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miyasmagnolias · 24 days ago

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𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 ⋆˙⟡

miya atsumu x f!reader

atsumu apologizes to his brother for a years-old argument — only to get ambushed about his feelings for you.

part eight of the in close quarters series, a friends-to-lovers college AU featuring you, atsumu, and the ten months you spend living together senior year.

The night before Atsumu's first game of the season, you found him pacing outside of your open bedroom door.

"Tsumu?" you called out to him from your bed, eyes focused on the book of short stories you'd been annotating for the past twenty minutes. Your roommate's head popped in almost immediately.

"Yep?"

"I've seen flies more restless than you are right now," you joked, closing the book and pushing your hair back with your reading glasses. "Everything okay?"

His fingertips drummed against the doorframe in thought. "Are ya busy? Can I get yer advice on somethin'?"

"Sure," you replied, propping yourself up against your headboard. Meanwhile, Atsumu sat himself down backwards in your desk chair, his bleached hair still damp from a shower, a towel slung over his shoulders.

"So you know how my first game is tomorrow," he began.

"Yes," you drawled bemusedly. "I've only bought the tickets, put it on my Google calendar, and agreed to wear one of your old jerseys."

"Right," Atsumu breathed, glancing over to where the jersey in-question now hung on the door knob to the bathroom. You'd even steamed it for good measure. "Well, normally I'd be super pumped the night before. I'd blast music, hype myself up in the mirror — "

"Ogle yourself in the mirror," you corrected.

" — but I don't wanna do any of that right now." His tone was clipped. Confused, even. "All I feel is this growin' pit in my stomach. Like I'm about to yak at any second."

"Okay," you said with a nod, tracing your fingertips along the spine of your book in search of the right words to say. "Anything in particular you're worried about?"

Atsumu folded his arms across the back of your chair, brow furrowed in concentration. "Well, for one, it's my first game since my coach kicked me off the team for a month. So there's a lot at stake."

"That makes sense," you reassured him. You knew Atsumu had been putting in extra hours since his forced hiatus from volleyball, but he'd never really admitted to you how he felt about it. "Are you nervous that you might not play as well as you used to?"

"Kinda," he said, scrubbing his hair out in frustration. "I just, I feel really shitty about the way I used to treat my teammates when they were havin' an off-day. I mean, I was a complete ass. I just assumed they weren't workin' as hard as I was, or didn't care as much as I did, until..."

"...until it happened to you?"

"Right." Atsumu's throat bobbed. "There was this one time, back in high school, when I called Samu a piece of trash for not hittin' my serves the way I wanted him to. Told him if he couldn't score, he had no business bein' on the court."

"Well, I'm sure he took that very well," you drawled. Atsumu chuckled.

"It was by far the worst fight we'd ever gotten into," he admitted. He could still remember the way Osamu's foot had collided with his spine, the vitriol they'd spat at each other in the middle of the stuffy Inarizaki gymnasium.

"Does wittle Atsumu never make any mistakes?!" Osamu had hissed, fists clenching his t-shirt as he pummeled him to the ground in pure, unadulterated contempt.

"What's wrong with callin' a piece of trash a piece of trash?!" he'd sputtered back, fingernails digging into Osamu's wrists hard enough to draw blood.

Back then, Atsumu had never hesitated to berate his brother for playing like shit. Now, Atsumu didn't have much room to talk, and Osamu hadn't said a damn thing about it.

"I know we haven't played together since high school," he murmured, fiddling with the loose threads on his towel. "I just...I feel bad for givin' him so much grief, ya know?"

Your eyes softened at his confession. "Well, have you ever considered apologizing to him?"

"What? No," Atsumu scoffed, as if you'd just suggested he dive off a steep cliff. "We don't do that sorta thing."

You snorted. "Okay. What do you do after an argument, then?"

"I dunno. Avoid each other until it blows over. Play Winning Eleven once it does."

You rolled your eyes. "Well, maybe you should try talking to him about it for once."

"Because it'll clear my conscious?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," you snapped. "Seriously, have you always been this conflict-averse?"

Atsumu hummed in deep introspection. "Well, I'm sure if ya asked all the girls I've dated before — "

"Okay," you interrupted him before he could say anything else. It didn't stop the flicker of jealousy from unfurling in your chest. "Why don't you just stop by Onigiri Miya before it closes and talk to him then?"

"What, tonight?"

"Would you rather spend the entire night wanting to hurl?"

"Fair point," Atsumu said, standing from your desk chair. He glanced down at you — in your reading glasses and matching pajama set — and felt his lips tug into a slight smirk. "Have I ever told ya that ya look like a hot librarian when ya wear those?"

"Many times, Tsumu," you deadpanned. "Now go."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And get me a salmon onigiri while you're at it!"

He winked at you before closing your bedroom door, his teasing smile lingering in your mind long after he'd left.

"Thank ya, come again!"

Osamu waved goodbye to his last customer of the night, the door jingling behind them as they left. He shucked his gloves into the trash can and sighed, turning towards his employee with a weary smile.

"Why don't ya head out early? I got it from 'ere."

"Are you sure?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing the front door like it might open again at any second.

"Positive. Ya got that test in the morning, right? Be sure to get plenty of rest — and take that bento box I made for ya in the fridge."

He wished her goodnight, making sure she got to her car safely before closing the back door to Onigiri Miya and bolting it shut. He hadn't even made it back to the dining room before the front door jingled again.

"Sorry, we're closed!" Osamu hollered from the kitchen, already grabbing the roller mop.

"But yer sign's still on!" a familiar voice called back. "False advertisin', much?"

Osamu poked his head out just in time to catch Atsumu crouching behind the display case like a street rat in search of its next meal.

"The hell ya doin' here?"

"Y/N wanted salmon onigiri," Atsumu said flatly.

Osamu tightened his grip on the mop, resisting the urge to smack his twin brother for the dozens of health codes he was violating right now.

"I'll make ya both a to-go box. Just — get yer grimy hands off the display case."

Ten minutes and two salmon onigiri later, Atsumu wiped his mouth with a paper napkin while Osamu balanced the cash register across the counter. Behind a mouthful of rice, Atsumu asked, "Do ya remember that big fight we got into back in high school?"

"Ya mean the one that got both of us suspended for two days?" Osamu scoffed. "What about it?"

"Well, I've been thinkin' about it lately, and I just wanted to say...ya had every right to kick my ass."

Osamu paused in the middle of counting bills. A second passed. Two.

"I'm sorry," Osamu managed, stifling his laugh. "Are ya tryin' to apologize to me right now?"

"Don't get used to it, jackass," Atsumu glowered. "I've been torn up about it ever since my coach put me on mental health leave. I thought, 'Well, shit. Now I really don't have the right to tell other people that they suck at volleyball.'"

Osamu blinked. "What a heartfelt apology. Thanks."

"No, that's not — " Atsumu cursed under his breath. He really was conflict-averse, wasn't he? He took a deep breath and tried again.

"What I meant to say was, I was way too hard on ya back then, and I'm sorry." After a moment, he added, "It only took me gettin' dumped and put on volleyball leave for me to realize I was kinda bein' an ass."

His brother's lips pulled into a slight smirk as he said, "Kinda?"

"Okay, a complete ass. There, ya happy now?"

A chuckle rumbled out of Osamu as he considered his brother's half-baked apology.

"For what it's worth, I shouldn't have kicked ya so hard. Ma thought I went and paralyzed ya."

"Please. Ya weren't that strong," Atsumu scoffed.

Osamu merely hummed, continuing to count. The sound of him parsing through the worn paper bills reminded Atsumu of you, flipping through a library book at the end of a long day. A small smile flickered across his face at the thought.

"Did Y/N put ya up to this? This whole attempt to clear yer conscience?"

"Why? Ya don’t think I would've come here myself?"

"Honestly? No."

He might as well have kicked Atsumu in the back all over again.

"Ya have been kinder ever since ya started livin' with her, though," Osamu admitted. "She makes ya better."

Atsumu shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah, well, she tends to have that effect on people."

Osamu noticed his subtle change in demeanor and asked, "Somethin’ goin’ on between the two of ya?"

"What? No," Atsumu said, although the way his ears turned bright red revealed otherwise. "What makes ya think that?"

"I dunno. Maybe the fact that ya drove twenty-five minutes the night before a big game just to buy her food?"

"I came here to apologize!"

"Only because she sent ya here!” Osamu argued. "Seriously, Tsumu. Ya never liked goin' out of yer way for others. Not for me, and certainly not for yer previous girlfriends. But here comes Y/N, and suddenly, yer watchin' The Bachelor on Monday nights. Drivin' halfway across town to replace her book. Sayin' sorry for things I thought you'd never admit to!"

"So what if she makes me want to be a better person? That doesn't mean she'll like me back!" Atsumu snapped.

His words hung in the air, unable to be taken back. He hated how pathetic, how vulnerable, they sounded. Osamu blinked back in surprise.

"Besides," Atsumu grumbled, tearing the corners of his used napkin. "She's too smart for me."

Osamu's shoulders sank.

"Come on. Ya may be jack shit at apologies — " Atsumu cut his brother off with a glare. "But she seems to really care about ya. Didn't she plan a whole bar crawl for ya a while back?"

"Yeah, but she practically threw me at another girl," Atsumu lamented. “I think she wants one of those Timothée-Chalamet-type men. The kind that watches foreign films and is good at crossword puzzles. I'm shit at crossword puzzles."

"Well, maybe she just doesn't know yer into her like that. It wouldn't hurt to just ask her out and see what happens.”

Atsumu pressed his forehead against the countertop, wishing he could just melt into the floorboards and call it a day. After a while, though, he asked, "Do ya really think she'd say yes?"

Osamu smirked. He'd never seen Atsumu so worked up about someone other than himself before. It was strange. Refreshing, honestly.

"Couldn’t tell ya. Twin telepathy only goes so far.”

"I wanna yak just thinkin' about it," Atsumu groaned, raking a hand through his hair. Is this what healthy communication felt like? Endless nausea? "Ya comin' with her to the game tomorrow night?"

"Yep. Suna's comin', too."

"I swear to God, if either of y'all embarrass me in front of her — "

"I told him to leave the giant cardboard cutout of yer face at home."

Atsumu's face twisted in disgust. "Y'all still have that thing?"

"We may or may not have put it in our front window to scare off loiterers," Osamu said. Atsumu's jaw went slack. "What? It's technically my face, too."

"I hate that yer roommates," Atsumu drawled, tossing his trash away and retrieving the extra takeout bag for you. He lifted it in farewell before heading towards the front door. "Thanks for the food...and for hearin' me out."

"Don't mention it," Osamu replied in earnest. "And this goes without sayin', but yer secret's safe with me."

Atsumu merely nodded before pushing the door open, climbing into his car, and driving off in the direction of campus. Only when he was out of sight did Osamu release a long, exasperated sigh.

He didn't know if Atsumu would ever muster up the courage to ask you out. Hell, he didn't even know what you'd say. All he knew was that his brother had willingly apologized to him for the first time in twenty-two years — and you were the reason behind it.

Chuckling to himself, Osamu pushed the cash drawer shut, crossed the dining room, and locked the front door. He turned off the neon OPEN sign and got right to cleaning.

For his own sake, he hoped you'd stick around.

And for Atsumu's sake, he hoped you'd one day say yes.

a/n: eeek next chapter is college gameday, y'all! osamu, suna, y/n and the volleyball gang all in one place!

i have the rest of the story outlined as well, so many thanks for all of your patience as this slow burn keeps on burnin'. i do hope it'll be worth the wait! ‪‪♡

@miyasmagnolias, 2025

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rueclfer · 9 months ago

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smau request- maaaybe tomura trying to convince reader to wake up and hang with him super late bc he’s def a night owl & they end up staying up until sunrise; flirtation & heavy petting etc as we love to see it

i wrote this at 2am my brain is fried but waow loser/slightly more confident shiggy ily+ enjoy this mix of written and smau <3

twilight zone // tomura shigaraki

"oh my fucking god, knock much?" tomura exclaims, spinning around towards you in his swivel chair.

"shut up." you yawn, rubbing your eyes away from the bright PC screen illuminating the room. "like you weren't expecting me or something."

from his desk, tomura watches you click the door behind you and crawl into his bed. you pull the comforter up to your chin and nestle into his mattress as if he was the one that intruded on you in his own bedroom.

"wasn't half-sure if you were even going to come." he murmurs before shutting down his PC, diminishing the only light source in the room.

you feel the bed shift beside you as he stiffly lays down. "might as well light some candles too while you're at it." you tease.

despite how groggy you sounded, tomura could hear you signature smirk in your voice- the one that never failed to irritate the fuck out of him. he hadn't thought this far ahead- wasn't even expecting you to respond to him this late at all. all he could think about was how quick his late-night confidence was dwindling into nothing, making him squirm a bit in his own bed.

"i'd prefer to not have to look at your face." he mutters.

owch.

you don't respond. the exhaustion was ready to take over once your head hit the pillow. you think about the last time you had been in his bed like this.

it was about a month ago when you found yourself too drunk to even form a cohesive sentence. he didn't understand what you were blabbering about, but once he saw your swollen lips, flushed cheeks, glossy eyes, and handle of whiskey under your arm, he just assumed the worst.

you were drunk, touch starved, and desperate, but of course he knew better than to let you sloppily smash your lips into his like you intended two when you stumbled into his doorway. he spent that night half asleep in his gaming chair, periodically reaching over to make sure you were still breathing with his trash can pulled up next to your side of the bed.

once you sobered up the next day, he scolded you. relentlessly. strings of obscenities dripping from his mouth.

from that point on, he made sure to always find a way to keep you two at bay- something that he himself wasn't even sure how to go about. elbow nudges. kicking your feet under the dining room table. laying your legs over his lap on the couch without you asking. pats on shoulder. all to make sure that night never repeated- unsure if he could handle you throwing yourself all over him again.

"are you fucking falling asleep?" you feel a jolt on your shoulder as he shakes you awake. "wake up."

"i'm tired." you whine.

"well stop. i didn't invite you here to sleep in my bed." he huffs.

"the fucks got you up, then?"

"nothing."

you go silent for a moment.

"don't be annoying or else i'll leave." you deadpan.

"don't ask stupid questions then." he returns the attitude. "isn't it obvious? i can't sleep. can't even game right now. i just want to..." he voice falters at the end.

"...hang out with you, i guess."

oh.

your jaw slightly gapes open in surprise, spikes of heat crawling up your neck.

you tightly grip the fabric of the comforter. "well, when you say it like that, it sounds like you actually like me." you chuckle.

"didn't say that. we live together. bothering you is my only option."

"lucky you, i love when you bother me." you scoot closer, noses onto a few inches away from one another. "and even more when i bother you."

"yeah, i know. it's like you can't resist me or something." he pulls the comforter up over his mouth, shyly muffling his words.

"i should be thanking you then, right? thank you so much, tomu, for letting me lay in your bed with you. please. i want you. i need you. it's all i can think about when i'm just across the hall from you. " you roll your eyes.

he scoffs. "wouldn't be the first time you were pathetically begging for me either."

"as if." you spit. "i'd never."

"but you have."

a beat of silence passes. you press your lips together as hotness comes over your body while the events of that night surges back to you.

"you said you'd never bring that up again." you clench your teeth, cringing at the memory of tomura retelling that night's endeavors to you the morning after.

"needed to humble you a bit." he chuckles. "told you it's not a big deal though if you're still embarrassed about it."

"no shit, i'm still embarrassed." you tug the covers up to your nose. "i tried getting at you and you rejected me. i'll never live that down, tomu."

tomura goes quiet for a moment. he must've been thinking. he does that often- retreat back into his head when he isn't sure about what else to say. or maybe he had finally fallen asleep.

you glanced over his shoulder to the analog clock sitting on his desk.

4:27AM.

it was late- or early. maybe these past few sleepless nights had finally caught up to him, hopefully to save you from having to relive an embarrassing moment.

to him, tomura's brain was malfunctioning. crashing. blue screen error.

"uh. wait." he begins, breaking the silence. "reject' isn't the right word. you were drunk. i just did what anyone else would have."

"call it what you want. i just wanted a smooch and you weren't with it. it's whatever, i'm over it, you heartbreaker." you dramatically sigh.

"well, i'll give you one now if it'll get you to shut up."

it was your turn to error and crash now.

"really?" your eyes widen.

tomura's breathing stops. he wasn't sure what gave him the confidence to say that outloud. maybe it was because he couldn't clearly see your face. it was almost like you weren't there- like he was speaking out into the void that made it so easy for those words to slip out.

he didn't mean it. right?

"yeah."

fuck.

"-if you want though." he quips.

please shut the fuck up.

"last month wasn't a rejection. i just didn't want you to only want me when you're drunk, you know."

stop talking.

"but you're sober now and we're talking about it and i just-"

your lips crash into his. it catches you off guard as much as it does to him. despite how much you enjoyed listening to him ramble out his nervousness, you couldn't risk losing another opportunity to kiss him.

your hands crawl up to the side of his neck, rubbing the tender skin below his jaw as you draw him closer to you. the floodgates have opened now. tomura met your lips with the same eagerness.

you were pressed up against one another, legs intertwined, sharing a breath and heartbeats as your hands glided over each other's bodies.

your stomach was twisting with anxiety. how long had you been waiting for this moment? all of those shy glances around the apartment, subtle touches, and hidden affections had clearly not gone unnoticed.

his hand runs from the nape of your neck to your lower back where he slips his hand under your shirt, causing you to pull away in surprise from the sudden contact.

"your hands are freezing, tomu." you gasped. "what the fuck?"

"sorry." he sheepishly mutters against your lips. he keeps his hand against the soft skin of your back, lightly rubbing the area as an apologetic gesture as it warms against your body.

"sorry." you repeat, humiliation starting to creep up your neck as you two settle with the realization of what line you two had just crossed.

a beat of silence passes.

"um. so." he coughs.

"so...yeah." you respond.

it wasn't long before you two started giggling to one another like a couple of children.

"shut up." you laugh, hiding your face into the pillow.

"guess i did say you coukd have anything you want if you came over." he breathlessly chuckles.

"please. shut. up." you squeak out. "i'm going to sleep. it's already like..." you peer over his shoulder. "almost 5:00AM, tomu. good fucking night."

you turn around, letting your back face him. you could die right now. melt into this mattress and into nothing. thank god it was dark and thank god he shared this humiliation with you.

he slings his arm around your waist, bringing himself flushed against your back.

"i'm not tired." he mumbles into the back of your neck, peppering kisses into the soft skin. "stay up with me."

you mentally kick yourself. because you do- not that there was much left of the night to get through, anyways, but because when the night's haze dissipates, you'll be dealt with a bigger issue that you wouldn't be able to pass off as a drunken mistake.

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spidernuggets · 1 year ago

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Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhjtjfiadhus my brain just said how Jason would react to his S/O kissing down his chest, but specifically kissing down his y incision. He might hate it. It might turn him on. My brain is going feral and I need it—

Somewhere in the middle of your relationship, where Jason was getting comfortable being more open with you, he allowed you to see and touch his scars. Obviously, it took him a long while for himself to accept that these scars are permanently on him, in contrast to you immediately accepting every inch of him the moment he revealed his bare skin to you.

It took a longer while for him to let you lightly graze your fingers along his scars. And when the two of you began to become sexually intimate with each other, he'd guide your hands as to where he's okay with you touching.

You really didn't mean to trigger him when you were straddling his lap with your hands resting along his jaw, initiating a long and slow make-out session with him, who was shirtless, on your couch. Then your hands went down to hold his neck, your lips following suit.

You were just too in the moment when your kisses quickly moved to where his large autopsy scar started.

That's when Jason jolted with a big flinch, his reflexes making his hands move from your waist to your shoulders, pushing you back, harder than he'd meant to.

He stutters a quiet string of apologies, lifting you off his lap and walking to your shared bedroom in a hurry. A pang of guilt slapped you in the face, immediately regretting to contain your neediness.

You wanted to follow him to apologise, but you knew he needed some time alone. So you stayed on the couch, continuously picturing the horrified look on his face. You wanted to cry, but it wasn't about you. It was about Jason. You knew his boundaries, and you crossed them.

A few hours in, you were still on a couch, now with a cup of lukewarm coffee in your hands, patiently waiting for Jason to come out so you can apologise.

So when you heard the creak of the door opening, your posture straightened and put the coffee onto the table in front of you.

You waited for Jason to say something as he sat beside you, now with a long sleeved shirt on.

"I'm sor-" You quickly cut off his apology.

"Don't you dare say that, Jay. It was my fault. I knew where you drew the line and- and I crossed that line. I didn't mean to- I really didn't, I just-"

It was Jason's turn to interrupt you as he gently took hold of your chin, locking your lips with yours.

"I forgive you," he mumbles through the tender kiss.

A month or two later, when you entered the front door after a long day of a morning shift at work, you heard a bang coming from the bedroom in which you quickly ran towards it, only thinking of the worst that could happen with Jason.

When you opened the door, a trashed room was revealed. Clothes dishevelled on the floor, the knick knacks from your windowsill were knocked over, and the full-length mirror was slightly cracked.

Standing in front of the mirror, Jason stood, only in his boxers, his face was red, his nose was runny, and his eyes were bloodshot. But what stood out the most were the red lines over his body, particularly over his scars, to what you assumed were harsh scratch lines, coming from his own fingertips.

You dropped all your things and took one step forward, testing to see if he's let you come into close contact with him, which he usually doesn't. This case, it might've been serious because he whimpers your name, failing an attempt of trying to reach out to you as his hands just fall limp to his sides.

You quickly rush over to him, holding his face in your hands, wiping away his thick, salty tears.

You can hear the barely audible whispers of self insults from him. "I'm hideous." "I'm a monster." "How could you love me?"

You shsuh him by gently pushing your lips to his dry ones. You then ask a "Can I?" In a hush whisper, referring if you can touch his scars.

In hesitancy, he nods a slow yes. You start off easy. With his hands. A long scar that went over his hand, just stopping at the wrist. You gave it a kiss. Followed by the scar next to it. You do the same with his other hand.

Slowly, you finish kissing the scars that cover his arms. You do the same to the ones scattered all over his body. His knees, his thighs, his calves, his spine, his lower back, his shoulders.

You saved the big and most obvious one for last. His autopsy scar. Before your lips came into contact, you started with your fingers. You traced the Y shaped burden, drawing a few imaginary hearts and stars here and there.

The only thing stopping Jason from proposing to yoh right now was the lack of a garnet ring. He absolutely adored you, thinking how an angel like you can even love, let alone touch someone like him.

He then broke down, more tears cascading his face when the first kiss landed on the right side of his chest. But this time, he didn't push you away. When you looked up to see if you could continue, he gave you a slight nod. You gave him a small smile and continued your journey down his torso.

For the first time in an incredibly long while, probably since he first got adopted and became Robin, he felt loved. He felt wanted. And that was all you.

You lifted yourself back up. Jason's tears had dried. You lean your forhead to his. You whisper to him how much you love him. How much he means to you. How much he deserves to be loved.

And from that moment, Jason let you love all of him. He let you look at him, and he let you touch him. And from that moment, little by little, Jason started to love himself too.

It was another while before yoh and Jason initiated more sexual advances. But when you did, it was back on the couch, back to you straddling his lap, back to him shirtless and back to a slow make-out session.

It was back to your lips trailing down his jaw and onto his chest. When your lips touched his autopsy scar, you could've sworn on your mother's grave that you heard a whine out of him.

You looked up and saw his head thrown back, as well as his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Your suspicions were confirmed when he whimpered a "Please, baby. Please, give me more," in which you happily complied.

Your kissing travelled every inch of the large scar, including smaller ones scattered along his waist, meeting up to the messy, black happy trail that led to his waistband.

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insomniumstella · 3 months ago

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coffee, Tuesdays, and f*** you | ceo!bucky x reader

summary: James Buchanan Barnes might just be the worst man on earth—too bad he's the only one who can help you out of a sticky, sticky situation.

warnings: enemies to lovers, fake dating, forced proximity + contact, sarcastic!bucky, explicit language, alcohol consumption

word count: 1,970

author's note: this is a possible teaser for a series i kinda want to write after over a year or so long hiatus😭 anyway, would anybody even read this??

“Huh,” his voice is like nails on a chalkboard on the gloomy Tuesday morning after your non-boyfriend boyfriend dumped you with an ‘I’m bored, sorry’ text the night prior. “It’s actually happening. The world is healing again.”

You shove yet another journal that is as unnecessary as it is cute into the cardboard box perched atop your desk and glare at the looming man. James is wearing his usual middle-of-the-week sallow grey shirt, which somehow manages to dull his sharp features more than Thursday’s yellow, and Prada trousers. Always with the Prada trousers. He loves Prada more than Rebecca Bloomwood and that is saying something.

He’s a… fashionista like that.

“I’m not quitting.” Why James has yet to successfully fire you is a miracle. The pair of you are like Tom and Jerry. Dracula and Van Helsing. Pandora and her box. Surely he must have tried to sweet talk his daddy into terminating you for good. “This,“ you motion to the empty (besides the wine opener, stress balls, and an emergency tube of red lipstick—obvious essentials) drawer, "is called organising. Learn it, live it, love it. It’s after organise and before o-fuck you in the dictionary.”

“Real big talk for someone who keeps a diary.”

“That was…” you take in a deep breath in hopes to maintain at least an ounce of sanity. It doesn’t work. Why would it work? It never works. James and peaceful work hours is only a concept in a hypothetical world full of other ridiculous things such as your neighbour quitting drums and affordable Manolo Blahniks. “That was not… this is not a diary. It’s a journal. A journal I use for very important business meetings. And calls. And conferences.”

“Right,” he quips with a hint of a smirk and sits down on the edge of your desk, the wood creaking underneath his weight. Journal my ass, he ponders but stays surprisingly quiet about it.

“Not a diary. A journal is different from a diary. Maybe there’s no shame in keeping a diary, but I do not have a burning desire to write down every reason why the Wicked Witch of the West would make a better boss than you.” The words keep spilling out of your mouth before you can realise his painfully infuriating sneer is only growing. You hate that stupid smile of his. James knows you hate that stupid smile of his. That makes it all the more alluring for him to torture you with it. “I talk about it with my therapist like an adult.”

“Not a diary. Got it.” James nods as his eyes flicker to the open (and totally unfinished) Word document on your work laptop before slowly raking across the wrinkled cotton of your shirt until they find yours again. “I was wrong to assume this box of trash on your desk,” he vaguely gestures to the cardboard and smirks just a fraction more, “is for diaries. Though you definitely have the look of a girl who keeps one. But anyway. Why are you organising when the entire PR department is having a meeting?”

A… silence settles between you. It’s neither awkward nor peaceful, like it often is with James—he asks a somewhat reasonable question and you can only stare at him like he’s the biggest idiot on planet earth. Because sure, there is an important meeting happening on the forty fifth floor of Dioro right this moment. After all, you are a goodie two shoes of an employee with a busy Google calendar and a functional corporate email. You would know. But it is so like James to assume you would organise over attending, as the freaking head of public relations nonetheless, that you can only stare at him with those blank, are-you-serious eyes.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Yes?” James cocks his head to the side as if expecting you to say something, anything, else in addition, and when you don’t, his eyebrows furrow, too.

Yes. Yes. Yes is not remotely an answer to my question, you infuriating woman, he thinks, and though he knows he should not expect anything less than for you to be as annoying as his shoelaces coming undone on a bright and early morning run, “yes” still takes him off guard a little.

“Yes,” you shrug, promptly closing the laptop because James has no place to see the opened Word document that is half a plan for next year’s PR strategy and half a series of good lunch places around the office, and straighten up. He’s not the only person that’s confident in their words around here.

“I sincerely hope you know the company does not pay you to look cute and gossip in the break room. If that was the case, you would’ve been let go a long time back.” It’s his turn to flash you the blank, dead, are-you-serious eyes.

Exasperated stares are one of the many love languages between you.

“I don’t just look cute and gossip. I also take precious time to share all of those memes in the company’s group chat. Good for morale.” You quip and James pinches the bridge of his nose.

He should have managed to fire you a long time back. But to his credit—he has tried. Once. Twice. Thrice, if somebody was to count the time he got drunk at the annual Christmas party and pettily tried to end your employment over a disagreement about Creedence Clearwater Revival. Surprisingly, it stuck. For a whopping total of twelve hours. Before you stepped through the elevator doors once more, his father exasperated, and right beside you. To this day, James finds it a mystery you’ve managed to charm the man because you’re as charming as a wet towel. But his father is also a fan of Raisin Bran, so there must be something wrong with his judgment. At least when it comes to choice of breakfast cereal and the annoyingly annoying girl’s personality. You are great at PR, much to James’ frustration, and Dioro is habitual with scandals. The very last name Barnes is habitual with scandals that you make go poof! So don’t get it twisted—James is gra… gra… grateful for your talents in PR. At least until the glorious day when he takes over the company completely and can finally make you go poof! A flute of Dom Pérignon in hand as he stares at your empty desk out of his glass office is a nice dream, one to keep him from full blown insanity.

James just might need a hobby.

“Team-building activities are good for morale. Recognition programs are good for morale. Social events are good for—“ he starts listing on his hand, his features dark with disappointment, aggravation, and a hint of resignation. Good. Maybe you could break him before autumn.

“Stop. Nobody cares about a lecture on morale from Dolores Umbridge.” You wave a dismissive hand and place last year’s Dean Winchester themed calendar atop the abyss of journals and trinkets. He’s fine and all, but Sam’s much more tempting to go back to. There’s just something about a strong man with longer hair and a kind heart. “I know about the meeting, Sophie’s leading it because I’m taking the rest of the week off. Plus maybe Monday. Probably Monday. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, do NOT expect me back on Monday.”

“I expect you to find another job, but y’know. Tuesday’s fine.” He deadpans, not that you pay much attention to his tone. You’re much more interested in the fact his ass leaves the anguished, abused edge of your desk. “Why are you taking time off? It’s like the middle of July. And who the hell approved it?”

“So there’s this Linda us lowly employees visit when we need time away from work,” you drawl out and cover Dean’s smouldering face with an old February issue of Vogue. “And it’s July second, which is not even remotely the middle. I hope you know that. It’s important to me that you know that.”

His eyes drop to the magazine and the calendar that peaks out from beneath it, but he’s suspiciously silent about it. Instead when he speaks, his voice is a deep, almost frustrated rumble on—surprise, surprise—the HR department. “I’m aware of what a Linda is.”

“Good, boss. Glad to know you’re following, boss. And before you say anything, Linda approved my request for time off months ago, so there is nothing you can do about it, boss.” A lazy smile curls your lips as you stack more publications of Vogue until Lady Gaga’s staring back at you from the top of the pile.

“Linda loves you, employee. She would give you a raise without hesitation if she could, employee. I specifically instructed you to come to me for these things.” James pinches the bridge of his nose before his arms fold over his chest. “Employee.”

Pet names are another one of your love languages.

“We have been at each other’s necks for the past three miserable years.” You shove the flaps of the box closed and when they pop back up, you wrestle with the cardboard as elegantly as a girl on merely three hours of sleep can manage. “And it’s like you don’t even know me.”

James rolls his eyes, but not because you always find loopholes and roundabouts when it comes to his demands—you just… bring out his unprofessional side. You are a lunatic in business casual clothes.

“My apologies.” He leans forward, abusing your poor desk again as his hands grip the edges. “I should have recognised you would go on a vacation when your department is in the midst of a crisis.”

“Thank you,” you flash him a smile as sweet as sugar, a mighty contender to his infuriating smirk, and lean over the acrylic divider to steal a tape dispenser from some underpaid intern’s desk that’s been abandoned all morning, not that you blame him. You consistently avoid President Business, too. “You had me scared for our marriage there.”

“It may be for the best you start looking into divorce lawyers,” James comments dryly, watching as you tape the box shut. Mostly. Lady Gaga’s still peaking through the crack a little.

“Whoa. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t fight for us.” The reply is almost absentminded as you cover Gaga with a bright pink Post-it—she’s remarkably eerie in the blue, whatever-it’s-made-of coat on past September’s issue of Vogue. “Besides. It’s possible my heart will yearn for you after the long, long six days Linda oh-so-graciously approved, despite July shaping out to be busy.”

His baby blues flicker from your face to the bright Post-it, fingers curling around the oak of your desk as he ponders different ways to snap you out of whatever realm of professional defiance you seem to exist in without forcibly shaking you by the shoulders. Though the latter is an appetising thought.

“Earth to James. Somebody’s spacing out again.”

James pushes the wooden ruler you use to nudge him out of his face before his stare slowly returns to your features, hard and narrowed, and most likely unimposing given that he’s talking to a whack-a-doodle. “Sorry, honey. Got lost in curating the perfect celebratory afternoon for your inevitable demise.”

“Oh.” A slight raise of your eyebrows accompanies the soft reply. The perfect celebratory afternoon for my inevitable demise? In his world, it could mean a gazillion possibilities. After a healthy beat, you settle on the most likely based on nothing, but vibes and the fact the man’s an asshole. “Bourbon, cigars, and a flock of hookers?”

A sardonic smile curls his lips as James straightens up and shoves his hands into the pockets of those damn Prada trousers. “Golf, caviar, and setting your desk on fire.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky x reader smut #bucky series #bucky smut #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader series #bucky x female reader #insomniumstella #insomniumstella masterlist #the wicked games we play #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky story #bucky barnes story

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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago

Text

What the fuck is a PBM?

TOMORROW (Sept 24), I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

Terminal-stage capitalism owes its long senescence to its many defensive mechanisms, and it's only by defeating these that we can put it out of its misery. "The Shield of Boringness" is one of the necrocapitalist's most effective defenses, so it behooves us to attack it head-on.

The Shield of Boringness is Dana Claire's extremely useful term for anything so dull that you simply can't hold any conception of it in your mind for any length of time. In the finance sector, they call this "MEGO," which stands for "My Eyes Glaze Over," a term of art for financial arrangements made so performatively complex that only the most exquisitely melted brain-geniuses can hope to unravel their spaghetti logic. The rest of us are meant to simply heft those thick, dense prospectuses in two hands, shrug, and assume, "a pile of shit this big must have a pony under it."

MEGO and its Shield of Boringness are key to all of terminal-stage capitalism's stupidest scams. Cloaking obvious swindles in a lot of complex language and Byzantine payment schemes can make them seem respectable just long enough for the scammers to relieve you of all your inconvenient cash and assets, though, eventually, you're bound to notice that something is missing.

If you spent the years leading up to the Great Financial Crisis baffled by "CDOs," "synthetic CDOs," "ARMs" and other swindler nonsense, you experienced the Shield of Boringness. If you bet your house and/or your retirement savings on these things, you experienced MEGO. If, after the bubble popped, you finally came to understand that these "exotic financial instruments" were just scams, you experienced Stein's Law ("anything that can't go forever eventually stops"). If today you no longer remember what a CDO is, you are once again experiencing the Shield of Boringness.

As bad as 2008 was, it wasn't even close to the end of terminal stage capitalism. The market has soldiered on, with complex swindles like carbon offset trading, metaverse, cryptocurrency, financialized solar installation, and (of course) AI. In addition to these new swindles, we're still playing the hits, finding new ways to make the worst scams of the 2000s even worse.

That brings me to the American health industry, and the absurdly complex, ridiculously corrupt Pharmacy Benefit Managers (PBMs), a pathology that has only metastasized since 2008.

On at least 20 separate occasions, I have taken it upon myself to figure out how the PBM swindle works, and nevertheless, every time they come up, I have to go back and figure it out again, because PBMs have the most powerful Shield of Boringness out of the whole Monster Manual of terminal-stage capitalism's trash mobs.

PBMs are back in the news because the FTC is now suing the largest of these for their role in ripping off diabetics with sky-high insulin prices. This has kicked off a fresh round of "what the fuck is a PBM, anyway?" explainers of extremely variable quality. Unsurprisingly, the best of these comes from Matt Stoller:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/monopoly-round-up-lina-khan-pharma

Stoller starts by pointing out that Americans have a proud tradition of getting phucked by pharma companies. As far back as the 1950s, Tennessee Senator Estes Kefauver was holding hearings on the scams that pharma companies were using to ensure that Americans paid more for their pills than virtually anyone else in the world.

But since the 2010s, Americans have found themselves paying eye-popping, sky-high, ridiculous drug prices. Eli Lilly's Humolog insulin sold for $21 in 1999; by 2017, the price was $274 – a 1,200% increase! This isn't your grampa's price gouging!

Where do these absurd prices come from? The story starts in the 2000s, when the GW Bush administration encouraged health insurers to create "high deductible" plans, where patients were expected to pay out of pocket for receiving care, until they hit a multi-thousand-dollar threshold, and then their insurance would kick in. Along with "co-pays" and other junk fees, these deductibles were called "cost sharing," and they were sold as a way to prevent the "abuse" of the health care system.

The economists who crafted terminal-stage capitalism's intellectual rationalizations claimed the reason Americans paid so much more for health care than their socialized-medicine using cousins in the rest of the world had nothing to do with the fact that America treats health as a source of profits, while the rest of the world treats health as a human right.

No, the actual root of America's health industry's problems was the moral defects of Americans. Because insured Americans could just go see the doctor whenever they felt like it, they had no incentive to minimize their use of the system. Any time one of these unhinged hypochondriacs got a little sniffle, they could treat themselves to a doctor's visit, enjoying those waiting-room magazines and the pleasure of arranging a sick day with HR, without bearing any of the true costs:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/27/the-doctrine-of-moral-hazard/

"Cost sharing" was supposed to create "skin in the game" for every insured American, creating a little pain-point that stung you every time you thought about treating yourself to a luxurious doctor's visit. Now, these payments bit hardest on the poorest workers, because if you're making minimum wage, at $10 co-pay hurts a lot more than it does if you're making six figures. What's more, VPs and the C-suite were offered "gold-plated" plans with low/no deductibles or co-pays, because executives understand the value of a dollar in the way that mere working slobs can't ever hope to comprehend. They can be trusted to only use the doctor when it's truly warranted.

So now you have these high-deductible plans creeping into every workplace. Then along comes Obama and the Affordable Care Act, a compromise that maintains health care as a for-profit enterprise (still not a human right!) but seeks to create universal coverage by requiring every American to buy a plan, requiring insurers to offer plans to every American, and uses public money to subsidize the for-profit health industry to glue it together.

Predictably, the cheapest insurance offered on the Obamacare exchanges – and ultimately, by employers – had sky-high deductibles and co-pays. That way, insurers could pocket a fat public subsidy, offer an "insurance" plan that was cheap enough for even the most marginally employed people to afford, but still offer no coverage until their customers had spent thousands of dollars out-of-pocket in a given year.

That's the background: GWB created high-deductible plans, Obama supercharged them. Keep that in your mind as we go through the MEGO procedures of the PBM sector.

Your insurer has a list of drugs they'll cover, called the "formulary." The formulary also specifies how much the insurance company is willing to pay your pharmacist for these drugs. Creating the formulary and paying pharmacies for dispensing drugs is a lot of tedious work, and insurance outsources this to third parties, called – wait for it – Pharmacy Benefits Managers.

The prices in the formulary the PBM prepares for your insurance company are called the "list prices." These are meant to represent the "sticker price" of the drug, what a pharmacist would charge you if you wandered in off the street with no insurance, but somehow in possession of a valid prescription.

But, as Stoller writes, these "list prices" aren't actually ever charged to anyone. The list price is like the "full price" on the pricetags at a discount furniture place where everything is always "on sale" at 50% off – and whose semi-disposable sofas and balsa-wood dining room chairs are never actually sold at full price.

One theoretical advantage of a PBM is that it can get lower prices because it bargains for all the people in a given insurer's plan. If you're the pharma giant Sanofi and you want your Lantus insulin to be available to any of the people who must use OptumRX's formulary, you have to convince OptumRX to include you in that formulary.

OptumRX – like all PBMs – demands "rebates" from pharma companies if they want to be included in the formulary. On its face, this is similar to the practices of, say, NICE – the UK agency that bargains for medicine on behalf of the NHS, which also bargains with pharma companies for access to everyone in the UK and gets very good deals as a result.

But OptumRX doesn't bargain for a lower list price. They bargain for a bigger rebate. That means that the "price" is still very high, but OptumRX ends up paying a tiny fraction of it, thanks to that rebate. In the OptumRX formulary, Lantus insulin lists for $403. But Sanofi, who make Lantus, rebate $339 of that to OptumRX, leaving just $64 for Lantus.

Here's where the scam hits. Your insurer charges you a deductible based on the list price – $404 – not on the $64 that OptumRX actually pays for your insulin. If you're in a high-deductible plan and you haven't met your cap yet, you're going to pay $404 for your insulin, even though the actual price for it is $64.

Now, you'd think that your insurer would put a stop to this. They chose the PBM, the PBM is ripping off their customers, so it's their job to smack the PBM around and make it cut this shit out. So why would the insurers tolerate this nonsense?

Here's why: the PBMs are divisions of the big health insurance companies. Unitedhealth owns OptumRx; Aetna owns Caremark, and Cigna owns Expressscripts. So it's not the PBM that's ripping you off, it's your own insurance company. They're not just making you pay for drugs that you're supposedly covered for – they're pocketing the deductible you pay for those drugs.

Now, there's one more entity with power over the PBM that you'd hope would step in on your behalf: your boss. After all, your employer is the entity that actually chooses the insurer and negotiates with them on your behalf. Your boss is in the driver's seat; you're just along for the ride.

It would be pretty funny if the answer to this was that the health insurance company bought your employer, too, and so your boss, the PBM and the insurer were all the same guy, busily swapping hats, paying for a call center full of tormented drones who each have three phones on their desks: one labeled "insurer"; the second, "PBM" and the final one "HR."

But no, the insurers haven't bought out the company you work for (yet). Rather, they've bought off your boss – they're sharing kickbacks with your employer for all the deductibles and co-pays you're being suckered into paying. There's so much money (your money) sloshing around in the PBM scamoverse that anytime someone might get in the way of you being ripped off, they just get cut in for a share of the loot.

That is how the PBM scam works: they're fronts for health insurers who exploit the existence of high-deductible plans in order to get huge kickbacks from pharma makers, and massive fees from you. They split the loot with your boss, whose payout goes up when you get screwed harder.

But wait, there's more! After all, Big Pharma isn't some kind of easily pushed-around weakling. They're big. Why don't they push back against these massive rebates? Because they can afford to pay bribes and smaller companies making cheaper drugs can't. Whether it's a little biotech upstart with a cheaper molecule, or a generics maker who's producing drugs at a fraction of the list price, they just don't have the giant cash reserves it takes to buy their way into the PBMs' formularies. Doubtless, the Big Pharma companies would prefer to pay smaller kickbacks, but from Big Pharma's perspective, the optimum amount of bribes extracted by a PBM isn't zero – far from it. For Big Pharma, the optimal number is one cent higher than "the maximum amount of bribes that a smaller company can afford."

The purpose of a system is what it does. The PBM system makes sure that Americans only have access to the most expensive drugs, and that they pay the highest possible prices for them, and this enriches both insurance companies and employers, while protecting the Big Pharma cartel from upstarts.

Which is why the FTC is suing the PBMs for price-fixing. As Stoller points out, they're using their powers under Section 5 of the FTC Act here, which allows them to shut down "unfair methods of competition":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

The case will be adjudicated by an administrative law judge, in a process that's much faster than a federal court case. Once the FTC proves that the PBM scam is illegal when applied to insulin, they'll have a much easier time attacking the scam when it comes to every other drug (the insulin scam has just about run its course, with federally mandated $35 insulin coming online, just as a generation of post-insulin diabetes treatments hit the market).

Obviously the PBMs aren't taking this lying down. Cigna/Expressscripts has actually sued the FTC for libel over the market study it conducted, in which the agency described in pitiless, factual detail how Cigna was ripping us all off. The case is being fought by a low-level Reagan-era monster named Rick Rule, whom Stoller characterizes as a guy who "hangs around in bars and picks up lonely multi-national corporations" (!!).

The libel claim is a nonstarter, but it's still wild. It's like one of those movies where they want to show you how bad the cockroaches are, so there's a bit where the exterminator shows up and the roaches form a chorus line and do a kind of Busby Berkeley number:

https://www.46brooklyn.com/news/2024-09-20-the-carlton-report

So here we are: the FTC has set out to euthanize some rentiers, ridding the world of a layer of useless economic middlemen whose sole reason for existing is to make pharmaceuticals as expensive as possible, by colluding with the pharma cartel, the insurance cartel and your boss. This conspiracy exists in plain sight, hidden by the Shield of Boringness. If I've done my job, you now understand how this MEGO scam works – and if you forget all that ten minutes later (as is likely, given the nature of MEGO), that's OK: just remember that this thing is a giant fucking scam, and if you ever need to refresh yourself on the details, you can always re-read this post.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Image: Flying Logos (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Over_$1,000,000_dollars_in_USD_$100_bill_stacks.png

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

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spoiledcarmen · 2 months ago

Text

My Neglectful Lover

pair: tim drake x reader

tags: arranged marriage, angst, hurt/some comfort, SLOWburn, smut, OOC characters, dark topics.

tags for THIS chapter: p in v, angry sex, cock sucking, reader has female body parts, loss of virginity (tell me what i missed pls)

summary: tim drake is forced to marry reader for the better of WE, and he doesn't like it.

chapter: hopeful embraces (3/?)

Author’s note: lmk if you want me to tag you in the next part, sorry this is short, it took me so long to finish the smut part. i hated every second of it so sorry if it’s bad😭

account tags: @ahjkshaksodnwab , @noshitmyfriend , @kelldez , @creamsweets

PT.1 - PT.2 - PT.3

That bastard left you already. How the fuck could he? in your wedding dress that left nothing to the imagination. in this empty penthouse, which overlooks the city, that was already decorated to his liking. You hated it all.

You hated the mountain of gifts and the letters, the food that was on the kitchen island, and the way you fucking ached for him. This boy made your little virgin heart go thump thump thump while his went numb numb numb.

You decided to stop sulking around like a puppy beaten to the curb and actually change out of your wedding dress. It took you a while to find your way to the bedroom. You’ve already moved all your clothes here, so you wonder what else Timothy would need.

The man’s just probably making excuses to not be near you. You practically tear the dress off of you, throwing it on the ground while picking out the comfiest of pajamas. What the fuck happened to your pajamas?

Did that bitch of a mother of yours replace them all with lingerie? Jeez... You shake your head as you decide to pick the one that covers up the most, which is to your knees, dark red, and lacy.

As you walk back to the living room, you hear your phone ring— it’s him. No, not Timothy, that unsaved number. You immediately pick up, “Where are you?” “Yeah, change of plans… come to REDACTED.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Could the night get any better? The fucker surprised you with a baggie of coke. Oh, how generous… said it was a wedding gift. Now you're smoking cigars and doing lines of coke while watching your own wedding on the news.

You have no idea how many times they're going to play it, but they might as well; you look fucking gorgeous, and the entire city should know. The coke hits you harder than you ever thought it would; it’s better than when you weren’t sober. At least it’ll make up for the fact you don’t have a honeymoon—

Actually, you're not really sure if you don’t have one; it’s safer to assume the worst when it comes to Timothy. Before you could even react, you hear the door unlock and open, “Sister-in-law!” An unfamiliar voice shouts.

You immediately duck down and lick the Coke off the table, hiding the little bag under the couch. You grab a throw blanket to cover yourself from him. You slowly emerge and see who it is: Dick, with a concerned face that's full of confusion.

“You okay?” “I’m fine… I just would appreciate it if you knocked next time.” You hazily say as you chuckle awkwardly. He nods as he walks in, setting a basket down on the kitchen island. “Right… Bruce said we shouldn’t give you this at the wedding, and Tim said he didn’t want to see it anymore.”

You nod after him as you eye the basket, trying to avoid eye contact and not show your dilated pupils. “It smells…” “I’ll open the window!” You get up from the floor and, against all odds, open an enormous window. “You should… leave,” you say as the blanket falls off of you, revealing your lingerie.

“Right. Okay. Timothy will be here tomorrow.” “I know,” you reply doubtfully. Are you trying to convince yourself or him?

You try your best to recover from your headache from almost being caught by your brother-in-law.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

It’s best to just open your presents instead of doing lines of coke. You bend down and reach for the little bag, throwing it in the trash; you doubt he’d check it.

You walk over to the kitchen and grab the basket, removing the black plastic wrap that prevented you from seeing what it holds. As you unwrap it, your eyes widen. Is this what your in-laws think you and Timothy need?

Not one, not two… but three different types of condoms: RealFeel, Mutual Climax, and Bubblegum. “Bubblegum exists…?” you mutter under your breath as you set it aside.

Your fingers wrap around a bottle, more Durex... this time it’s lube? You're embarrassed and flustered to be even holding this; at least it isn't something crazy and just original.

You see something else that you wonder why it hasn’t caught your eye sooner: a huge bottle of wine. You smile softly as you kiss the bottle and put it in the fridge.

You check the rest of the basket, and it’s nothing interesting, just flower petals and heartfelt notes from each of the family members. You’ll read them if you can’t sleep.

You open the rest of the gifts, and all of them are just as corny as the next, from lingerie to more wine to teddy bears to flowers and self-care kits. Oh, and don't get yourself started on the amount of his-and-hers items.

His and hers cups, his and hers robes, his and hers slippers—the list goes on and on; the words don't even look right anymore.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You lie down on the couch as the news plays in the background; you just want to sit, to be alone. Well, you are alone, but you don’t feel like it. You were already reaching for your phone on the table before a random unknown number started to flood your messages. How did they even get your personal number?

You check the messages, and it’s a video of a security camera recording. Your heart drops as soon as you see the message, “Is this your husband?” followed by a series of laughing emojis. Your finger hovers over the play button.

You finally click it, and the date reads ‘4/5/25’… the day before your wedding. The night before your wedding, you were sure this wasn’t good. The video starts with an empty alleyway, dim streetlights, trash everywhere, and a door.

Soon two people emerge from the door; as the door opened, it was filled with music and flashing lights. You assume it was a club or a bar. They’re walking or shoving themselves out of the door; their mouths are clashed against each other, digging at each other.

like they’re dying and only the cure is each other. It makes you sick, and you almost click off, and then you see it. That's Timothy. You don’t even recognize the girl; you think it’s just some random bitch from the club.

You turn your phone off and throw it on the table. Sure, he hated you, but that’s no excuse to fucking cheat on you! It was the day before your wedding, not even an entire day, maybe 15 or 10 hours before? Your wedding was early in the morning and only ended in the afternoon.

You have no idea what you're going to fucking do.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You slept early; you were staring at the ceiling and kept reaching for the empty space next to you. The feeling is so familiar, so why does it all of a sudden feel so foreign? You wake up early and take a cold shower to freshen your mind up.

Have breakfast with the news playing in the background; you still haven’t turned it off or changed the channel from the night before. Your stomach had a pit in it, a black hole. You have no idea what you're going to say to him.

You're so… tired. It aches. It hurts. It’s excruciating. Your head tilts towards the island you're sitting at; the marble feels so cool on your hot forehead. Such a relief.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You suddenly hear the doorknob shake, you hear keys jingling, you sit up straight and look at the clock, 8 pm? This is what pain does to a person. Your heavy eyelids can barely keep open. It’s Tim. Suddenly awake and alert, you are.

“Where have you been?” You immediately break the silence as you cross your arms, standing in front of him. “Listen… I've had a rough day.” “Really? Rough day, wow, I could imagine.” “What’s your problem?” He snaps; it didn’t take much. You get on his nerves, even without speaking.

“I’m your husband; you’re supposed to be nice to me. Yet as soon as I come in, you start yelling.” He flails his arms around, his words only agitating you more. “I know what you’ve been doing! “What have i been doing?” “You’ve been messing around.”

His eyebrows immediately furrow, his gaze hardens, unwelcoming, more than before. “One night before our wedding, really? How cliché.” You shrug, tilting your head to the right to mock him a little, to belittle him.

“So what if I did?” He started to close in on you, his footsteps louder, your heartbeats faster, your skin hotter. “So what? You have no loyalty!” “Shut up.” “What—?” “I said shut up!” He says it like an order this time. He grabs you by your chin, squeezing your cheeks, shaking you left to right.

Your eyes quake; from one eye to the next you look, back and forth you go. He breathes heavily, and just as you were about to say something, his lips clash with yours, taking you in as if you were a part of him that he lost.

You try to push him away, but his hand finds yours first, holding both of your hands with his one as the other holds your hair in a bunch, so aggressive towards you.

You try to pull away, but your body refuses to; you need this as much as he does, maybe even more. You whimper under his touch; he forces you to walk backwards, pushing you onto the couch that cried aloud at your combined weight.

His eyes narrow at you, angry you even had the audacity to question him. How could you even speak to him like that?

He slowly takes off his belt, discarding it somewhere over the couch, lowering his boxers and pants down in one.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

He lifts your lingerie up, and you let him. He takes off your underwear, the slick making it stick. He shakes his head as he chuckles to himself, “You’re pathetic,” he mutters under his breath.

He slowly slid it inside of you; the pace he was going at was so excruciatingly slow, to taunt you. Your walls immediately welcomed him in and clenched around him. your mouth forming into an O shape.

He leaned down as he started to go a little deeper inside, deep but not deep enough to reach the hymen. You could hear his breathing; it was so steady and calm while you were so out of breath without doing anything.

He sucked on your jawline, practically biting, and his right hand moved to your chest, finding your right breast and coddling it through the fabric.

He sucked once more as he bottomed out completely at once, sighing with pleasure while you were damn near screaming, It broke? Just like that?

He thrust faster and faster, his breath never once hitched. He groaned as you played with his hair, and his left hand left your breast and held you by your wrist. “Don’t touch.” This wasn’t just him talking; it was an order.

He thrust faster and deeper as a ‘punishment.’ You whimper, groan, and moan. He was so bored of all of it. “Virgins are the worst,” he muttered as he rolled his eyes. He left your jaw alone as he lifted his head to silently judge you with his narrowed eyes.

He pulled out, not even letting you reach your high or letting himself cum. You don’t even process your own words; your mouth moves on its own: “What?” “What?” he says in a mocking tone. He puts his hands under your armpits, picking you up and making you stand straight. He sits in your place, and his eyes point towards in between his knees.

“Get down,” he ordered, fully expecting you to obey, and obey you do. Your knees hit the harsh, cold floors, his cock is straight as an arrow, and you just stare at it dumbfounded. “Do you know what to do?” You snap out of it, nodding uncontrollably.

Your right hand grips around all his 7½ hard inches, and your mouth opens as you slowly bring yourself to it, your tongue reaching out to lick the salty pre-cum beaded at the tip. Tracing his every vein with your tongue before licking him from base to tip, he groans with a clearly annoyed look on his face before he grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your head down, forcing you to take him full.

You practically choke and suffocate with your throat trying to accommodate his size, and your eyes start to water. “Don’t cry on me, baby.” He spits out, You don’t know whether he’s mocking you or actually telling you not to.

He guides you up and down, bopping your head on his manhood, not taking you into consideration while chasing his own high. He’s close; meanwhile, you’re close to death with the lack of air. He sucked in a sharp breath before letting ropes of white untie in your mouth. He kept himself in the warmth of your lips, forcing you to swallow every bit of him.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

He lifts you off his cock, making a pop sound as he does, discarding you on the floor as if you were just a fleshlight. His breaths were slow and steady while you were huffing and puffing for air, acting as if he meant to suffocate you. “Don’t be dramatic,” he says.

He gets up from the couch and starts to look for his boxers and pants. He finds them and puts them on, not forgetting his belt. He's so… normal? You just sit on the floor naked, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

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corroded-hellfire · 10 months ago

Note

Throwing a fluffy idea out there: Eddie volunteering (possibly for community service after getting busted for something silly) at a pet shelter. The kittens trying to play with his hair, him rough housing with the dogs to help get them some playtime and exercise.

Eddie loves animals and no one can change my mind. All I want is to see him with these fuzzy little babies 🥺

Words: 3.1k

Hopper was a good guy. He knew deep down Eddie was a good kid and that if he was the worst criminal that Hawkins had, things were going all right. But that didn’t mean that the chief of police wouldn’t lay down the law once in a while with the small-time drug dealer.

Eddie had gotten the choice between a few nights in the tiny town jail or volunteering at a pre-approved Hawkins business. Not wanting to spend time behind bars, Eddie grumbled as he took a look at the list of volunteer options. Spending any time at a medical facility was an automatic no and Eddie wasn’t sure how picking up trash would keep him away from drugs when all he’d want is to smoke a joint after the arduous task.

The Hawkins Animal Shelter immediately seemed appealing, though. Growing up, Eddie had always wanted a dog, but his dad couldn’t afford to own one and Wayne is allergic. Thinking of spending time with the dogs and cats that didn’t have families of their own brought a smile to his face. Maybe part of it was that he didn’t have a stable home life before coming to live with his uncle, so he could relate to the sweet, innocent animals.

His first day on the job, Eddie jumps out of his van and tosses his leather jacket on the passenger’s seat so it won’t get covered in fur or drool. The gravel crunches beneath his boots as he heads towards the front door. Barking can be heard before he even grips the dull copper doorknob.

There’s an older woman seated behind a desk as soon as he walks in, who looks up at him over the rim over her tortoiseshell glasses.

“Munson?” Her voice is deep and raspy, the pack of cigarettes sitting in front of her the obvious culprit.

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie says.

The woman nods her head to a yellow door covered in scratches—mostly on the bottom half. “In there. The girl will show you what to do.”

The girl. Eddie doesn’t even know who she is, but he’s offended on her behalf by being referred to in that way. Giving the woman a quick nod, Eddie heads over and through the door, eager to be out of her presence.

The sound of dogs barking and yipping is even louder in the back hallway, and now it’s joined by the high-pitched meowing of cats. It brings a smile to Eddie’s face as he shoves his hands into his jean pockets. He turns a corner and sees a girl bending over into one of the dog’s kennels. As excited as he is to see the animals he’s going to be spending time with, he admires the view of the nice ass in front of him first. A particularly loud woof from a Pomeranian has the girl standing up straight and Eddie is quick to avert his eyes, hoping he can keep up the facade of being a gentleman for more than five minutes.

“Oh! Hi, Eddie.”

At the sound of his name, Eddie looks back towards you. A smile breaks out on his face as he recognizes you from school. The two of you never really spoke before, but he couldn’t deny that he’d always thought you were very pretty.

“Hey! I didn’t know you worked here,” he says.

“Nope, just volunteer,” you say as you wipe your hands off on the thighs of your jeans.

“And I bet you weren’t even threatened with jail time,” Eddie says with a playful smirk. You giggle and it makes Eddie’s stomach flip in a way that’s unfamiliar to him.

“Let me guess, Brenda sent you back here with a huff?” A dog clamors for your attention in a kennel to your right and you reach in to scratch behind the chocolate lab’s ear.

“I assume so,” Eddie says with a shrug. “She didn’t bother introducing herself before ushering me along, saying you would tell me what to do.”

“Hmm,” you hum, narrowing your eyes as if inspecting him. “Can anyone really tell Eddie Munson what to do?”

This makes him laugh and it scares a skittish poodle to his left.

“Aw, I’m sorry, pal.” Eddie crouches down and holds his knuckles up to the kennel door to let the white, fluffy dog give him a sniff.

“That’s Stella,” you tell him. “Her brother Bruno is on the pillow back there asleep.”

Eddie’s eyes roam over to the dark gray poodle snoozing away in the back corner. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world and Eddie envies that.

“Do you know all the animals’ names here?” Eddie asks as he stands back up.

“Sometimes it’s hard to keep track because they come and go, but yeah, I think so,” you say. “Hmm, okay, I was just about to go change the kitty litter. Want to come along and distract the kittens? You wouldn’t believe how much they get in the way.”

“Sure,” Eddie agrees as he follows you down the hallway. As soon as you open the door to where the cats are kept, a cacophony of meowing floods his ears. There are different volumes and different pitches blending together to create a song of cat chaos. Eddie realizes he must be staring when he hears a soft giggle coming from your direction. Ducking his head, he clears his throat and turns towards you. “What should I do, boss?”

“Well,” you say as you walk over to a few of the cubbies the cats are residing in, “I’ll let a few out at a time, you distract them with the toys or maybe even some treats and I’ll clean their boxes. Then we try to corral them back in and start over again. Ready?”

There’s an array of cat toys on the far side of the small room. Fuzzy mice, balls that jingle, some with feathers, and a few cat wands. Eddie grabs a bag of cat treats off the shelf–which means every little eyeball in that room is on him–and settles himself on the floor next to the toys.

“Ready.”

The first batch you let out consists of five cats–ones that you know for a fact get along, you inform him. There’s a calico named Turtle, an orange and white one named Eric, an all-white called Kissy with the bluest eyes Eddie’s ever seen, and two small kittens. They’re both tabby cats with stripes, but one is grey with black stripes and the other is a soft orange with darker stripes; named Pepper and Chili respectively. Unsurprisingly, the kittens are the first ones intrigued by their new visitor. Tiny paws pad over the linoleum floor until they’re both standing right in front of Eddie. Now that they’re this close though, they get a bit shy. Their eyes are so big for their little heads, Eddie thinks, and he can’t help but chuckle at how cute they are. Chili decides to be the brave one and takes on the scary task of crawling up Eddie’s leg.

“Jesus,” Eddie winces as sharp little claws dig through the material of his jeans and prick at his skin. You pop your head out from one of the kennels and give him a sympathetic look.

“Yeah. I don’t know why but kittens’ claws are sharper than adult cats,” you tell him.

“God, you’re lucky you’re so cute,” Eddie tells Chili as the little furball stops to sit on Eddie’s thigh. As if seeing that his brother is safe, Pepper jumps up and follows the trail the ginger cat had led. “Ah, both. Great.” His words are joking, but the way he grits his teeth as Pepper’s claws do their little pricks of damage is very real.

Turtle makes her way over and begins to chew on the top corner of the treat bag. Kissy immediately wants Eddie to pet her, and Eric is content to sit about a foot away and watch the others interact with the human on the floor.

You peek over your shoulder as you empty the dirty litter into the garbage can beside you, and smile when you see Pepper standing on Eddie’s lap with her two front paws pressed right over his heart. Her tiny head bobs as she inspects Eddie’s face, little pink nose twitching as it works.

Chili has to outdo his sister and jumps right up to Eddie’s shoulder, as if he were a pirate and Chili is his trusty parrot. The ginger cat noses at Eddie’s curls before deciding to take a taste. He opens his mouth and Eddie is glad that hair doesn’t have nerve endings when Chili sinks those little needles that he calls teeth into the strand.

By the time you get finished cleaning out the litter and refilling the food and water, Pepper is up on Eddie’s other shoulder, chewing on hair on that side of his head. Kissy is curled up in Eddie’s lap, purring contentedly as she snoozes. Turtle is still trying to figure out how to get into the treat bag, and Eric decides he can trust Eddie enough to rest his head on Eddie’s ankle.

“Well, don’t you all look comfy,” you say as you stroll over to them.

“Cats have no boundaries,” Eddie says with a smile.

“Not a one,” you agree.

Eventually, you get them all back in their cubby condos and are able to move on to clean the other cat’s areas.

When you get to the last one, you open the cage door and reach in. Eddie watches as you pull out an older gray and brown cat and hug it to your chest.

“How are you, Perry?” you ask before planting a kiss right between the cat’s ears. You turn towards Eddie so he can get a better view of the large feline. “This is Perry. He’s the oldest cat here and an absolute sweetheart. I would’ve brought him home with me a long time ago if my sister wasn’t allergic.”

“Hi, Perry,” Eddie says, walking closer to the two of you. He holds his fingers up and Perry gives them a quick sniff. The cat ducks his head and Eddie takes the hint, scratching wherever his hand is guided along the soft fur.

“Wow,” you say softly. “I’ve never seen Perry let anyone pet him that quickly. He can be a grumpy old man when he doesn’t know someone.”

“I live with a grumpy old man,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Guess I just know how to deal with them.”

“Do you want to hold him while I clean?” you offer.

“Sure.”

You hand the cat over and Perry quickly adjusts to being in Eddie’s arms. It’s another thing that surprises you. Perry isn’t usually a fan of being held—unless it’s by you. But the tabby seems quite content in Eddie’s arms.

Since the last cage is the easiest to clean, you finish up with the cat room in no time.

“What now?” Eddie asks.

A look down at your watch lets you know.

“Time for the first group of dogs to go outside.” You nod for Eddie to follow you in the direction of the dogs’ section. “We do it in groups since there’s so many of them. This way they can all get some attention and there’s less likely to be any issues or fighting.”

It’s not surprising to you that Eddie is a complete natural with the dogs when you get outside. He’s on the grass with them, rough housing, he plays fetch, and even runs laps around the yard with a few who just need to burn off their extra energy. The dogs all take to him so naturally—even the shy ones. It’s impossible not to smile as you watch the canines play with this golden retriever of a man.

By the time the two of you bring the last round of dogs back inside, Eddie’s cheeks are rosy from exertion, his breathing is somewhat labored, and he has patches of dirt on him almost from head to toe.

“Come here,” you say with a chuckle once you’ve snapped the last lock shut.

There’s a battered door at the other end of the hall, and Eddie follows you over towards it. You jiggle the rusty doorknob and step into the small bathroom. There are a few stacks of towels lined up on the counter and you pull a teal one off the top of a pile.

The scent of lemons fills the small space as you pump some hand soap onto the towel and wring it out with some water.

You turn back to Eddie and motion for him to drop his chin. He does, and you push a few strands of curls back to wipe at the dirt on the left cheek and jawline.

“How’d you get this?” you ask with a chuckle.

“No idea,” he replies with a small huff of laughter. “I think it was when Yogi and I both dove for that tennis ball.”

The memory of Eddie and the chocolate lab both going for the toy brings a smile to your face as you clean off what you can of the dirt.

“He’s a good boy,” you say.

“What about me?” Eddie asks with a mischievous glint in his eye.

You laugh and toss the dirty towel in the laundry bin.

“Yes, Eddie,” you tell him. “You were a good boy, too.”

Even though he’s the one who brought it up, he feels his face get warm.

“So, I’m actually headed out early today,” you say as you wipe your hands off on the sides of your jeans. “But I’m sure Brenda will let you know what you can do next.” It’s hard to keep the playful smirk off your face at the mention of the cantankerous receptionist.

Eddie drops his jaw and stares at you with mock annoyance.

“Playing hooky and leaving me with someone who makes Ms. O’Donnell look like a ray of sunshine? How dare you?”

You chuckle and shake your head.

“I mean, if you want to go get my cavity filled for me, I wouldn’t complain,” you say with a shrug.

Eddie winces, fighting off the urge to run his tongue over his teeth.

“Oof, okay. That’s a good excuse, I guess,” Eddie says.

“I’m so glad you approve,” you tease. “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Sure am.”

Honestly, Eddie has no idea if he’s scheduled to come in tomorrow or not, but he hardly doubts anyone would complain if he showed up for extra volunteering.

“I’ll see you then.”

You give him one last smile before heading to grab your bag from the back room.

The next day, all the cats and kittens meow at you the moment you step foot into their room.

“Hello, babies,” you greet them. “How’s my man Perry doin—” Your face falls when you see Perry’s usual crate empty of the senior cat.

Despite the cries of protest, you back out of the cat room and hastily make your way to Brenda’s desk.

“Where’s Perry?” you ask without preamble.

“Got adopted,” Brenda responds, not looking up from the old issue of People Magazine she’s flipping through.

“Oh.” You swallow and nod your head. “Good for him.” I didn’t get to say goodbye.

A few tears fall as you head back to the cats and begin your daily cleaning routine. You are genuinely happy that Perry has found a home. Cats of his age don’t belong in a shelter, they belong with a family. Well, all cats do, but it’s especially harder for seniors. It’s the fact that you didn’t get to give him one more scratch between his ears or kiss the back of his head one last time that is upsetting you. He was so much a part of your daily life that it already feels empty in the shelter without him.

“Hey.”

Eddie’s voice startles you, causing you to jump and hit the back of your head on the roof of Chili and Pepper’s cubby.

“Ow.” You wince and step back, bringing your hand up to hold the sore spot.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” Eddie says, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to scare you—hey, are you okay?” Eddie frowns in concern when he sees the tear tracks running down your cheeks.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” you say before wiping off your face with the sleeve of your shirt. “I’m fine. Just found out that Perry got adopted and I’m bummed I didn’t get to say goodbye to him.”

“Oh.” The smile forming on Eddie’s pretty face doesn’t hold the tone of sympathy that you were expecting. He clears his throat and brings his hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Well, um, actually, I’m the one who adopted him.”

Either your ears or brain are having a hard time grasping what Eddie just said, so it takes a few moments before it finally clicks.

“You? You adopted Perry?”

“Yeah.” There’s a prideful grin on Eddie’s face and it makes your heart rate pick up. “After you left yesterday, I went to say goodbye to him, and he kept pawing at me through the bars of the crate. I let him out and he wanted me to hold him. I kinda fell in love with him right then and there.”

Tears flood your eyes once more, but this time for an entirely different reason.

“Oh, Eddie.” You chuckle and wipe at your misty eyes. “That makes me so happy. Perry deserves a good family, and I couldn’t have picked a better one. Thank you.”

“You can come by whenever you want to see him,” Eddie says, a nervous warble in his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sure, uh, he’d love to see you more.”

A shy smile graces your features as you reply, “I’d like that, too.”

“So, no more tears,” Eddie says, stepping forward and using his thumb to gently erase any remains of your waterworks.

“No more tears,” you agree, taking a deep breath.

Before you can let the thought linger and overthink it, you lean forward and wrap your arms around Eddie’s neck, hugging his body close to yours. He tentatively wraps his arms around your body before holding you just as tightly as you’re holding him.

Reluctantly, you pull away and take a step backward.

“So, what do you say?” you ask. “Should we get to work?”

Eddie drops into a bow and makes a grand sweeping gesture towards the cat cubbies.

“Let’s do it.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #request

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pleasantlycrazyworld · 1 month ago

Note

i saw you were open for requests and I had an idea in mind‼️‼️

a shy!reader who is just a ball of sunshine and horrendously down bad for Logan, while Logan is just grumpy as shit (myb Worst!Wolverine??) and basically hates the reader. Lets just assume that they are roommates, and one night, the reader was just being nice or something and Logan absolutely snapped at them for no reason and kicked them out of the apartment. And he never realized how much he cared for them until he had to nervously wait for them to come home, praying that they are ok. (bonus points if its raining outside cuz we love angst) And ofc fluffy ending if you're up for it :)

(Absolutely fine if you choose to ignore this, i understand and also feel free to change any parts of the prompt if you feel like doing so. Love you and wish you all the best <3 ).

A/N: I HAVE A PART TWO!!!! Please tell me you want a part two 🥺As always if you like my work please like, comment, and reblog! It means the world and keeps me motivated. Thank you so much for the request, sorry it took a while for me to get to it

The apartment was always felt a little warmer when you were in it. Logan hated how quickly he noticed how cold he felt now that you were gone. You were quiet. Sweet. A little skittish, like a bird that never realized the cage was open. You said “good morning” like it was a sacred ritual and left little sticky notes reminding him to eat or drink water sometimes with doodled smiley faces that made his chest tighten.

You never took up space. You never yelled. And you never stopped being kind, even when he gave you nothing but his usual gruffness and grunted responses. You called him “Logan” like it was a soft word. Like it meant something.

And tonight, you’d offered him a cup of tea. That was it. Just a warm mug, he glanced down at it and noticed it was your favorite one. It was held in your hands, cradled so softly it seemed like you were holding pure crystal and that gentle smile graced your face like always. You’d said, “Thought you might want something to wind down. It’s chamomile.”

He snapped.

“What the hell is this, huh? You think I need you mothering me like I'm some lost cause? I’m not a damn project!” You blinked. Just once and flinched like the words physically hit you.

“N-No, I just--I didn’t mean...”

“You never mean anything, do you?” he snarled. “You’re always flutterin’ around here, bein’ nice like it’s gonna fix something. Just… leave me alone.”

Your breath caught and Logan noticed how you physically seemed smaller after his words flooded your ears. You looked like he’d struck you. And then without another word you slipped on your shoes and left. The door clicked shut. Not slammed. Just clicked. Quiet as always.

An hour passed. Then two.

Logan paced. Growled. Poured out the tea in the sink and slammed the mug on the counter, the handle breaks off from the bluntness and his eyes followed it as it fell to the floor. Guilt immediately filled him. Shit. Where the hell did you go?

He thought about calling. He didn’t. You were grown, surely you were fine. Anxiety was clawing at him as he kept glancing at the door like he could will you through it. But you weren’t made of metal. You were made of warmth, of sunlight and gentle hands and those stupid little sticky notes. He kicked out one of the brightest lights he's ever seen into the cold night like some sort of trash.

At some point, guilt and anxiety bloomed into fear. And that fear bloomed into panic. What if something happened? What if you're hurt? What if you don’t come back? What if someone takes you?

The lock clicked. He's entire body jumps at the noise. You stepped in, clutching a paper bag from the 24-hour corner store. You looked damp, and cold, and small. “Hey,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes. “I got you those protein bars you like. Thought… you might want some for the morning.”

Logan didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You gave him a little smile much more broken than usual and quickly moved past him toward your room.

“Wait.”

You froze.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t mean it. What I said.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“You--you should’ve yelled back or somethin’. Thrown somethin’ at my head.” You laughed once; soft, tired, broken. “I don’t like yelling.” Logan stared at you. The way your shoulders curved inward. The way your hands trembled slightly, still holding that dumb bag of snacks. “I didn’t deserve that tea,” he said. “No. You didn’t,” you said gently. “But I'll make it anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. You finally looked at him. “I missed you,” he said. “I was only gone a few hours.” You responded with a confused chuckle. “Felt longer,” he shrugged before quietly muttering, “So much longer.”

Silence again. Then, softly: “You want tea now?” you asked. “Only if you sit with me while I drink it.” You smiled. For real, this time. Later, the two of you sat on the worn couch, your knee barely brushing his. Logan nursed the tea like it was pure crystal. "I'm sorry I broke your mug..." He mumbled guilty. You shake your head against his words. "It's just a mug."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, tentative at first—then fully. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. He just sat there, letting the warmth bleed back in. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he mumbled. You hummed. “So are you.” Logan reached over, laced his fingers with yours. Maybe he wasn’t good with words. But he could be good with you. Eventually... Maybe. As long as you kept making him warm.

Taglist:

@userchai

@mahi-tamashi

@100percentlazybonez

@lanassmarty

@western-pyro

@misscrissfemmefatale

@marit332

@navs-bhat

@fluffy-b33z

@chaimshelii

@aoi-targaryen

@eyes-ofhell

@sad0nion

@fries11

@slowlikehoneyyy

@brisinggamenwearer

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett imagine #wolverine imagine #wolverine x reader #marvel imagine #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #xmen imagine #marvel oneshot #marvel #marvel x reader

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rejectedbytheempty · 5 months ago

Text

all day and all of the night

pairing: simon riley x f!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 2.7k

cw: mentions of kidnapping

synopsis: after a long night out you wake up in a stranger’s bed, wearing an oversized t-shirt you assume to be his, chaos ensues

Before you even open your eyes, you feel a painful throbbing at the base of your skull. You groan as you roll over onto your back, putting your hands on either side of your face as if it would soothe the pounding in your head.

The last thing you remembered was thinking that one more shot wouldn’t hurt and that it was the weekend anyway, what’s the worst that could happen? You guessed that there were many more drinks to follow, but nothing you could recall. you managed to peel your eyelids open, half-crusted with leftover mascara.

The room spun slightly as the world came into view and you resisted the urge to lean over the side of the bed and empty your stomach from the vertigo.

“Christ”, you muttered, your voice hoarse and painful.

Rubbing at your throat, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and looked out into your room. Only... it wasn’t your room.

It felt as if ice water splashed down your back as the haze from your hangover was won over by a new feeling: fear. Looking down, you saw that instead of the clothes you wore to the club last night, you were in an oversized army green t-shirt. Now you really felt like you were going to throw up, and you did, managing to scramble over to a trash can before last night’s dinner could be spewed all over the carpet.

After a few dry heaves, you figured the worst was over and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Now that the wave of nausea had lessened significantly, you started taking stock of your situation.

You were in a sparsely decorated room, a couple of books sitting on the desk, and a dresser nestled in the corner of the room. That, and the cologne smell that was wafting off the shirt you were wearing meant that you were in a man’s room.

Although your mini skirt and low-cut top were nowhere to be found, you did note that you were still wearing the same bra and underwear you had on last night. And it didn’t seem like there were any marks on you or any indication that you had been touched beyond the obvious fact you had been changed into different clothes.

Suddenly, you realized that your phone was nowhere to be found either, instilling you with a new sense of panic.

“Shit!” you muttered softly, searching under the covers and crouching to look below the bed frame. You looked over at the door, and since you didn’t have your phone or any way of knowing where you were, you supposed you were going to have to try the door.

You cautiously stepped over to it, reaching out for the handle like it was some kind of cursed object. You shrieked loudly in shock when the handle turned abruptly and the door swung inwards.

In stepped a behemoth of a man, with white scars running across his face, almost like how the sky looked in a lightning storm. The scar on his lip deepened as he frowned, looking directly at you. You were frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare at him like a deer in headlights.

“What are you yellin’ for?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice.

“W-what?” was all you could manage to say.

He stepped closer, shutting the door behind him, “You squawked like a chicken when I opened the door.”

You swallowed thickly, “You scared me.”

He seemed to soften at that, his brown eyes losing some of their edge as he took in your situation. You probably looked a mess, remnants of makeup still on your face, your hair mussed up from sleep, and a shirt about two sizes too big hanging off your frame, just barely covering the lace panties you had on.

To be fair, if he was the one who took off your clothes, then he had already seen them so it wouldn’t really faze him if he saw the black lace poking out. Not that those semantics really mattered to you when he was standing there and staring you down.

“Why am I here?” you asked suddenly, unsure where you got the courage to speak from.

He blinked at you and then his mouth twisted into a mischievous grin, “You mean, you don’t remember?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, as it seemed like this conversation was slipping away from your control by the second, “I.. uh, maybe, maybe not.”

His grin grew even wider at your words, then he started laughing, actually laughing in your face. You folded your arms across your chest, face turning into a scowl. Kidnapper or not, he was being rather rude.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

He shook his head, still laughing softly, “Oh, nothing. Just that you got pretty wild last night.”

Your angry expression faded slightly, you let your crossed arms fall down from your chest to your midsection, “I was?”

He nodded, “Oh yeah, climbing on the bar, singing along to all the songs, even if you didn’t know the words.”

You gulped, feeling your face flush slightly, “I.. might’ve done that, I’m not sure.”

He nodded, and you noticed that he was enjoying this, the sick bastard. “Mhm, and you kept saying that you were, quote, going to remember this night forever! unquote.”

Your hands had now fallen at your sides as flames licked up your cheeks at the mentions of your antics. You looked down at the ground as you asked him, “So, how did I end up here?”

“After the bartender cut you off, you threatened to sue him and then you tried to punch him. I stepped in, pulling you off of him and wrangled you out of the bar. I was gonna get you an Uber or a taxi but you wouldn’t let go of me. Even after you threw up.. on the both of us.”

You looked up at the last sentence, suddenly realizing why he had changed you out of your clothes. It all made sense, and as he was describing last night to you, some fragments and pieces of your memory came back. Although, you wish they didn’t. You hid your face in your hands, groaning slightly, both from your memories and from the pain of your headache coming back with a vengeance.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry” you said through your hands, not even wanting to look him in the eyes.

There was a pause for a moment and then he said, “It’s alright, couldn’t just leave you to be by yourself like tha’ at the bar, who knows what coulda happened?”

You managed to take your hands off your face and look back up at him again, “Thank you, seriously. If there’s any way I can pay you back or-”

He put a hand up to stop you, shaking his head, “Don’t worry ‘bout it, how ‘bout you let me make you breakfast, hm?”

You weren’t sure if you could keep it down, but you nodded anyway. Who were you to refuse his offer when he had already done so much for you?

“Right then, it’s settled. Why don’t you freshen up some and breakfast should be ready by then?” He pointed to the hall, “the next door is the guest bathroom, has some toiletries for you to use.”

You nodded, “Thank you.”

He nodded gruffly and left the room. You shut your eyes forcefully, feeling the roar in your ears at the pressure. “Fuckkkkkkk” you let out a long sigh. After scrubbing your hands down your face, you decided to follow his directions and headed to the guest bathroom. You figured that maybe after you splashed some cold water on your face, it would turn out that this was all some horrible dream.

It wasn’t a dream like you were hoping but you were grateful for the toothbrush and toothpaste, finally cleaning the taste of bile from your mouth. Digging through the cabinets, you found a new package of travel deodorant and some hair products that you also made use of. You also found a container of paracetamol and quickly took two to ease the pounding in your head.

Looking in the mirror you saw death staring back at you, but at least the person you were looking at didn’t smell so much like vodka anymore.

He was right, when you walked into the kitchen he had just finished up breakfast and was setting out two plates with plentiful servings. You took a seat at the kitchen table across from him and after he picked up his fork and started eating, you looked down at your plate.

He had made you two fried eggs with runny, orange yolk, toast slathered with butter, strawberry jam dripping down the sides, and some browned sausage, covered in a light sheen of oil. Hesitantly, you picked up the piece of toast, taking ginger bites out of fear the food would come rushing back up.

After eating about as much as you could stomach, you washed it all down with the glass of orange juice he had set out for you. When you looked up you saw that he had raised an eyebrow at your still half-full plate but said nothing about it.

He gestured his head towards your plate in a silent question of ‘you gonna eat that?’ You shook your head and he eagerly took the plate from you, scooping your leftovers onto his own portion.

As he began digging into the spoils, you broke the silence, “Sorry, I’m not sure if you told me yesterday, or not, but what’s your name?”

He swallowed the bite he was chewing and shook his head, “I didn’t tell you yesterday, you were too busy puking on my leather jacket.” You winced at that but he continued, “The name is Simon. Simon Riley.”

You nodded, it was a fitting name, you supposed. In turn, you shared your name and he hummed in acknowledgement, “I know.”

At your confused expression, he elaborated, “I had to close your tab at the bar, needed to know your name so I.. may have looked at your driver’s license,” he at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed for going through your personal items. You weren’t really sure what to say. On the one hand, you were grateful he closed your tab for you, but he also invaded your privacy.

You settled on ambivalence for his actions, “Thank you, I guess?”

“You’re welcome” he said, around a mouthful of toast. You just barely hid your expression of disgust. As nice as he was, he didn’t really have any table manners, and must be limited on human interaction based on your short conversation with him.

“So,” he asked after he wiped his mouth clean, “were you there with your friends?”

“Yeah, we were having some kind of girl’s night.” He frowned at your words, “And your friends let you go on like that?” You opened your mouth to defend them, but at that moment, you couldn’t really think of anything to defend them.

For one, they watched as you got blackout drunk, and instead of making sure you got home, they let some random man take you home? You hoped they at least had the decency of texting you this morning and asking if you were okay. Speaking of, where was your phone?

“Did I still have my phone on me when.. well, when we went home together?” He nodded, “I put it on a charger last night, should be fully charged by now.” He pointed to an outlet in the entryway where your phone sat on a small wooden table next to a scratched up old iPhone, that looked so outdated that you wouldn’t be shocked if it was the first model Steve Jobs came out with. You laughed audibly but quickly covered your mouth when you realized what you had done.

“Right, what’s so funny, then?” he asked.

You turned to look over at him, and grinned, pointing at his phone, “This yours?”

He nodded, “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

You laughed again, “I’m surprised this old of a model still works!”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “Of course it still works, wouldn’t be using it if it didn’t.”

You shrugged, “Guess so, just maybe think about buying a phone from the past decade, yeah?”

He just grunted and shook his head, “Don’t need one with all those fancy gadgets and whatnot, if it works, it works.”

You took your phone off the charger and walked back over to the table, “Whatever you say, Simon.” He scoffed in response but seemed more amused than actually angry at your teasing. You smirked at him but then turned your attention to your phone as it powered back on.

Must’ve died last night, then, good thing Simon charged it, you thought.

You did have a few texts from your friends, as it turns out, but not the worried ones you were hoping for. They were all from last night, something along the lines of ‘met this cute guy, see ya!’ and ‘hope you have fun with that total hunk you left with.’ “Assholes,” you muttered under your breath as you scrolled through the thread.

You weren’t expecting them to babysit you, but maybe a little check on you would’ve been nice. What if you had been drugged, or Simon had been a kidnapper? Your death could’ve ended up on a true crime podcast sandwiched between a distasteful comment on how hot your kidnapper was and a Hello Fresh ad break.

“Not good news, I take it?” Simon asked.

Your scowl did make it pretty obvious, and you sighed, “Yeah, not good. I mean, it’s like they didn’t even care if I made it home last night!”

He hummed in response. He was not a man of many words, you had discovered.

“I mean, seriously, I can’t even count the number of times I’ve held their hair back when they puked behind the bushes, or gotten them home when they overdid it on the tequila, and how do they repay me? By leaving me in the dust, that’s what.”

You were genuinely fuming now, as if last night had woken up years of pent up rage. “They never appreciated me, they never invited me places unless they wanted to have someone DD, they always hung out without me, and they constantly asked for money without even paying me back for the other times I had lent them money!”

It was silent in the kitchen for a moment, then Simon laughed, “Good on ya, luv. Knew they were wankers anyway.”

You helped Simon clean up the dishes, even though he had emphatically insisted you didn’t need to, he finally relented when you had explained that it wasn’t fair that he do all the cooking and all the cleaning.

You both made quick work of the chore and as you wiped your sudsy hands on your shirt, you remembered that it was not, in fact, your shirt you were wearing.

“By the way, where did you put my clothes?”

“Laundry room, put them in a plastic bag on top of the washer. Figured you would want to wash it yourself, considering most girls have some kind of preference for drying or not drying, or the temperature of the load.”

Hm, someone cooked here.

“Oh, thank you. Just.. I figured I wouldn’t stay around long enough to do laundry at your place, and since I wanted to not get catcalled the second I stepped outside, I’d prefer if I had some kind of pants. Do you think I can maybe borrow one of yours?” You asked hesitantly, you felt like you had already overstepped a million boundaries and here you were asking the poor man for more things.

He nodded, “Sure, I think I have some old sweatpants in my closet that are too small for me now. You can have those. You can keep the shirt, too, I have about a dozen of the same kind.”

You brightened, “Thank you, so much. I mean, seriously, you’re like an angel or something.” He froze, blush spreading faintly across his cheeks, “Not an angel” he muttered softly, “but you’re welcome.”

a/n: ok so i did post this before my blog got accidentally deleted and im ngl this fic did flop hard, and you’d think i’d take the hint, right? but nope!! gonna post it again bc i’m insane!! anyways, lmk if you guys want me to continue this 🫶

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x female reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x you #cod x you #cod fics #cod x reader #cod x y/n #my fics

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olderthannetfic · 3 months ago

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It's interesting to find out some people think you're anti-lesbian/anti-bi women if you don't write f/f smut. As a cishet dude, I get called fetishizing for shipping two women or two girls, even if all I reblog is art of them holding hands or kissing. I can't imagine the response if I wrote smut for them. I've been told I objectify women and use them like mental fleshlights for saying I don't ship something but I 100% see why people do.

While the ultimate reason I don't write f/f smut is that I, lacking those parts of biology that come up in f/f smut, fear I'm going to write the worst, least sexy and least believable trash imaginable, I'm not going to lie. The "the EVIL man has infiltrated our sacred womening space!" reception in f/f spaces is why I don't write more f/f fic, and I say that as someone whose work is (I did the math) 43.7% f/f. So even if I was perfectly confident writing for anatomy I don't have - yaoi writers, teach me your secrets - I think the exhaustion I have with the backlash would make me hesitate.

Also it is very funny to me that you refer to your cishet dude readers as unicorns. We're here, we're just not complaining in your inbox as much because fandom doesn't suck as much for us. (In some aspects. Some suckitude, like ship wars, no one escapes from.)

The secret of BL writers is that we don't care if cis men find the porn realistic, only if our readers, whomever they may be, find it hot.

Honestly, if you even know what the clitoris is and more or less where it's located, you will already be doing better than the vast majority of porn written by cis dudes. Hahaha. (The things I read on the internet as a teen! My god! That South Park movie was right!)

People who wish to be enormous jackasses will do so no matter what you do. It's not worth worrying about how to placate them.

But if the objective is mainly blending in, that's about writing skill and copying the voice of a particular art movement and community. I assume not everyone writing about ball smell on Nifty is a cis gay guy and not everyone failing to find the clitoris on Literotica is a cis straight guy, but boy do those spaces have a distinct and pervasive style. I don't read enough AO3y f/f to know all the quirks, but I'm sure they're there.

Cis gay dudes who want to sell m/m books to the "M/M Romance" or BL audience have to learn the style that sells. Having the parts and real world experience doesn't automatically make you know how to write a romance novel or wuxia plus fucking or whatever.

We like to wring our hands about identities around here, but when it comes to the art, it's mostly about exactly that: art skills.

...

All that aside, as a 14-year-old, I read a lot of dreadful Nabiki/Shampoo that was extremely obviously by men, but it was pretty hot because it was far less bloodless than the other f/f I found in Ranma fandom.

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dark-lord-of-awesomeness · 1 month ago

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Reverse special delivery AU where it’s Stan who summoned the demon. Maybe as a last resort because of the money he owes and the people after him. Doesn’t fully expect it to work but kind of a “I got nothing to lose” scenario. When it does work Stan thinks that at least it should be easy. Obviously what he wants most is riches, so the deal will be quick.

But then instead of being given money, the demon disappears. Then later reappears and drops off a very disgruntled Ford. Stan just kind of 👁👄👁 this was not what he had expected. Now he has to deal with Ford, the demon who is still stalking them, and the people who want him dead. He doesn’t want Rico to find out about Ford and he doesn’t want Ford to find out about Rico.

Ford: well, this was unexpected. Why don’t we go to your house for now and try to figure things out from there? I assume you live nearby wherever we are?

Stan, sweating: uhhh…yeah. Actually how about we go to your house and figure things out? Preferably fast and discretely for no particular reason.

God this is a comedy of errors worse than the original fic.

Stan finds this old book and incantation on how to summon a demon that 'grants the hearts desire' and Stan's like 'why not! Worse case, it takes my soul and i die (which means i went out in a cool way and at least Rico didn't get me!) best case, it gives me a shit ton of money and i live to see another day'. Then Ted shows up, in his terrifying glory, and Stan trades like, a modern home magazine he'd picked up from somewhere and Ted's interested for home decorating purposes. He can't get a lot on the latest trends in the shadow realm where he lives, so he has to use these opportunities while he has the chance.

Then Teds gone, and doesnt come back for a week. Stan's still on the run and figures the whole thing was a bizarre scam, but at least all he lost was a useless magazine.

Then he almost hit Ted with his car, and the demon pulls out a sleep deprived nervous wreck of Ford out of his chest.

Ford, on the other hand, got jumped by Ted in a similar way to Stan, then booked it to his house where he fortified the defenses and barricaded himself inside while he desperately tried to figure out what kind of creature was trying to eat/kidnap/kill him. for max humor reasons Ford doesn't speak Ted's language, and he has to redo the magic every several hours or so or it fails. Starts running out of food, has to wake up every few hours to redo the spell, and eventually can't keep it up and zoinks out, just to scream back to wakefulness when he gets snatched.

So now Fords there. While Stan's trying to escape a cartel and not die. Neither of them have money, Stan's desperately lying his ass of to make sure Ford doesn't realize he's homeless or on the run, and Fords too tired to realize half of what Stan's saying is nonsense, and too annoyed to soften the blows as he calls Stan's car a trash heap and just snaps at every little thing (not realizing Stan's been living out of it, just thinks its a mess). Agrees to let Stan drive him home, and demands to see the book Stan used to summon Ted, since Stan himself is being super cagey about it.

Stan, who has the book under the pile of trash: I lost it

Ford, too tired to see it for the lie it is: Every second with you is agony

So Stan's getting his heartbroken at every other sentence out of Fords mouth, as he realizes his hearts desire is to reunite and rekindle his bond with Ford, and Ford doesnt want anything to do with him and also hates him, while Ford so tired and can't sleep in Stan's stinky messy car that he's on his worst behavior. Stan would kick him to the curb if he wasn't being chased by people who'd def nab a guy with Stan's face and do who knows what to him.

Stan, holding back tears: Ford may hate my guts but i still love him, which means i wont let Rico get him and i'll make sure he makes it safely home and doesn't get tortured and killed by the men after me.

Ford, so, so tired and therefore mean: Why does Stan's car smell so bad, and really, you still have this piece of junk? Whens the last time you showered? Of course you'd let yourself go like this. Wow, Stan's being so stingy he's making me pay for everything, even though i barely have any money and its his fault i'm here.

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #stan pines #ford pines #special delivery au

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hxney-lemcn · 8 months ago

Text

Late Night Chaos — Daisuke x gn! reader

summery: getting a much needed break, you find yourself getting scolded by Jimmy. you vent to Daisuke about it when he finally finishes his tasks.

tw: Jimmy 🤢

a/n: idk how to continue this, should I follow the event of the game (unbearable angst), or try and make it end happier?? If I do the second one I kinda feel like I'm ruining the point of the game tho...

wc: 1.4k

Master List

You had started to regret your confession already. You thought confessing was supposed to fix everything, so why did your gooey, icky feelings grow ten times worse? It was honestly comical seeing you glower everytime Daisuke gave you an ounce of affection. It even made Swansea internally chuckle at the sight. Even though it seems you were regretting all your life actions, you were honestly just trying to get used to your heart fluttering and your stomach twisting into knots. It was all odd and new, and you were a bit scared that this was all too good to be true.

You were also trying to get used to the disgusting, adoring thoughts. You had become a lovesick fool and you weren’t sure what to make of it. You wanted to hug Daisuke? Ew. You wished to cuddle him at night? Disgusting. God forbid, you wanted to kiss him? Toss yourself in the trash. Yeah…you were struggling to accept that thinking those things were okay, and being vulnerable enough to speak your wants aloud. Daisuke, on the other hand, seemed like everything was right as rain. Like loving you came naturally to him. It made your skin crawl.

Tilting your head back, you let the warm water drown your thoughts. Your brain wouldn’t let you catch a break, couldn’t you think about something else for a second? Like that book you’ve been reading? When you brought it with you it had been all the rage, but you can’t understand the hype. Sure you were only halfway done, but the main love interest was the worst person ever, how could anyone get behind him? He literally threatens to kill the protags family, basically kidnaps her, and you’re assuming she's going to ‘find the good in him’ and they ‘live happily ever after’. Unfortunately, you had to tough it out as you could only bring so many books for entertainment. Hopefully they turn the plot around and prove you wrong. Perhaps the protag actually fights back somehow or tricks the guy into thinking she’s fallen for him only to stab him in the back. Now that? You could get behind.

Yeah, you need to finish that, you’ve been so preoccupied with work and Daisuke you haven't had much time for yourself. Shutting the water off, you dried yourself off and put on casual clothes. You’d finished your chores early, giving you a much needed break. Walking towards the sleeping quarters, you were simply minding your own business when a rude voice made you snap to attention.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” Jimmy’s harsh voice growled out. Looking to your right, you noticed it was only the two of you in the hall, and he was glaring right at you. You blinked in confusion, not able to get a word out before he continued. “Do you know how much more shit needs to be done? Of course Anya just lets you do whatever the hell you want, huh? Good for nothing brat. I gotta get everything done around here.”

You couldn’t stop the sneer that settled over your face, gazing at the middle aged man with disgust. Who the hell does he think he is? You had spent the most of your trip ignoring the other, you thought it was a mutual avoidance thing. You had a feeling there wasn’t much for either of you to talk about, and he seemed standoffish anyways, but this? You hadn’t expected him to lash out at you. And for getting a break of all things. And wait, not even just that, he was blaming Anya too?

You couldn’t even defend yourself before he stormed off, grumbling about something or another. Who the hell pissed in his cheerios? Well…okay, odd encounter. You did your best to shrug it off, continuing to your room, but something was bugging you. Just what exactly made him so aggravated? Not like you actually cared, he probably deserved whatever it was if he acts like that to someone he barely knows.

Whatever, you have a book that needs to be finished. That’s all that mattered at the moment.

…

You had become so engrossed in the story, you nearly missed the knock on your door. Glancing up, you shouted a quick come in, not wanting to lose your place. You were so close to finishing already, and the plot had picked up from where you left off. It wasn’t as bad as the start, the author had started as a cliche and averted the readers expectations, slowly turning the story into a revenge plot. Chefs kiss, seven out of ten so far, and if the ending was as good as everyone said it was, then perhaps that rating will go up.

Daisuke joined you on the bed, head popping over your shoulder and eyeing the book, “Good book?”

“Mhm,” You nodded, setting it on your lap but keeping your place with your finger. Your skin tingled as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and resting his head on your shoulder. Your heart skipped a beat, but the fluttering in your stomach had dulled somewhat. That wasn’t a bad thing per say. Actually it brought you a sense of relief, you were growing used to his affection. Not taking it for granted or anything, but finding comfort in it instead of tension. To be fair, it was easier for you to accept it when it was just the two of you, no peering eyes of judgment to make you overthink your actions. Just the two of you enjoying the other’s presence.

“You should read it to me, I like hearing your voice.” He murmured, nuzzling into your neck. Okay now he ruined it as it felt like sparks going off under your skin, heat crawling up your face, shoulders tensing in just the slightest. How could he say that so simply? Like it wasn’t a life changing statement?

“O-okay,” You agreed, trying your hardest to keep your voice from wavering (and failing). Dog earring the page you left on (a crime, but you were too cheap to buy bookmarks), you turned to the first page, pausing before starting. “How was your day?” Sure, he had become more touchy after you officially started dating, but he seemed a bit more so at the moment.

“It was fine,” Daisuke shrugged, his warm breath heating your neck and causing your hair to stand on end. The fact that you were touch starved was clearly showing. “Keep messing up but that’s just normal.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it eventually,” You replied, reaching back and messing with his hair. You weren’t sure why you did it, it just seemed like the right thing to do, and the fact that he leaned into your touch seemed to validate that thought. “Being a mechanic isn’t easy, not to mention you do a lot of the electric work too.”

“Yeah,” He sighed, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. “How was yours?”

“Not too bad,” You replied, slowly melting into the brunette’s touch. “Got done early, but…well, I guess something happened.” Daisuke hummed, waiting for you to continue. “Jimmy exploded for no reason, going off about how he’s gotta do everything around the ship.”

“Huh?” Daisuke looked confused and annoyed, pulling away slightly to share a look with you. “What about the Captain or hell, even Swansea does a lot.”

“I know right!” You exclaimed, turning around in his arms slightly, dropping the book off to the side. “Not to mention Anya’s the only one holding us all together.”

“Exactly,” Daisuke nodded enthusiastically. “Not to mention you do all the small stuff so the others can focus on their bigger tasks. Keeping the ship running smoothly and all that.”

“You too,” argued. “You’re learning a lot every day, and sure you may mess up from time to time, but at the end of the day you’re doing a lot. And you keep the ship from being a dull, boring routine of madness.”

His smile turned tender, squeezing you gently, “You’re right, without me you’d have no one to cuddle with.”

Once again you found yourself scowling, “You say that like it's a necessity.” It seemed you and deflection went hand in hand.

“I dunno,” He chuckled, lucky for you he found it adorable whenever you scrunch your face like that. “I’m not sure how I survived so long without you in my arms.”

“You’re so cheesy,” You groaned, draping your entire weight on him, the both of you falling onto the bed.

“And you love it.”

You hated that he was right.

#mouthwashing x reader #daisuke mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing daisuke x reader #mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #mouthwashing daisuke #x reader

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