Ghost-related line of questioning with an honest, “I’ve looked everywhere, mate. Cannae see hide nor hair of any ghostly lassie. D’ye think she’s gone tae her sister’s, perhaps?”

Even if this were a helpful question, Jamie hasn’t any idea whether the Ghost has any siblings at all.

Shite. He groans. It’s bad enough the shock’s worn off, and his shoulder is starting to properly hurt now. He hangs his head and leans his forehead against his uninjured wrist, squeezing his eyes shut against the mess everything’s become. He’s still facing the ground with his eyes shut when the faint sound of heeled footsteps swells louder and turns the corner, entering the room with a neat swish of hospital bed paper and curtain.

“Mr. James Fraser, is it?” says a light, distinctly British female voice, evidently scanning over whatever chart they’ve got set up for him, “that’s a nasty glenohumeral dislocation you’ve got there. You wouldn’t have happened to be playing rugby in the rain like an idiot, would you?”

Jamie cracks his eyes open specifically to roll them. He doesn’t get very far: the doctor standing in front of him is a tall young woman, with a mass of thick, dark curly hair tied out of her face, wry laughing eyes and an upturned little mouth that makes it very clear they are both supposed to be in on whatever joke she’s trying to make. She has a slender neck, a very competent set to her brows, and could be described as somewhat twiggy in figure save for her wonderfully curved arse, which Jamie gets an unexpected view of as she leans over the chair in the corner to close the bed’s curtain properly.

Jamie unsticks his throat with a bit of effort. “Hm?” he says, very eloquently.

“I asked, are you feeling dizzy at all? Nauseous?”

“No, I feel fine. ‘Tis just my arm, Sassenach.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Between the dislocated shoulder and the woman in front of him it could really be anything that’s causing his complete discombobulation – enough to put his foot in it, it seems – but something about the tone and inflection of her sharp little question has Jamie’s head spinning more than the rugby tackle.

“Er – Doctor Sassenach, I mean. Or rather – jest Doctor, but I didnae mean it as an offense – it was just an observation. Granted, we’re in Edinburgh, so it wouldn’t – but I’m from – that is, my family, I grew up far North, so …” he trails off; she is now very industriously poking and prodding at his collar bone. Oh, right – he does remember her saying she was about to do that. “I meant no offense,” he concludes.

“No offense taken,” says the Doctor. She sounds like she’s on the verge of laughing, this time at him.

“Ye’ve got a very gentle touch,” Jamie says, like a right idiot.

“Thank you,” says the Doctor. “Now, I’m going to reset your arm – there’s nothing else for it, it’ll hurt like hell for a minute. But you’ll be alright Mr. Fraser.”

They go through the motions together; Jamie follows her instructions, marvels at how strong and precise she is with skinny arms and small hands, and only blacks out a little when his shoulder pops back into place.

“God,” he gasps, blinking. In front of him, the Doctor is looking over him with concern.

“Everything alright? How are you feeling?”

“A little bit like someone’s punched my lights out, I willnae lie.” She laughs, but her hands remain on him, gentle first on his chest, then neck, pushing him upright.

“An expected feeling,” she says. “Hold still a moment, I’m going to properly check you for a concussion.”

And before Jamie can protest that he’s fine, she has taken his chin in both hands and gently tilted his face up towards her, so as to better shine the little flashlight into his eyes.

It’s as if a giant multi-metric tonne train has slammed into Jamie at twelve hundred kilometers an hour. The nice Sassenach doctor is glowing like a firefly and eyeing his ramen with skepticism and asking him about knitting and crying and yelling and touching him so gently because now her hands can actually touch him and he knows her, he swears he knows her deep deep deep in some inner place inside of him and quite possibly he is in love with her, and maybe has been, forever.

Jamie comes back to Earth. She is making an altogether undignified face as she moves his chin back and forth and examines his reaction time. Her tongue sticks out a little. Bits of frizz have popped out of her ponytail and are decorating her hairline like a halo.

“Hi,” Jamie says breathily, like a fool.

She stills, and looks over to meet his eye, and for a moment they stare at each other like that, nose to nose.

“Hello,” she says.

Then she pulls away and marks something on her notepad; the interaction is all but over. Off to her next patient, probably. “Alright. Well, no concussion, from what I can tell. I’ll ask you to self-monitor, though, and I’ll prescribe you some pain meds for the shoulder. I’d go home and get some rest if I were you,” she hesitates, and in a curious sort of way adds, “is everything alright, really?”

“Fine,” says Jamie. “Only, just now I felt like I’d seen a ghost.” He laughs, and it’s an overall strangled sound, which can and should be forgiven. “Ye ever felt anything like that, Sassenach?”

She is halfway to the door already, and he’s sure she will call him a nutter on the way out, even if in that wry way of hers. But she stops. Turns back. Smiles at him – not quite radiant, nor tender, but curious and familiar.

“You know … I think I do?”

“Aye?”

“It’s Claire, by the way.”

He blinks. “Your ghost?”

“No,” and now she really is laughing at him. “My name. Dr. Claire Beauchamp. But if you must call me an outlander, James Fraser whose family lived in the North, then I suppose I am alright with that, too.”

She leaves Jamie grinning more widely than he has in months. He’s got the odd feeling that whenever he gets home, his flat will be empty. Strangely, this is not an upsetting premonition. He’s more concerned with somehow getting Dr. Claire Beauchamp’s phone number – and somehow, he’s pretty sure the Ghost would approve.

#i havent written jamieclaire in literal years so i hope the characterizations are ok #my truest beloveds actually. i missed them so much #outlander #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #claire x jamie

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gatzbright · 2 months

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sweater weather

dnf fic, 1.6k, one shot, general, ao3 link [Established Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy Ending, Fluff]

A cry escapes George’s lips. “Dream—” Dream brings George closer, holds his face in two large palms. “Tell me when you’re hurting, sweetheart,” he whispers thickly, “and I can try help.” George shakes his head. “No,” he says, weepy, “‘s’too much—” “Never,” Dream says. He holds George’s gaze. “You’re never too much—nothing you ever feel is ever too much.”

[Or, The tide brings in old feelings, and George feels the ache.]

#HI HI NEWFIC IMBACK I LIVEEEE LIKE MUSHU ITSBRUTNEY BITCH #words cannot explain hwo relieved i am to have finally written somthing cohesive after MONTHS of fucking writers blocklike oh man. itwas Ba #idk where this came frombut i puked it up into my doc this morning !!! posted a couple hours ago n finally doinb tumblr post after being #late to my destination n getting maccas n the road works fuckning me around for 15 mins !! WE WIN NETHERTHELESS !!!!!!#itsmmaking me cry everytime i say i puked up this fic imcsorry its funny ok #anyways HOPE WHOEVER READS ENJOYS N I HUG YOU<3333 i had a lot of fun writing this :) it was one of those times where the words just Flow #i can breathe easy now iam floating on Clouds i am CLOUDBUSTING !!!!!#ok bye mwah ik it is 3am est hashtag yolo #dnf #dreamnotfound #dnf fic #my writing

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sennqu · 2 years

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ok i am ready to be spicy. so i made this post the other day (or yesterday what is time) without tags: (with some slight word changes)

"oh, I get it now. I think I understand a big reason why the "Mike is in love with Will but just doesn't want to admit it because he has internalized homophobia" is such a popular fandom opinion. Because then Mike's behavior becomes "obviously" romantic since this take assumes that he's aware of his behavior.

The take that he's "simply oblivious, simply doesn't know his feelings are actually romantic in nature", which -- in my opinion -- is much more heavily supported by the text, is... actually kind of scary to consider from a "wanting the ship to be canon" perspective. Because it's pretty much close to saying that his feelings are actually just platonic after all because that's what Mike thinks they are."

So, I have been thinking very hard on this for a while because I do think that this is why there is a sort of...friction? anxiety? in the general vibes of the fandom with regards to how byler can even work out in S5 after the events of S4.

In my opinion, I think that the second take -- Mike is oblivious -- actually lends itself well to the prospect of official, no ways around it endgame byler better than the first one does.

Because imagine it: Mike doesn't have to suffer through thinking he's wrong or he's a mistake or that he's not conforming to society's standards before coming to terms with his feelings. He just has to realize he's in love with his best friend, and that his best friend is in love with him. Mike is going to be the out, loud, and proud person of this relationship. He just has to figure his shit out.

First, what do we know about Mike so far and what can we take away from it? and why is it not "internalized homophobia"?

The biggest evidence for me against the "internalized homophobia" take is in S1 when Will was being called names by Troy and friend. Mike physically retaliated. He didn't look ashamed; he looked angry. Because they were insulting his missing best friend right in front of him. He was not internalizing these slurs. What he was doing was defending Will, who was the target of this hate. He prioritized defending Will, who wasn't even there, over cowing to displays of homophobia.

What about that "It's not my fault you don't like girls" line? Surely that means he's repressed and internalizing some shit? Yeah, and maybe he was just talking faster than his mind could think? Mike ends up clarifying this line and gives away the actual thing that's holding him back: heteronormative thinking. He talks about getting girlfriends as part of growing up as a young man. He says this like a neutral piece of information.

Let's talk about Mike's fears. So far, all of Mike’s insecurities are about being needed, being useful. It's not conforming to society. It's not fitting the mold. If he feared that then he'd have done what Lucas did and joined a popular group. But what did he do? He leaned into his DnD hobby and even started dressing differently, growing his hair out too. S4 Mike is not afraid to be an outcast.

What he does fear most is people leaving him behind. That's what he says about/to El, and that's practically what he says to Will as his excuse for being weird at the airport. The knock-off outfit, the flowers. That wasn't him trying to be straight so he wouldn't be outed as gay or in love with his best friend or whatever. That was his attempt at saving his relationship because he does love El and he doesn't want to lose her too. But they are incompatible. He doesn't realize he doesn't love her romantically but he does love her. That's why he's struggling. Because he can't differentiate between the two.

Lastly, he says to Will: "I feel like I lost you". Which means he felt like he already lost Will. Loving someone and losing them is something Mike never wants to happen again because it already happened once, twice, three times before with Will. Once when Will vanished, the second time when Will got possessed, and the third time when Will moved away. Mike's issue isn't about loving Will and fearing he's gay; it's about losing Will again.

The bolded part is the one I want to highlight because it's the most important piece of the puzzle imo. I am willing to bet that not wanting to lose Will again is going to be a huge part of Mike’s arc in S5 and is going to lead to him finally realizing his feelings. I honestly don't think Will's confession is going to figure into things at all until Mike's realized his feelings. Because the audience has to see Mike fall in love with Will before he figures out Will loves him back. The audience should not be made to think that Mike only falls in love with Will because Will's in love with him.

But how will Mike realize exactly the difference between his love for Will and his love for El if he's this goddamn oblivious? How will the process even start? El has to break up with him. No other way around it. El has to tell him straight up that she does not believe he is in love with her. Only then can Mike be free to even think about what romantic love actually means to him. I imagine this is where he and Nancy will actually get to talk about something substantial again, when he asks her what being in love means. and that will further get the ball rolling. And I believe however his arc plays out, we will get to see Mike and Will definitively end up together.

Because Mike loves Will so much. He isn't quite aware of what this love is yet but he has it in abundance. That is why he was the only one apart from Joyce who pushed for finding Will initially; that is why he is always the first to apologize when he and Will fight; that is why the best thing he's ever done was ask Will to be his friend; that is why he lashed out at Will at the roller rink; that is why he was so over the moon about Will's painting and Will's words in the van that he ironically didn't even see Will crying; that is why he only said his monologue after Will practically told him to.

Will is and continues to be Mike's most important person. Once Mike realizes he's in love with Will and the feeling is mutual? Homophobia can go suck a tail pipe because how dare this concept make the love of his life feel like a mistake? Mike is going to kiss Will as soon he realizes because he is not going to let anyone make him wait a minute longer before kissing the boy of his dreams.

sneaky edit: the underlined parts are links to other analyses i've done before regarding Mike's behavior. Analyses over the airport/roller rink scene, him being oblivious, his love for El, etc!

#this is.... very long #absolutely the longest post i have ever written #it's not as concise or as pinpointed as i wanted it to be #but that's fine. I'm laying it all out there #ku blarghs #strangely blogging #byler #this is a great starting off point for my planned predictions post too #and as is the norm for my posts... links abound...#also i know i am very confidence and 100% hope personified in this post #because i am. i am confident. not about the specifics. but i am 100% they are going to kiss #you guys can be worried about it being canon it's ok. i have enough confidence and hope for all of us lmao

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mulletmitsuya · 2 months

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random tokrev rant ahead !!

when i first started this blog it was going to be for random shitposts, groupchats once in a while, and mostly tokrev analysis but i was so scared of discourse that i just chose to do the funnier stuff 😭. when tokrev was at it's peak i'd be reading 20k+ words of analysis and it was so fun!! but i felt like i couldn't word what i wanted to say properly so that discouraged me but i wish i'd ignored that because there would have been at least one person who understood what i was saying yk?

#anyway #i used to have a tagging system but i forgot so that's my bad #and the thing about discourse is that you could give a person all the canonical facts of the story and they'll still find a way to pretend #that they're right and i personally cannot handle that #i take things very seriously and someone thinking they won a argument when they didn't would make me rip my hair out #so maybe my blog not going into that direction was good for my metal health #i feel like fandom interactions always end up as fights for some reason #why can't two opinions co-exist #let's discuss and have fun why we gotta tell each other to kill ourselves😭#like i saw a very well thought out and written theory about sanzu having autism or something along those lines #and a comment was like “stop trying to give him excuses he's a terrible villain and he's just crazy blah blah blah”#whole time this person's an izana apologist #like😐#i love both these characters but a lot of characters in tokrev are more complicated than just a “crazy villain”#and it seems like they understand that about izana so????#ok i'm done now i hope you guys get what i mean #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers manga #tokrev

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krynutsreal · 10 months

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future foundation bros

I think about the idea that maybe, at some point mondo does actually cut his hair,, goofy thought would be that during the time he was in future foundation he got the teruki cut (mp100 reference in which in a fight teru gets his long hair cut by a sword) though it happens with his pomp or smth

then I think about him cutting his hair in general, I think the idea is just interesting to think about sometimes (especially with adding takas reactions in the mix) ((sorry the brainrot is real))

#this is not me saying that i prefer it to mondo keeping his hair long #in fact i ADORE mondo with long hair and him growing it out even more after hopes peak #hes so girlboy girly gal i love him and his pretty hair and i love drawing it #these are old doodles and seeing them again made me think about that concept #I like to think that mondo does cut his hair at some point to like. see what its like and then immediately after hes like #no yea i get why i didnt want it short it feels weird #obviously there can be some metaphor written in there but yk im rambling enough about this goodnight #danganronpa #mondo owada #kiyotaka ishimaru #ishimondo #PLEASE IGNORE THE LITTLE COMIC PART I WAS TRYING TO DRAW OUT AN IDEA AT THE TIME AND NOW I REALIZE IT DOESNT MAKE SENSE UMM #anyways it was supposed to be taka nagging mondo over his hair n mondo is like ehh ill think abt it ok thats all #kry k(art)

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dangans-ur-ronpas · 3 days

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i think i might actually start mauling people. i think i should be allowed to hunt toshiro haters for sport.

#dungeon meshi #the fact that this is written in that goddamn eggman piss copypasta also adds. an interesting layer. to this post #need to put toshiro on a shelf above all these dunmeshi fans bc clearly they can't handle it #'bitch made weaboo shit' about a japanese man is. a telling choice.#this is not even the entire post there's at least three paragraphs of this nonsense #and it's all written in this excessively aggressive internetspeak type lingo #every single toshiro hater that likes the attached post owes me 300 dollars effective immediately #going to stop going through the dungeon meshi tag i think. going to let my following list vet the tag for me #this post reeks of like. someone who has never tried to interact with east asian culture outside of anime and other pop media #anyways. im going to go buy soju and calm down. i am an adult with responsibilities and a 9 to 5. the world has every kind of person #going to give them the benefit of the doubt and say they're a very young person enjoying fandom. ok. hope they learn. bc im not teaching #(checks bio) oh they're an adult. hm.

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goldenhypen · 11 months

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; ⎯ GOLDENHYPEN’S DARK BLOOD REQUEST EVENT ?! [CLOSED]

in celebration of enhypen’s new comeback, dark blood, i will be opening drabble requests! here are the rules:

send me an ask with:

one prompt from this list;

an enhypen member of your choice;

any storyline/details/genres you’re eager to read.

reminder that this is a sfw blog, meaning, all works are sfw skdjdj

only one request per ask please!

you can submit multiple requests, just separate them into one req per ask.

please be patient! i’ll try to get all requests out asap but please understand that i do have a life outside of tumblr too :)

i would also suggest reading the general req rules before submitting anything just in case; if i receive a request that breaks any of these, i’ll have to turn it down :(

also to clarify, the drabbles don’t have to do anything with dark blood or the concept or anything (unless you want it to be!) i just thought doing prompt requests again would be fun at a time like this!

and another thing, because these will be drabbles, this means your request will likely not end up being over 1k words.

i don’t have a deadline yet but for now i’ll aim to keep it open for a week or so (keep an eye on my pinned post to see the status of requests). happy requesting! REQUESTS ARE NOW CLOSED!

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mandiemegatron · 4 months

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𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕖, 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕖

𝕂𝕒𝕜𝕦 𝕩 𝕔𝕚𝕤!𝕗𝕖𝕞 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

ℝ𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕: 𝟙𝟠+. 𝕄𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 (𝕗𝕖𝕞. 𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘), 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕪-𝕕𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕪 𝕂𝕒𝕜𝕦 🤭💖

𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙎, 𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏. 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙒𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙀 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝘾𝙆𝙀𝘿 𝙊𝙉 𝙎𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏!

𝘈 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 @wolfegoddess ! 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘯, 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 🥺💖💋 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴, 𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘠𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺!

Being the partner of Kaku meant keeping private was a must.

No one really knew you existed, but you knew it was for your own safety. Being part of CP9 was difficult enough for Kaku, but having a weakness, such as yourself, made the man incredibly anxious.

You sighed through your nose as your Den Den began ringing again, not even an hour after you'd already hung up on your lover. Rolling your eyes slightly, you lifted the receiver and drawled out,

“Yes, my love?”

There was silence on the other end before a soft chuckle rang through, the sound making your heart leap in your chest as you realized it was not Kaku on the other line.

“Y/N.”

Your jaw dropped in shock and nervousness, a shaky laugh leaving you as you nearly coughed out,

“Ah, Mr. Blueno sir, I am so sorry, I was not expecting your call.”

The Den Den frowned slightly, showing the expression of the man on the other line as he bit out jokingly,

“I couldn't tell.”

There was a more comfortable silence after a moment, your eyes unwavering from the Den Den Mushi as you finally asked,

“Is… is something wrong?”

Blueno cleared his throat gently before replying,

“Kaku asked me to check on you.”

You couldn't stop the slightly annoyed groan that left you, holding your burning face in a weak palm as you barely got out,

“I'm so sorry.”

There was confusion from the man as he asked,

“Why?”

You sighed softly through your nose before you replied,

“You have much more important things to do with your life, I know this for a fact.”

There was silence from Blueno for a moment before he commented lightly,

“You are important to Kaku, which makes you important to all of us. It's no bother.”

You frowned slightly, metaphorically holding your heart in your hands as it raced. It was rare for Blueno to speak to you, let alone to reassure you like this and it made you feel… special.

“... Thank you, sir.”

You could practically hear the amusement in his voice as he commented back,

“You're welcome. I'll call again soon, if he asks. Kaku apologizes for being so busy.”

You shook your head even though he couldn't see it, throwing your Den Den a soft look as you laughed slightly,

“I'm not bothered, truly. I know how important his job is, and I understand how hard it is. I'm not worried in the slightest.”

There was another moment of silence before you continued,

“... He always comes home. No matter what.”

Blueno gave a hum in response, clearly impressed with your answer.

“Enjoy your afternoon, Y/N.”

“You as well, sir. Thank you.”

Click.

Sighing to yourself, you hung up the receiver and fed your Den Den a piece of crisp lettuce, his favourite snack. Patting his little eyeballs gently, you then moved away from your comfy chair and decided to pass time with a bath, making your way to the washroom and grabbing a change of clothes on the way.

It wasn't long until you were resting comfortably in the bath, the tub filled to the brim with vanilla scented bubbles. You had your eyes closed, soft music playing from a radio off to the side. After what felt like at least an hour, you sat up and ran a lazy hand through your now soft hair, breathing a gentle sigh as you peeked your eyes open, only to shriek as you suddenly came face to face with someone.

Whipping a hand back, you punched out, quick and hard, just like Kaku taught you and you hit flesh, hearing a crash and a groan as you pulled yourself up from the tub. Breathing heavily, you peeked over the massive amount of bubbles and gasped in shock as you saw none other than Kaku laying on the floor, a dazed expression on his face with a red welt steadily growing on his cheek.

“You… did great, my love,” he croaked out, slowly, groaning to himself as he pulled himself into a cross-legged position. Your mouth dropped open in shock, staring at your lover (who was not due to be home for another few days, mind you) before you nearly leapt from the tub, tears and bubbles stinging your eyes as you crashed into him.

“You're home,” you blubbering out, pressing your naked and soaked body to his as you peppered his face with warm kisses. Strong arms wrapped around you and your favourite sound of chuckling met your ears as calloused fingers ran over your slippery back.

“I sure am, little filly mine.”

Sniffling with a sad frown, you stared up at him with wide eyes, confused though elated he was home so early.

“But… Mr. Blueno called… he said-”

Kaku laughed, his cheeks tinted pink as he stared back with a bright reply of,

“All part of the plan!”

He grinned and pulled you closer, pressing a hot kiss to your forehead before he murmured gently,

“And I think I pulled it off pretty well.”

You laughed in response, curling into him for a moment before pulling back, slightly embarrassed and flustered as you pulled him from the floor.

“I'm so sorry my love-” you started, only to be cut off as Kaku pulled you into a deep kiss, one of his hands cradling the back of your head. He pulled back for only a moment to reply softly,

“Never apologize for being on your toes. You did good, my darling.”

Next thing you knew, you were both back in the tub, your back pressed against his toned chest as he pressed butterfly kisses to the side of your face. You turned your head slightly and pressed a kiss to his nose, pulling a weak chuckle from him as one of his hands wandered lower.

Your head fell back against the front of his shoulder, cradled against the side of his face as his fingers pressed over your warmth.

“I'm going to make it up to you,” he murmured against your hair, his eyes shut as he breathed you in.

“You have nothing to make up for,” you replied just as softly, one of your hands moving to hold his face in your palm. He practically purred into your touch, a low rumble vibrating from his chest against your back.

“I've been away too long,” he continued, almost as if you hadn't even spoken. His fingers pressed into you, and your eyes rolled back, the familiar feeling of him filling you making your stomach filp and your heart stutter.

Kaku's voice held a tone of certainty as he promised,

“... I'm going to make it up to you.”

#mandies mumbles ; fanfics #one piece #kaku #cp9 kaku #op kaku #kaku x reader #cp9 x reader #secret santa #🤭🤭🤭💖💖💖#IVE NEVER WRITTEN KAKU B4 SO PLS BE GENTLE 😭😭😭😭😭😭#ok to rb #i hope you enjoy wolfe !!! 😭😭😭💖💖💖#merry christmas my lovely !!

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