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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

All mine

liam dunbar x reader / masterlist

summary; alec, scott’s new beta has a thing for liam’s girl, and sufficed to say, liam is anything but happy about the predicament / warnings; jealousy, smut, some choking, fucking in a playground, daddy kink, mentions of masturbation, mentions of phone sex, mentions of exhibitionism, oral sex (fem receiving).

the boy with anger issues was feeling a rage boil in his veins; they were in scott’s home, he had came back from college for a break, and thus, alec had joined in meeting with their alpha, though, not all his attention was reprised upon said pack leader.

there was a movie flashing upon the screen, you sat cross legged on the couch, whilst liam had been sent to the kitchen to grab a bowl of popcorn. he could feel his hand putting amble pressure on the plastic bowl, as he watched you explain every dumb thing occurring in the motion picture film.

alec was acting clueless on purpose, he could tell, more so since when he had first joined the pack, he had made such moves on you. and spoiler, eventually they had been successful. you were the same age as scott, meaning that you too had returned to beacon hills for your half term clause in the higher education, and liam wanted you to spend every moment with him, not this stray.

it took all his supernatural strength to restrain the growl threatening to rumble from his chest, his claws bent into the flesh of his palms, drawing a pooling of blood to the tether down from the self inflicted wound. scott smelt the blood, and wrinkled his nose at the scent that invaded his nostrils; he thought liam had his issues under control, but supposedly not entirely.

he couldn’t help himself, alec was trying his best, slyly glancing down your top, and he got he was only a hormonal teenage boy, same as him, but you were his girl. a rumble, resembling the natural force of thunder echoed around the living space, drawing all eyes, human and otherwise, in his direction.

the growl that had erupted from his chest had been possessive, a warning to the young, adopted beta, who quickly adjourned his arm away from the back of the couch, and shuffled from right beside you.

“li, are you good?” in an instant you removed yourself from where you were sat, walking towards him, and smoothing his shoulders over with your palms, watching as he heavily breathed. amber eyes flickered up to you, making you gulp; you now understood what had him so relentless and blunt with his aggression.

“i want to leave.” it wasn’t a question, it was a defiant statement. in turn, you nodded, grasping anything you needed, such as you jacket, and pulling it over your arms, liam quickly heading out, without bidding either of the boys a goodbye.

“see ya.” you waved at the pair, you would apologise for liam’s behaviour later to scott, he of course understood the situation nevertheless, he had been his alpha for a long time now. a hand grasped you as soon as you exited, pillowing roughly into your skin as he dragged you down the street, his pace quick and daring.

“you think i didn’t notice that beta’s eyes drifting down to your cleavage or him practically pawing for your attention.” he had stopped the two of you outside of a playground, you gulped, listening to him with an adjacent inclination.

“liam, there’s no need to be jealous.” your words had the priority of calming his angered exterior, though it happened that you had done rather the opposite. there was a firm line deposited between his dark brows, a frown that was aimed towards you directly.

“me, jealous? oh no, i know that you’re mine, but it comes to the question, do you?” he bit his lip, tensing the bridge of his nose as he moved his face closer to your own. “for all i know, at college, you don’t even let anyone know that you’re in a relationship, it could be your little secret, so you can fuck whomever you want.”

“that’s something i’d never do, you know that!” his accusations were flimsy, that much was liable, though although knowing that all his words came out of a place of secluded insecurity, you still felt the necessity to defend yourself. if you played his game, it would make him subconsciously doubt himself, and possibly believe the things that he was saying were true.

“do i?” the beta pried. liam made directories closer towards you, taking steps to discern your defence, letting his hand ravel up, and close around the front of your neck. your breath instantly hitched, as he wordlessly stated the power he had over you; not to mention, he was stronger, and he was irked, meaning that he would go to any lengths to prove his point, or lack of one.

“liam.” your hands came up to scratch at the exterior of his, worried that he would do some prominent damage, but rather than releasing his grip, he tightened his fist, triggering a hitch in your breath, and a uncoordinated, surprising moan to fly from your lips, as though your body was inherently howling at him for more.

“does my girlfriend like that? i think she likes daddy having his hand around her throat, don’t you baby? are you daddy’s dirty girl?” his slick words made your brain disintegrate into a contortion of confusion; more specifically, riddled with uncertainty, searching for a reason as to why his mature words were affecting you so.

there was no question about the matter, he was well adorned with the specifics of how it was affecting you. the reverberating of your heart thumped in his ears, like drums of a sacred matter, telling him how your hormones crazed, thundering with potential submission, that alternately had your knees quaking, fighting to remain standing.

then, there was the intoxicating aroma that scaled up to his nose from between your legs. that alone was a dead give away, he was lucky that it hadn’t killed him in the dead of night yet. being apart from you for so long had drove him borderline insane, one touch from you had him swooning, wanting nothing more for your hands to drift and intimately pet him.

phone calls, as erotic as some of them were, was just enough. the two of you were sectioned off for education in different counties, the distance pained him, in more ways than one. sometimes he’d wake up with a throbbing appendage between his thighs, begging for attention, more specifically, yours.

his hand got by, completing the job, but it wasn’t the same as the feeling of your sweet velvet walls encasing him likes an umbrella pouch, hugging his shaft tight as he rammed his length inside of you, preening moans of ecstasy out of your sinful mouth. the thought of such scenarios would have hun instantly hard in the school showers, leaving him frustrated for the rest of the day.

and though you had returned for a couple of weeks, he remained prominently stressed, never having enough contact with your skin that he had missed so much. he wished for nothing more than to spend it in a godforsaken rut, trapping you in the confines of his bed as he thrust in and out of you, but it so happened that isn’t how your return had panned out.

the luxury of the bed was not present, in its place was the soft breeze prickling at your skin, making every lingering, and restraining touch that he gave to it that more sensual. it was like nature was biting at your skin, plucking up the courage to adorn your flesh in small bumps, coercing your nipples into being erect, although, that was admittedly not all down to the wispy air.

your boyfriend had turned you on, his methods of doing so far different from anything that he had ever embraced before. whom would have ever thought that the once youngest member of the mccall pack would not forlorn in his youth, but instead want to demean his title as something as sexual as ‘daddy’? you sure as didn’t, but you couldn’t deny, it was kind of hot.

okay, more than hot, a lot more. “answer me y/n.” that’s right, you had gotten swept away with this whole new side to your partner, to say that you were drooling was an understatement, if he pointed it out, you’d blame it on him choking you. choking you! damn, he really had been reading up on some kinky shit whilst you were away.

“i do.” it was an honest answer, traded from you to him. though, it wasn’t entirely what he wanted to hear, you recognised that as he promptly squeezed your air way, causing your tongue to dip out of your mouth as you momentarily gasped for an ounce of breath. to spare you a second to respond, he pardoned his grip, stroking down the side of your face with the back of his stern hand.

“answer properly this time babe, else, i’ll fuck you over the swing set.” gulping, you locked eyes with liam, rubbing your thighs together at his prospect, inhaling heavily, as you felt him soothe his thumb rub upon the crevice of your chin, moisturising your own saliva into your skin.

“i love you choking me, daddy.” the word had a strange affect on your body as it rolled almost effortlessly off your tongue. instantly, verbalising the phrase had you feeling meek under the cold gaze of your boyfriend, a smirk ruling his face, as he clasped his knuckles into the dips of your waist, tugging you close.

“good girl.” he ushered the words into your ear as though he were a pro at doing so, lowering his palms to grab both your ass cheeks, a shocked squeal clawing out of the colander of your throat. “but i’m still going to fuck you over it, and i expect you to grasp onto the chains like you’re holding on for your life, and wail like a banshee that you are all mine.”

a slither of a sound, radiating utter betrothal escaped your withering lips, it was something between noise of a whimper, and a small moan. liam took that, and rightfully so, as approval to proceed with his intentions, and thus, he lead you through the gravel of the empty playground, directing his footsteps to the swings, and pushing you to be in front of him.

he bent your waist a little, so that you were hunched over, offering the perfect angle to generate pleasure for the both of you, as he began to tug your jeans down, letting the tight material meet with the croons of your ankles, and remain tethered around them.

“shit, you’ve already soaked through your panties baby.” liam soothed his fingers over the wet patch that opted through the thin material, brushing directly over your sensitive bundle of nerves, causing your mouth to wantonly drop open, in a silent beckon for more. “i can smell you too, you know, and damn, do you smell fucking divine.”

“daddy please.” the beg fell comfortably from you, there was no sudden recital to saying it once more. peculiarly, it felt natural, the dynamic between you and your partner being a stable structure to begin exploring further aspects that spectated in intimacy.

“sit on the seat, daddy will help you out darling.” trailing around the side of the metal structure, you carefully strode to do as liam has said, perching your ass on the swing, it lightly swaying from the impact of your weight upon the small dipped hammock. “there we go.”

liam knelt, scathing his covered knees upon the ground, as he ran his eager palms along the insides of your thighs, plucking at the band of your panties, before shuffling them down far enough so that he had all the access that he hungered for. the brisk whim that waded through the nighttime air had your pussy clenching, feeling the cold integrate against your folds, as liam puckered his lips.

he blew hot air upon your labia, enforcing your grip around the malleable metal chains to tighten, as you lightly shuffled the way that you were sat, spreading your legs a little wider, as your toes scratched relentlessly inside your socks, digging the front of your sneakers into the tarmac below.

your boyfriend leant forwards, swiping his tongue up your folds, causing you to press your head back, as you airily sighed from the contact, loving the way that his tongue delved around the area of your clit, swirling the bud in his mouth, as his teeth gently pinched the sensitive fumble of flesh.

“li- ah, daddy.” he had nipped at your outer lips, serving his actions as a form to correct how you had labelled him. “fuck, you’re so good with your tongue- shit.” his tongue slipped down into your entrance, thrusting the part of himself in and out of you, as you almost fell out of the swing seat.

“mmh.” your so called daddy hummed, sucking once more on your clit, before pulling his head away, as he stood, dragging you with him to force you to stand, delving his saturated tongue into the depths of your mouth, giving you no other option than to taste yourself on his buds. “what do you say baby?” his hand crawled into your hair as he bit his lip, staring with heavy lids at your flushed expression.

“thank you daddy.” a strong nod, he swiftly rotated you around, giving a light smack to your ass cheek, pinching the flesh, as he hurriedly undressed his bottom half, after fishing a loose packaged condom out of his back pocket. his tongue toyed with his top lip, as he ripped open the plastic square, rolling the condom onto his erect cock, giving himself a couple of jerks, as he steadied himself behind where you had hunched over once more.

he grasped his heavy cock, sliding his length through your smothered folds, teasing you as he tapped your clit, resting his hips flush against your own, as he pressed inside of you, causing an elongated string of obscene sounds to cast out of your mouth, playing a tune out of your melodically fawned lips.

a grunt tore itself out of his chest, as he clenched his fine jaw, digging his thumbs into your ass cheeks, as he began to move; delving deep within you, before pulling out of your tight walls, and rutting himself back inside of you. “fuck, feels so good da- ah!”

your natural sounds of pleasure drowned the surrounding area in an epitome of adulterated musings. adjoined with the sounds of liam’s skin slapping against your own, it was a surprise that no one had intervened, nor walked by. though, liam would have heard if they were in a nearby radius, with his supernatural hearing, that he had gotten through a set of canines digging urgently into his wrist, as he hung solemnly off the side of the hospital.

“you’re all mine, you hear that? those frat boys can keep their pervy gazes off of my girl, otherwise i guess i’ll just have to pay you a visit, and fuck you loud enough for anyone to hear.” he began panting, flowing his breath down upon your lower back. “yeah, you like that idea baby girl, how about i take over in the lecture hall and bend you over that desk, drilling into your tight cunt in front of every one so that they know that you belong to me?”

his half conceived promises, his taunting of you had you rolling closer to the edge, backing your hips backwards as you urgently met with his thrusts, forcing him to hip deeper into your cervix, a light growl prowling out of his chest, as he leant against you, angling his waist lower as he thrust upwards, his chest flat against your back.

“yes- fuck! please daddy, i wou- love that. love for you to fuck me for everyone to see, fill me with your cum, make me cu-um.” his heated breath strained against your skin, as your eyes fluttered, feeling succumbed to a white flush inside your veins, your body halting with it’s stability, resting helplessly over the swing seat, a she kept you steady.

“all mine.” your boyfriend stated, as he made you fall over the edge, ravenously thrusting into you to chase his own high. “gonna fucking cum.” a minor roar yelped out of his mouth, as his eyes strung shut, his shoulders relaxing as he emptied his seed into the condom, pulling out of your sopping cunt, as he removed the layer of protection, throwing it successfully in a bin a few feet away.

hazily, you went to stand, liam helping you pull your bottoms up, as he did so to himself too. he held you up, as he hoisted a passionate kiss onto your lips, a satisfied smile on his face once he pulled away. “i miss you so much when you’re away, i love you y/n/n.”

an appeased expression faulted your expression, as you reached up to entwine your hands together at the back of his neck. “i’m all yours li, or should i call you daddy?” you teased, causing a blush to fathom the apples of his cheeks. he looked down, an embarrassed poise covering his face.

“shut up.” he jokingly prompted, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he began to walk you home, as you continued to tease him about his newly revealed kink, or multiple.

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cryptiql · 3 years

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smoke signals

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, mentions of anxiety and abuse, but otherwise okay. please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 6.5k

a/n: this is my first ever mha fic and the fact that i decided to do dabi first shows i have some massive balls but i'm giving it a try! if he seems ooc at all or i get some facts wrong, please lmk and i'll fix them. (heavily inspired by smoke signals by phoebe bridgers—would recommend listening to it or any of her other songs while reading)

dabi found the meaning of life in a simple strum of chords; a melody twisted by melancholy tunes that resonated deep within the gates of his mind. they haunt him—either by breaking his conscious from a much needed rest to bring him tossing and turning in the damp air of the loft, or making sure that he stayed wide awake during the late hours of the night and well into the creeping day. the lyrics are so surreal that he has to sit down and contemplate their meaning like an english teacher would to the color red, but they're painted saccharine and drip with honey flowing from the mouth that sings them and he hates it. he hates that he's wasted moments better spent wrecking havoc just to understand that stupid little ditty that clings to his heart like a leech. but this song did not come from his own craft—no.

dabi had known the putrid stench of sweat and vermillion blood when the flames licked at his skin, breaching the coarse flesh of his palms to rain hellfire upon all those who dared oppress him. he could weave lies with knots that would take years to unravel, and set whole cities ablaze with a mere finger. clawing oneself from a well built to drown them in their trauma does tend to leave scars on ones hands, and dabi's body was practically a canvas for mutilation, so he could consider himself an expert on the matter. he could attempt to make such a song by strapping in with his many hours of free time and diligent persona, but his hands were not made for music; neither delicate, sonorous tunes or dark, grating strains. they were made for war.

so if anyone had asks, "no" is his answer. "i don't play." and yes, it is while he's drumming a rhythmic beat that he claims this to be true, but the last thing he thinks about is donning a set of drums during his free time. he's far too distracted by the image of your taper fingers curled around the neck of your guitar to consider anything else.

the gentle but keen plucking of chords startles him from yet another ridiculously long-winded spiel by shigaraki, and dabi swallows a strangled groan behind his grinding teeth. it's in his head, now, and so far the only thing that has succeeded in reaping it from his memory—if only for a few minutes—is the blood stained battlefield that he's found himself fighting on far too many times this month alone.

what's he complaining about, though? it's not as though he minds getting down in the dirt. in fact, he's ecstatic to dig his claws into any gruesome ordeal so long as it benefits him in some way, so why is he so invested in this little to and fro game of twenty questions with the likes of you; someone as significant in the world as a paperclip without paper to hold? why come back, despite there being nothing in it for him besides a series of migraines?

not from you, a voice answers from inside. you're an absolute pleasure.

dabi nearly snarls at the confirmation that his own mind is turning against him, and as he does this, a plume of smoke erupts from his lips, billowing and curving to create intricate patters before dissipating into the atmosphere. a second time. a third. a fourth drag from the cigarette has completely obscured his face from anyone's view, and he relishes in the instant of privacy it gives him. however, it has also blocked him from seeing everyone else in the room, and while he normally would have considered that a blessing, it appears tomura has had enough of it.

you get headaches because you smoke too much, comes a second voice; yours, scolding in a way he'd only expect from a worried mother. dabi only has a split second to register it before shigaraki's head pokes through the fumes, red eyes alight with rage and lips pulled back into a snarl.

"would you quit doing that inside? it's fogging up my brain and i can't think straight." he grates.

"strange—i assumed there wasn't a brain in there to fog up in the first place." tomura's nostrils flare and dabi's pride spikes.

"besides, you came in here and looked directly at me as i was smoking—why didn't you ask me to stop then?"

"i was telling you with my eyes, idiot. you should know when it's time to either take it outside or put the damn thing out. there are ashtrays for a reason, and not everyone here wants to inhale that shit." he interrupts their intense staring contest only to wave his hand to clear the smog. now he can see the rest of the league clearly (oh joy, he thinks) and gives an indignant grunt when spotting toga at the bar table, covering her mouth and nose as a pitiful aim to block her lungs from the smoke. twice, who had unfortunately used up the last pack of his own cigarettes that morning, leans forward to take a whiff, exhaling soon after with satisfaction.

kurogiri stands at his usual spot behind the bar, seemingly unaffected as he idly scrubs away at grime infested glasses, while sako lounges at the opposite end of the room. his mask is on, leaving dabi to wonder if it's been like that all day, or if he just recently put it on to better fend off the fumes. he doesn't really care, whatever the case.

after a beat of silence, dabi wets his lips to respond, a lopsided smirk growing on his features.

"oh, i'm sorry your frail body hasn't adapted to a bit of vapor in the air. and with that flakey skin of yours, it's no wonder you're extra sensitive—"

shigaraki's hands come flying through the next waft to slam against the tabletop where dabi's feet lie, causing it to wobble and creak in protest. the ravenette doesn't even flinch as the harsh, raspy words are spat in his face.

"if you're not going to pay attention, then leave. actually, i'd prefer you do that either way."

and dabi would have happily disregarded his request if not for the faint ringing in his ears, rising higher and higher before receding back into his skull like the tide. a scowl morphs its way onto his once vacant expression as he puts pressure on his temple, rubbing softly where his eyebrows knit together. just for today, he'll indulge his so-called boss's whims. the piercing screech that emits from below when he pushes his chair back does nothing to help with the ever-growing headache, but it hardly matters now that he's headed out the exit. he's able to catch the last fragments of shigaraki's raving before the door closes, leaving him to stand amid the tumult of the city in all of its glory.

the alleyway is dark with looming shadows, but people are still milling about, so dabi considers himself lucky for already being dressed in his disguise. he flips his hood up, pulls the surgical mask over his nose and quickly slides on his sunglasses for good measure before slipping out into the traffic, sometimes going with the flow and then weaving past those moving too slow for his liking.

right now, his patience is a mere thread; hair thin and on the edge of snapping whenever someone bumps his shoulder. their negligence is infuriating, and he's tempted to roast them into a charred, mangled mess then and there—the consequences of blowing his cover be damned—but by some miracle, he manages to refrain from doing so. it takes about five minutes for his temper to shorten to the length of a matchstick, and he knows that one more shove will be what strikes it. dabi pauses for a moment to crane his neck, allowing the sea of people to flow around him like a stream to a rock as he searches for an alternative route. it appears as though he'll have to take his chances with the crowd until he hears the repetitive ringing of a bell and a man's voice calling for passengers to board. public transport was risky, what with him being a menace to society, but he can't possibly be the single most shady dressing person on the train, right?

he wouldn't bother answering his own question when daylight was burning, so dabi pushes himself from the swarm and leaps for the streetcar just as it begins pulling away from the stop. there's a shuddering jolt before the passengers settle in for their departure, and as his palms squeeze the metal railing in response, he notices the peeling red paint clinging to the car's exterior and finds himself staring at it for a ludicrous amount of time, not thinking about anything in particular.

the rickety trolley is semi-packed with civilians, none of whom regard his presence with anything more than a noncommittal glance. good—that makes his job ten times easier. to his chagrin, it runs over more than a few opposing train tracks or crudely paved bumps in the road, and this causes the whole cart to jostle before stilling completely, the process repeating itself over and over.

the knowledge that his trip to the outskirts of town is a short one is the only thing that calms his nerves.

when dabi finally arrives at his destination, the sun is gradually descending from its peak in the sky, and the clouds are more like wispy tufts than the luscious, cotton candy lumps they were just hours earlier. overhead, the baby blue hues turn to shades of opal; a forewarning of rain. the feelings of irritation and malice from earlier are still bound to him like chains that threaten to snap him in half when drawn too tight. the crippling weight causes his feet to drag along the gravel path at a sluggish pace, his own hot breaths fanning against his face from behind the mask. if anyone actually lived out here and they were to see him, their first impression would be that a living corpse had just waltzed onto their property. it was just his luck, then, that you were the only person out here, and by extent, the only one not deterred by his appearance.

even so, dabi's mind kicks into gear. was this a good idea? he doesn't even know why he came here—he just needed a place to blow off steam and his body had already made the choice on its own. this isn't any different from all the other times, though, and he can't ignore the fact when it sits in the pit of his stomach like an anchor. you're always the first person he goes to at times like these (dabi subconsciously rules out the man working at the local 7/11 who sells his liquor cheap, though he's still appreciative of the bottle to numb his thoughts). that tells him more than he wants to know.

your house is quaint, like those old country cottages he sometimes sees pictures of, and squats on a large, grassy mound of earth surrounded by heaps of rocks and sand from the neighboring beach. it merges with a towering lighthouse, and dabi notes that there must not be any sailors due to make port yet, otherwise the light would be on. the second thing he takes in are the flowerbeds sitting under your two front windows, and how they look withered and close to death.

"i wanted to add some color, but i can't keep plants alive for shit." you had said, huffing in amusement to yourself as you tended to the weeping alliums. "succulents are the only exception."

a small pot of them sits on the windowsill, but they seem to have gotten to big for it; the rubbery leaves spilling over the cracked rim. he hardly registers how much of a stalker he must look like until he stands on your welcome mat, peering through the dirty glass panes to find you nowhere in sight. the lights aren't on, so he can only see the outlines of furniture when bands of light stream in to reveal them.

sitting back on the balls of his feet, dabi curses under his breath. it's not like he was expecting anything. how was he supposed to know whether or not you were home when you had no way of telling him?

"jesus, patch!" a shout startles him from his brooding, but he doesn't let it show as he looks towards to ocean. you're hauling yourself over a large rock to wave him over, wearing a familiar grin. so that's why he couldn't see you. dabi makes careful work of leaping over jagged stones and threatening to bake any nosy seagulls as he makes his way to where you sit, with your favored instrument slung over your shoulder. the ghost of a smile graces his lips when he recalls how you would have scolded him for being mean to the birds, but that was before last week.

"pesky fucking bastards—they keep shitting on my music sheets!" another seagull waddles into your vicinity, only to squawk in distress as you shoo it away with your foot. "i wonder if this is natures way of telling me to quit while i'm behind. . ."

after breaching the treacherous terrain and nearly scraping himself in the process, dabi squats on the stone beside yours, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you meet his gaze with nothing short of merriment and a shake of your head.

"if someone had seen you, you would have been arrested on the spot for being a peeping tom." you chuckle, combing a hand through your hair with a smirk. "what? you lookin' you catch me in the nude or something?"

dabi scowls, choosing to ignore the question rather than give into the bait. as if i would be satisfied by looking at anyone but you in that state. he swats the air as if it would drive the notion from his mind like a bothersome fly.

"in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere? i'd never get caught."

"aw, don't be like that. if you really wanted a peek you could've just asked." the mocking tone in your voice spurs him to smack your thigh, which earns a hearty laugh in reply.

"ooh, don't treat me so roughly, or i might begin to like it!"

dabi has had more than enough experience with your flirtatious tendencies, and he feels he should have gotten used to it by now, but his heart still clenches every damn time. the worse part? he can't say that he minds. you don't give him a chance to respond, but dabi hasn't a clue what he would have said, so he lets you continue, watching intently as you rifle through your bag to fish out a guitar pick. shifting into a crisscross position, you perch the guitar on your lap and begin tuning the strings, idly talking about how uneventful the past days have been. dabi pretends not to have heard that it was because he wasn't there to visit, and instead gives his attention to the lighthouse in hopes that you won't see the faintest of reds dusting his ears.

five minutes pass before you actually start playing, and even then, it's only a few experimental notes here and there that help you build towards the perfected melody.

it's too sweet for his taste; dabi swears that's why his stomach turns so ferociously and prompts him to lean against the boulder to his right for some sort of stability. he won't even humor the idea that it's because of the way your lips twitch into a near half-smile before melding back into a concentrated frown the moment you strike a wrong cord. an embarrassed flush captures your cheeks as you study the music sheets, briefly pressing down on them when a sudden breeze flutters the pages. the pencil that was once tucked behind your ear now sticks out from one corner of your mouth, a flash of pink and orange melding together when you go to absentmindedly gnaw on the wood.

many more minutes fly by, and you've long since abandoned the new tune just to pick up an old one. dabi's back straightens at the first set of strings you pluck, and he recognizes them as the same ones that have been playing on repeat in his head since the day you met.

dabi's heart hammers in tune with every footfall that slaps against the pavement, tearing through the small pools of water that grow with every second. it hasn't stopped raining since the chase began, and there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been soaked through. still, something good must come from this little dilemma—the burning sensation that clings to his arms has almost settled down. the silhouettes of trees merge with inky blackness when he blinks, and he reaches with trembling hands to wipe the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.

a yellow square of what assumes to be light shines in the distance, contrasting wildly adverse to the darkness that sweeps him up from under his feet and pushes him forward. the sound of police sirens has been reduced to a mere memory in the time that was running, but he isn't about to risk going back to the league's base in fear of a stakeout waiting to get the jump on them. besides, why stop there when the possibility of shelter awaits him?

the bottoms of dabi's shoes are slick with mud, and blades of grass have snuck their way under the cuffs of his jeans to scratch at his skin. the sensations paired with the numbing cold are beyond uncomfortable, but he won't have to worry about that once he gets inside—that being if the person inside doesn't put up a fight.

he'd expect them to be mad if they did anything except that, no matter how welcoming the house looked. dabi's instincts tell him that someone out this far from the city doesn't a have a lot of connections, and thus killing them wouldn't cause an uprising if it were needed, but the minute he grips the doorknob, a thought occurs. if they have a quirk, its power could level my own or even surpass it. . . he grits his teeth. but like hell i'm going to let them win.

the hesitation vanishes in an instant as dabi turns the knob and thrusts himself inside, wielding a blue flame in his dominant hand to further illuminate the room. the wind is so fierce that it pulls the door shut for him, and the villain finds himself staring down the unperturbed figure of another man, perhaps around his age, hunched over a stove and glaring at a steaming kettle. they lock gazes, and almost immediately, the kettle gives a high pitched whistle. you look away first, lifting the pot and turning the burner off whilst opening the cupboard overhead to pull out two mugs, both of which adorn ugly christmas-themed patterns that dabi wishes he could forget ever seeing.

his glare hardens when you move to the table in the far corner and begin pouring what he assumes to be tea, taking one cup into your own grasp and leaving the other at his own disposal. your one mistake is grabbing your phone from the counter, but when dabi's flame enlarges, you hold your arms up in defense. then, before he can even formulate a proper threat, you toss the phone to him. he catches it easily and observes the dark screen, masking his astonishment with a more sinister expression.

the only other move you make is to drape yourself across a cushion on the window seat with an acoustic guitar in hand. you look more relaxed by the second despite being cornered by a dangerous criminal, and dabi has to refrain from voicing his shock when you address him with an almost bored tone.

"if the tea isn't to your taste, there's more in the cabinet. shower is down the hall to your left, and there's a spare bedroom upstairs to the right. do whatever the hell you want, just don't burn the place down or touch my freddie mercury records."

dabi is stuck to the spot for one of three reasons, he determines. one, your attitude has surprised him into a stupor that not even hiw own will can break. two, his refusal to believe that you're handling this situation in a calm manner is really just his defense mechanism kicking in, and he won't move until proven that you won't do anything when his back is turned. and three, you're quirk is similar to that of madusa's and you've successfully turned him into a fleshy mannequin.

"if you're worried about me calling the cops, what you're holding is the only working phone here. the power is out due to the storm, so my landline is dead, and the nearest form of help is a crippled old widow five miles west. i'm not going to risk running when i'm up against someone with a quirk."

dabi considers everything said, but never once allows his fire to dim. he took the surrounding area into account while making his escape, and he can see the landline is in fact out of service, so the male's assurances checked out. hell, the light source that guided him here was nothing but an old-timey oil lamp. the fact that you're quirkless does him a great amount of good as well.

with cautious steps, dabi makes a beeline for the bathroom, but he stops halfway to stare at you again. you respond by quirking a brow and kicking your feet up, something akin to mischief in your guise.

"i can take the shower with you since you're so afraid i'll make a break for it." you drawl, and dabi snarls, a fowl cuss bubbling in his throat as heat crawls its way up his neck.

"why, with a blush like that you might not need any drying off~."

dabi decides that he's had enough and storms down the hall, already peeling off his dripping clothes and and silently promising that he'll burn the guy to a crisp if he so much as tries to catch a peek. he can hear you calling out in hilarity even as he slinks into the shower and attempts to drown you out with the static-filled haze that captures his senses.

"the name's, y/n, by the way!"

try as he might, dabi had never been able to keep from coming back. now the reason why has been revealed to him on a silver platter, and he won't even spare it a glance.

your soft singing snaps him from his reminiscing as he stretches his legs, stifling a groan when something pops as not to disturb you. while digging through his pockets for a cigarette, he stops momentarily for fear of forgetting how to breathe when he lays his sights on you. you're in your own little world; everything else—him included— seems to have disappeared as you play from the heart. you need no standing ovation, no adoring fans or fantastic lightshows. you've said it once, that fame and glory mean nothing to you, and that you have all you could ever want or need right here, nestled in the beachside view of what you call home.

"and i have you." a cool breeze ruffles your dirt stained overalls as you reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. the sun beats down on you, never shining half as bright as your smile, and the shore kisses the boulders with waxing and waning waves of aquamarine; frothy, foamy masses washing up with it to carry lone strands of seaweed. "otherwise i'd go mad without your company."

okay, that was lie. the truth is right there, practically spitting in his face how much of an idiot he is for trying to deny it, and dabi is glaring right back at it. he feels like an impatient kid on christmas eve, sneaking glimpses of gifts under the tree and feeling like he's committed a felony after getting caught. and you do catch him.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" there it is—that stupid nickname. it's always been laced with mirth when you call him as such, but now it's replaced by genuine curiosity. and is that a hit of concern he hears? you study him with pursed lips and stony features that gradually morphs into that of concern when the silence stretches on. dabi forces himself to sneer at you, and something stirs inside his chest when you don't flinch.

he hates it. he hates you.

dabi nods to the sky, a guarded noise building in the back of his throat as he tugs on his earlobe.

"s'gonna rain." your jaw visibly clenches, but you humor his evasive habits just like you always have, looking to the clouds, which have darkened considerably in the last hour or so. it's around this time that the weather patterns become more unpredictable, but you've noticed the distinct lack of rainfall in spite of the gathering storm brewing overhead. you could sit out here for a while longer without much activity in the sky, and it would take more than a little shower to drive you inside, especially when you finally had the chance to enjoy some quality time with dabi. you notice the way his shoulders droop and the tension from his facial muscles all but disappears when he sits amidst the smell of fresh salt water and unpolluted air—the weight of his past slowly but surely ebbing away. you'd like to hope you have some part in that. oh god, do you ever hope.

you plead to whatever omnipresent being above that he's not just here to hit a blunt without getting reprimanded for it, or that he's making these daily visits out of pity.

"nah. it's been like this for a little while—looks like a storm will hit, but then it passes before it even begins." you sling the guitar back over your shoulder and gather up your music sheets, eyeing dabi from your perch. you're challenging him now, and normally you would never dare force him to speak if he didn't want to, but something about his aura is off. you can sense it in his words; the very air he breathes; and it compels you to hold him close, if only he would let you.

"so, you gonna tell me why you're avoiding the ques—" a deep rumble interrupts you, and dabi lets out a sigh of relief that you're thankfully too distracted to hear. a single drop of water hits your nose, followed by another, and another, and—

"you were saying?"

"oh shut it." you don't get to finish speaking, for a crack of lightning strikes the far end of the beach, scattering sand in every direction. you just barely manage to scoop up your belongings before sliding from the rock, but your footing betrays you and send you stumbling to the ground. dabi is there to catch you, wasting no more time in hauling you to your feet and rushing you as carefully as possible through the jagged maze. he can't refrain from smiling when you splutter a string of profanities pass poorly hidden laughter, an unmistakable "FUCK ME!" spilling into the cold evening when you accidentally stub your toe on a particularly sharp stone. it's pouring within seconds, and no sooner do you reach the doorstep do you both realize how sopping wet you are.

the last thing you think of is your chattering teeth, however, when you see dabi's spiky tufts of hair dripping with residue and his electric blue eyes gazing into yours. what you do think is that for the first time in your painfully ordinary life; your twenty three years of mediocrity and progressive isolation from the world around you; you have found the single person who understands your struggles and has chosen—for some unfathomable reason—not to abandon you. you wish you could say your parents were the same, but you also have scars from a distant childhood that brought you to this place.

this old lighthouse is your home, yes, but dabi is your sanctuary. he might as well be a god by how often you worship him from afar, wondering if ever you'd be so lucky; so eternally blessed; as to call him yours.

you don't register that he's opened the door to let you both inside until a cozy warmth envelopes you. no, wait, that's dabi's fire. it should terrify you that the same man who threatened you with those flames is now at arms length, but you trust him not to hurt you in any way, and so you lean into the gentle licking of heat on your skin, humming in content as your shivering comes to a halt.

dabi's fear of burning you diminishes when you flash him a grateful smile, a whisper of thanks echoing across the walls and pummeling his heart without resistance. he averts his eyes with a curt nod, a feeling like molasses weighing down his tongue and drowning the words he wants to say.

"you're welcome." is all he can muster.

half an hour later, your guitar is drying by the hearth and the two of you are huddled on the window seat, nursing cups of coffee and watching the storm in a comfortable silence. you haven't blinked in a while, meaning you've wandered off the tracks of consciousness as suspected, and pretty soon, you start singing quietly to yourself; the deep crooning used as background noise to your aimless meditation. dabi nudges your calf with his foot and is rewarded with a brief quirk of your lips and a nudge back. he doesn't have the patience nor the brain power to decipher how long this goes on for, but it doesn't matter.

this is fine. the image of red hair and a tall, intimidating figure invades his train of thought, and dabi curls inwards on himself. this is fine.

but it's not.

trembling, he places his mug on the table before retracting back into his seat, clasping his hands together. he tries visualizing the ties of his life coming together to form a rope. the fingers on his left—memories from his past—linking together with those from his right—memories made with you. his palms connect, bringing instant relief with the knowledge that he's here now, practically nestled between your legs, out of harms way. you're both fine.

dabi takes the swelling anxiety and pretends to crush it within his fist; clenching and unclenching it until his peace of mind returns.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" you ask again, still in somewhat of a trance. this time, dabi answers.

"why do you call me that?"

you're caught of guard, half expecting him to ask why you haven't turned him in to the authorities. you've seen him without his disguise, you know his name, and for the past eight months you've been socializing with him like normal human beings do. that's more than both of you could have said in the past. of all the burning questions, he chose that one? "i've heard 'patchwork' and 'staples' and just about everything in between. why shorten it to patch?"

you gape at him, opening your mouth, then closing it, and so on. the pitter patter of rain against the window has ascended into relentless pelting. it sounds like gunfire to dabi; assaulting his ears in floods; but to you, it's nothing more than a waterfall hindering your view of the ocean. the deep breath you take seems to put more suspense in the atmosphere than needed, and it makes dabi's heartrate quicken for an entirely different reason, yet he makes no sign of stopping you.

"because my first thought whenever i see you is how much you remind me of a doll." oh. what?

you can tell by dabi's reaction that that wasn't what he was expecting, so you gesture for him to wait. he isn't sure he likes the forlorn expression you're wearing.

"typically, when kids first get a doll, they treat it like glass and make sure to tend to it with love. other times, doll owners are reckless and tear them apart just to stitch them back together like nothing happened. you use that camouflaged to blend in with the public, and i'm lucky enough to see what's under it. . .but sometimes i wish you'd keep the mask on so i don't have to see you upset."

upset? a fizzing sound erupts from his palms that he struggles to put out. he's not upset.

"don't try to hide it. you're always scowling when you think i'm not looking, or when you forget i'm even here, and i know it's because someone broke you without the intent of fixing you up."

once more, red clouds dabi's vision, and he moves to stand up.

"you had to clean up after their mistakes because no one else would, but instead of reusing the bits and pieces of your old self, you burned them. you destroyed any and all evidence of who you used to be and now you're patching yourself together with parts that aren't your own, because you don't want to hold onto what happened. though, something tells me you still haven't let go, otherwise you wouldn't be so angry."

"you don't know that!" he snaps, but he knows it's not true.

your hand closes around his wrist, and dabi recoils with such strength that it yanks you from your seat. dabi doesn't want you to let go, no matter how much he thrashes in place, because the sensation of your skin on his grounds him. somehow you know this, and you give a comforting squeeze to his pulse.

"but that's not all i see. because dolls are beautiful, and it's the ones who still love them after they're broken that they need the most. no one's told you they think you're beautiful, have they?"

dabi shakes his head, refusing to meet your gaze even when you cup his cheek with your free hand tilt it towards you. every touch is filled with hesitancy; feather light and more intimate than anything dabi has ever witnessed, let alone experienced personally. with the way you hold him like he's water in your hands, your eyes overflowing with a love he hasn't known in forever, dabi knows he won't find another feeling like it. you're not the embodiment of good—at least not by society's strict standards—but at least you can sit there and say you've committed a crime. you've never bloodied your hands by hurting others, much less gotten a thrill from doing so, and that's why he pulls away. he has to, because dabi is a harbinger of war, and if he holds you any closer it will only be to kill you.

he says something; a snarl mixed with a broken plea that he prays will make you stop; and you do. his silent victory doesn't last for long, though, because then you're using both hands to cradle his face and fuck, the pads of your thumbs grazing his scars feel like heaven. "won't you let me be the first?" how could he say no? how, when the taste of honey and whiskey is so addictive that he's already drooling into the kiss and willing to beg for more; when your mouth slots perfectly with his and dabi begins to wonder if he's stumbled right into the scene of a cliché wattpad story. the idea causes him to huff out a growl, and although neither of you can talk, he can imagine how strongly you must want to poke fun at him for the action. he can feel you smirking—the smug little bastard you are—and dabi ponders how long it will take to reduce that attitude of yours until you're submitting to him.

not yet. he chastises himself, completely unaware that you're currently thinking the same thing. dabi kneads the flesh of your hips through your jeans while you comb your fingers through his hair, gasping sharply between bruising, wet kisses and keening when he leans down to nurse your lips with soft pecks afterword. you're still trying to process the fact that you've coerced this devious criminal into making out with you in the pale glow of your seaside residence, but for the moment, you need not concern yourself with the details. you've forgotten all about dabi's ego and how this whole situation is no doubt feeding its flames. his grip on your waist is making you too delirious to care.

"fuck." dabi's breath is staggering when you finally pull back, an aura of clarity and desire hanging between the two of you.

"y-yeah. . .that was. . ." you can't produce a word, or even a paragraph to describe it. you know you're going to hit yourself later for admitting such a banal phrase in the midst of what could be classified as your very first kiss, but that is neither here nor there, and you would rather suffer an agonizing death than let dabi find out that he stole your first. you're too preoccupied envisioning all the other firsts to come, so you don't notice the way he stares at you like some precious jewel, but his fingertips brushing your bottom lip succeed in snapping you out of it.

"hm?"

dabi goes quiet, contemplating what to say as the thunder moves abroad and the rain comes to an end, leaving the house in a numbing state of tranquility.

"why not call me doll, then? it'd be easier."

you chuckle in response, playing with the hairs at the base of dabi's neck and making sure not to miss the way he melts into the affection. "i thought that'd be moving too fast." and dabi; still drugged from your kiss and what he can only hope is love; rasps out a genuine laugh, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"you offered to take a shower with me the night we met, and you think a nickname is moving too fast?"

you stick your tongue out at him, and dabi resists the urge to grab it, even if it's just a bluff.

"would you have let me call you that anyways?" you ask, something hopeful ridden in your tone. dabi feigns consideration as he looks to the ceiling, snickering when you smack his chest. eventually, he murmurs what you audibly hear as "brat" before resting his forehead on yours, an impish glint in his gaze.

"no."

you turn your chin up at him, giggling when he nips at the skin. dabi knows just as well that your attempts at escaping him are halfhearted, so he encircles his arms around your waist tighter, delighting in the flush that paints your cheeks.

"then i think i'll settle for my love, or darling, if that's alright with you."

dabi can't fend off the blush for his life, but he's not afraid if you acknowledge it. he can get you back easily, and he plans to. "fine by me, doll."

#⛓.dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #anime x male reader #mha x male reader #touya todoroki x male reader #my hero x reader #my hero x y/n #boku no hero x reader #x male reader #bnha x you #dabi fluff #dabi angst #dabi imagine

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cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

A Boy Like You | Yoongi

→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff → warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is → words: 11.5K → a/n: whaddup kids it’s ya girl... back from the dead after months of not writing shit, and what’s this owo... it’s a fluff fic?? miracles do happen... anyway i wrote this bc i just thot “man, wouldn’t it be super epic if i wrote a super self-indulgent fic where yoongi fulfills every single one of my deepest desires?” well... here is THIS!! pls feel free to scream into a pillow bc i certainly did!! enjoy!!

There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:

The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.

You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are left cold and umbrella-less.

You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.

Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.

In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered “thanks” leaving your lips.

He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.

He doesn’t find the words after all. You aren’t too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid getting wet.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you can return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.

You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm.

x x x x x

Umbrella boy has a name, and he happens to work on the same floor as you. You know this because he is standing right in front of you in all his bespectacled glory.

He ducks out of view the moment your eyes meet his. There is a stack of folders in his arms, and he bows his head until his nose touches manila. It’s too late––he knows you caught him staring. He scurries behind walls of filing cabinets and desk cubicles, desperate to get back to his desk where he hopes you’ll never find him.

The office floor is large, but it is not large enough to hide in. It takes only a few minutes until you find him hunched over his desk, every inch of space taken by enough towers of paper to cover a forest. It is no wonder that you never encountered your mysterious umbrella boy; he does a wonderful job of blending in.

Your eyes trail his form, not out of any perverse intent, but just out of curiosity. You never would have guessed from his unassuming and meek nature, but the boy is devastatingly beautiful. The devil is in the details: you admire the soft slope of his nose to the adorable pout of his lips. His eyelids are charmingly mismatched and his cheeks are begging to be pinched. It takes a year’s worth of self-restraint to keep your hands at your sides, if only so you don’t scare him away before you can even introduce yourself.

(You can already imagine your HR department contacting you about nonconsensual manhandling… You admit that you tend to get overzealous with your affection, especially when confronted with cute things. This boy would definitely need to watch out for you if he knows what’s best for him.)

((Also note to self: Stop having these psychopathic conversations with yourself. Being stuck inside the cage which is your brain is torture enough, so let’s not encourage it to get worse.))

There is a lanyard laced around his neck, the gaudy orange color of your company’s logo emblazoned across the thin material. And just out of your line of sight, you catch a glimpse of his ID. His name is––

“Y-Y/N?” He stutters out–no–he squeaks. Ah, so he’s noticed you. The folder in his hand slips out of his grasp, an avalanche of white tumbling all over his lap. He curses loudly, frantically sweeping away the mess under his desk, as if he could somehow magically make them disappear if he just kicked them hard enough. Unfortunately, the papers stay stubbornly tangible, and he is left with a halo of accounting reports around his workspace as a result.

“Are you… umm…” You hesitate with your words, fearing that any sudden movement on your part might cause umbrella boy to combust on the spot. “Do you need help… picking those up?”

“I–Well, no–Yes, but–” His sentences are stilted, his brain struggling to catch up with his tongue. He clamps his mouth shut, then shakes his head like he’s trying to reboot himself. Finally, after a few more deep breaths, he goes, “No. I’m fine. Thank you for offering.” He says that, but he appears awfully content with staring holes into the keyboard of his laptop when he is speaking to you though.

“Still… I’m terribly sorry for startling you,” you say, lips tugging downwards into a frown. You should have guessed he was skittish from how he had acted yesterday, but it’s quite a surprise to see one man so… disastrous, for lack of a better term. It’s awfully cute. “I just wanted to properly introduce myself and thank you for lending me your umbrella yesterday, but it seems like you already knew who I was.”

His face does a weird thing then and there. It almost appears like he was caught in a time loop, like someone was manually reversing and replaying his facial expressions like a video. It takes a few minutes for his little stroke to settle down, but even then, his cheeks remain a rosy pink. “I–I just… remembered your name during the company retreat the other month. I’m not weird or anything, I swear!”

“Well luckily, I was never going to accuse you of being weird anyway!” You laugh, trying to ease the perpetual look of anxiety on his face. However, it only seems to worsen his nerves with how quickly his skin starts to redden. “In fact, I should be apologizing for not remembering your name, Mister..?”

“Min Yoongi,” he replies, pausing for a second too long. He must have realized his delay because he coughs awkwardly into his forearm, averting his gaze away from you in a futile attempt to become nothing more than an abstract thought.

He must be equipped with some sort of superpower, because you’re starting to feel his secondhand embarrassment flood through you like a tsunami. Are you that difficult to converse with? Does he want to be left alone so badly that he’s trying to subtlely tell you to fuck off?

You’re about to start apologizing and scurry off back to your desk in barely concealed mortification when Yoongi clears his throat, his gaze fixed somewhere to your right. Whatever caught his attention must have been revolutionary with how large his eyes are, although last you remember is that the wall behind you is the same dull jailcell gray that you have come to know and hate.

“I just… I’m sorry if I’m acting odd right now. I just wasn’t expecting you to come to my cubicle and I would’ve… I don’t know, tidied up? If I knew you were coming,” he mutters, propping his glasses back up when they start sliding down his nose. They make their slow descent back down immediately after, forever on an endless cycle of up and down his face.

“You don’t have to clean up just for me! I’m not your manager or anything,” you say, surveying the absolute disaster zone that is his workspace. For his benefit, you sure hope that he has a map of his desk and filing cabinets, as it would have been a miracle otherwise if he memorized where anything was located in his personal office sty. “Though, it would be nice if you could see the bottom of your desk every once in a while.”

To your immense surprise, Yoongi lets out a resounding laugh at your quip. Though Yoongi isn’t a mute by any means, it isn’t like he spoke with much volume either. You hadn’t even thought your joke was funny enough to deserve a strained Caucasian™️ smile, so you appreciate that he had considered that you were even slightly funny. You love the pleasant tinkling of his laughter, so genuinely joyous that you can’t help but want to make a fool of yourself just so you can hear it again and again.

When Yoongi stops, the familiar reddish hue that has made a home on his cheeks resurfaces, though it’s less from embarrassment now. His shoulders are more relaxed, and he doesn’t look like he wants to crawl out of his skin as much. He still has eyes averted away from you, however. “Sorry. I don’t know why I laughed too hard at that. I’m normally not this weird… I think it’s just the nerves.”

You cock your head to the side. “Nerves? From what?”

Yoongi freezes, mouth gaping open slightly. “I, umm…” He coughs into his white button-up sleeve, pupils shaking as he formulates a response. “Just from… work. Yeah, I just have a lot of paperwork to do this week and I’ve been, er, having difficulty relaxing.”

Yoongi visibly breathes a sigh of relief when you accept his flimsy excuse, not really lingering on the validity of his statement. “Oh, sure! Don’t overwork yourself too much, okay?” you say, smiling sweetly back at him. He stares, wide-eyed, not really sure how to go on with his life after he’d been blasted by the full force of your grin.

God, you hope you remembered to use a toothpick during lunch. Was there spinach in your teeth? Oh fuck.

“Gah,” he intones, his brain not fully cooperating with his mouth just yet. If you were any more socially inept, you’d probably be doing the same. Eventually, he clears his throat and tries again. “Uh. Yes. I’ll try to do better next time.”

Feeling like you’ve overstayed your visit, you decide that it might be best for you to leave him be before either of you do or say anything more awkward and stupid. Before you turn to leave however, you decide to extend your hand forward, hoping to erase all the previous awkwardness between the both of you and hopefully start afresh. Even though you’ve only just met, you can’t help but feel drawn to him, wanting to see him again and somehow gain his friendship. “Hey, no sweat. It was really nice meeting you, Yoongi-ssi.”

“Just Yoongi is fine,” he says, almost like an afterthought. He’s so busy staring at your proffered hand that you are afraid that you might have offended him unknowingly or something. Does he think you don’t wash your hands? Given by the fact that your office’s manager refuses to restock the soap dispensers at the washrooms, that isn’t that much of a stretch. Or maybe he was weirded out by your random handshake? Have handshakes become antiquated these days? Are the kids no longer doing it? Are you supposed to do those awful brohugs like the fresh-out-of-college interns do in the breakroom? Oh God, does Yoongi think you’re old?!

While you were in the midst of your mental breakdown, you soon begin to realize why Yoongi had contemplated returning your handshake for so long. Instead of taking your hand immediately, Yoongi rubs his own two palms together first, much like how one would when warming their hands in front of a fire. He takes care to blow on them slightly before grasping your hand firmly in his, finally bestowing you with your much awaited handshake.

“Umm..?” You stare at your intertwined hands, a little confused about the previous series of events that just happened five seconds ago. Yoongi, in all his adorable and flustered glory, releases your hand much too quickly like he’s been shocked, most likely realizing (belatedly) that what he had done might not be as clear to an observer as it is to himself.

“Oh, I – I’m so sorry about that, again.” Yoongi stutters, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s just – my hands are really cold so I was trying to warm them up before I held your hands. I’m – I only just realized how odd that must have looked. Sorry.”

A rush of endearment and warmth surges through you as you behold this high strung boy, your heart flooded with a mix of emotions that make you feel gooey and blissful in one perfect package. No, this boy is the perfect package, all soft edges and blushy cheeks. It’s going to take a mountain and a room of vengeful deities to stop you from walking past his desk to catch a glimpse of him at this rate.

Oh God, you’re whipped already and it’s only been a few minutes since you said hello. He warmed his hand for you for heaven’s sake! Surely your enthusiasm can be excused in this one instance.

“That’s, uhh…” Now it seems that it is your turn to be at a loss of words, your throat clogged with a clump of newly discovered feelings that you don’t have enough time to sort through at the moment. The hamster running circles inside your brain has long since ground to a halt, and if Yoongi is going to keep staring at you with those charming cat eyes for any longer, you aren’t sure you’ll be able to convince the little vermin inside your skull to puppet your body again. “That’s… really sweet. Thank you.”

Thank you? Really, Y/N?

“It’s, uh, no problem. Really.” And with that, Yoongi presents to you his most deadly smile to date: blinding whites coupled his prominent pink gums, with his cheeks stretched like proofed dough that make his dark eyes disappear. Is there a pencil wedged inside your chest cavity, or were you just spontaneously having a heart attack? It’s hard to say; all you know is that your organs have turned to slush, and you make a mental note to send the imminent hospital bill to a certain Min Yoongi.

Cause of hemorrhage: being too fucking cute.

With your daily dose of embarrassment fulfilled, you turn to leave with short stilted steps, as if you have to force yourself away from him like those stubborn souvenir shop magnets that never come off the fridge. “I guess I’ll see you around?” you say more like a question, unsure if he’ll even want to ever see you after that disaster of an interaction. Kim Namjoon from Accounting would be entirely too delighted if he ever found out that he wasn’t the most awkward human being in the office.

“Sure? I’ll just be here. As always,” Yoongi replies kindly, same gummy grin on his face, albeit a little more hesitant. “It was nice speaking to you, Y/N.”

When he returns his attention to his workspace, it serves as a signal to you that you really should be going. Before you leave, you take note of the subtle red tint of his ears that reaches the back of his neck, the gentle tremor of his hands as he reorganizes the files that he had previously dropped. It makes you feel odd for relishing in the fact that you hadn’t been the only one feeling the tension between the two of you, though that doesn’t help lessen the confusion that soon follows anyway.

Why are you so drawn to him? You have never felt so strongly for someone this quickly, and frankly it sort of frightened you. You’re too afraid to confront that blossoming curiosity inside of you. No, it’s much too soon for that. For now, however…

“Oh shit. I totally forgot to give him back his umbrella,” you curse yourself once you return to your desk. The smiling face of Kumamon looks at you knowingly, as if this had been planned all along.

Well. Now you have an excuse to see him again tomorrow, at least.

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his tenderness quietly. It would go something like this:

Company dinners shouldn’t feel like as much as a punishment as it does, but that’s just how social gatherings with semi-professional coworkers are like. No one here really wants to be there, but the carefully worded e-mail sent to the entire company clearly suggests that this was more of a “go to the party or risk getting fired” type of deal than anything remotely enjoyable. As much as free food and booze are often harbingers of a good time, it hardly makes any difference when your inebriated boss spends the entire time chatting you up in front of the presence of a dozen or so indifferent associates.

“Oh, Y/N! Good job securing that deal with Mister Park the other day. It’s all thanks to my valuable tutelage, is it not?” your manager guffaws, slapping your back with misplaced camaraderie. He leaves his warm, sweaty palm there, feeling it slide an inch lower than you were comfortable with anyone being. The smell of cheap wine on his breath is making you feel nauseous, and the tacky black and white tiled flooring isn’t doing anything to lessen the incoming migraine.

“Right,” you say with a tight-lipped smile, unable to say anything else lest you lose your job over something silly like establishing boundaries. It’s no wonder that the number of female employees on your floor has significantly dropped over the years, especially with rumors attaching themselves like maggots all over your stupid manager’s name. You wouldn’t be surprised if his stomach exploded ala Alien (1979) style with how much bullshit resides in his body and soul.

You’ve long since given up on anyone saving you, not when everyone was either too busy taking advantage of the free food or too scared to confront your shitty boss. You resign to your fate, ready to scrub yourself clean with a brick once you get home in a futile attempt to rid yourself of the feeling of his hands on you.

That is, until someone clears their throat from behind you.

Salvation comes to you wrapped in a crisp white button-up, thick-rimmed glasses, and cat-like eyes. You almost want to start breaking into Gregorian chant just then to fully express your gratitude to the deities of above for sending an angel in your time of tribulation.

“Excuse me,” the (welcome) intruder says, voice quiet but clear even amidst the cacophonous music and chatter. Min Yoongi steps forward until he is to your right, and you don’t miss the way his shoulder “accidentally” bumps your manager hard enough for him to drop his hand from your back. When Yoongi smiles at your manager, it is all teeth and no mirth, his eyes carefully blank.

Thankfully, your manager isn’t quite as fortunate in his brains department as he is in his stomach. “Oh, Yoongi! It is so nice to finally see you attend one of our social functions. You are enjoying yourself, I hope?” your manager asks, guffawing loudly despite no joke being said. You never did quite understand how some men think they are the most hilarious thing to ever exist since clowns, though you suppose your manager was only missing the red nose to complete the look.

“Thrilled, Mister Lee. Absolutely thrilled,” Yoongi says in a dead monotone voice. You can’t help but giggle at his sarcasm, and Yoongi points a wicked grin back at you before returning to his neutral and passive “work” face.

The sarcasm flies over your managers head like you expected, though you can hardly blame the alcohol for his lack of cognizance. You wouldn’t be half surprised if you knocked lightly on his head, only to hear a resounding echo following thereafter.

“I have never seen you at any of our parties before, Yoongi. What’s with the sudden change of heart?” your manager asks.

“Sir, I’ve attended every single social gathering since I was hired,” Yoongi says plainly, his composure never faltering. He must have better control than you, because you’re sure you would’ve barely held yourself back from smacking your manager had it been you. Though in fairness, you aren’t sure if you’ve ever noticed Yoongi at any of the other parties before this one either.

“Oh really? Well then, you mustn’t have said hello before then!” your manager laughs, patting Yoongi on the shoulder. “Always so enigmatic, our dear Yoongi! Well, keep up the good work.” When your manager turns his attention to speak to another one of your poor coworkers, Yoongi visibly gags from behind your manager’s back, grimacing as he pats away all traces of that foul man’s hand germs away from his dress shirt.

“Gross. Now my sleeve is damp,” he mutters, just audible enough so that only you could hear. You laugh out loud at that, nodding in understanding.

“Same here. There’s probably a gross sweaty handprint on my back now,” you say, wincing when you do feel a noticeable damp spot near the small of your back. “Ugh, what a pig.”

“Tell me about it,” Yoongi shakes his head, making a move to get away from your awful manager. He gestures for you to follow him, and you are more than happy to oblige.

“Thanks for saving me, by the way,” you add, keeping in step with him. He leads you out of the disorienting ballroom, though he doesn’t head towards the exit like you had expected. He appears to know the building much more than you do, given by how assuredly he walks. Either that, or he could be leading you to a deadend, but confidently.

“No problem. You honestly looked like you were about to punt him across the room, though I doubt anyone would be opposed to that magnificent spectacle,” Yoongi jokes, same mischievous grin from before decorating his face. He is so different from the taciturn man you had met two weeks ago, back when he had half-hidden behind his desk like an animal being cornered. Though, that might not be the best analogy to think of, as it only painted you as some sort of predator who came after meek and soft-looking men. Which you aren’t. Hopefully.

“Oh, I would’ve done more than just that, so really he should be thanking you for saving him,” you snort, and Yoongi chuckles lightly in response. Like before, his laughter is just as pleasant as you remember. Your greedy heart yearns to elicit the same sound from him once more, for as many times as you can muster before the night ends.

You had been so immersed in trying to keep up with his quick strides that you don’t notice where exactly he has taken you. The two of you haven’t gone too far away from the ballroom before he stops right in front of a metal double door, the neon green exit sign about it glowing conspicuously in the otherwise dimly lit corridor. He pushes it open, allowing the cool evening air to blow across you and your hand-me-down dress.

“Are we… at the balcony?” you ask, though the view that greets you is answer enough. How Yoongi could have known where the balcony is, you can’t say for certain. But any sort of question dies on your lips when you see how beautiful the skyline is: the stars and city lights twinkling indiscriminately, the sound of nightlife and traffic sounding loud despite the streets being so far away, the smell of ozone signalling an oncoming storm.

This, of course, is what you imagine the view to be like. You know, if the ever reliable Seoul smog wasn’t there to obstruct any sort of magical, romantic view that you should have been privy to.

“Oh damn. I forgot the smog forecast today was especially bad,” Yoongi groans from beside you, quickly shuffling through his pant pockets for a face mask. He procurs two black masks, still in their plastic packaging, and hands one of them to you. “Jesus. Sorry about this. Didn’t expect the smog to be so bad… We can just go back inside, if you want?”

Then, you are reminded of your manager, who is basically pollution incarnate with how terrible his breath is. So, you accept Yoongi’s proffered mask and promptly put it on. “Yeah, no thanks,” you say, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. The implication of your acceptance makes Yoongi grin cheekily back at you (or so you think, guessing by how his eyes crinkle cutely above his mask.)

Now properly equipped to not inhale disgusting air matter into your lungs, you step out farther across the balcony, enjoying the way the cool night breeze feels against your alcohol flushed face. (Though, if you were being honest, the heat on your cheeks has less to do with the meager flute of champagne you had earlier and more to do with the company you currently find yourself with.)

“I fucking hate these company dinners,” you whine a little bit too petulantly, complete with the jutted lip of a child who has been forced to wait as her mother engages in an eternity long conversation with an acquaintance. You lean against the railings near the edge of the building, watching idly as Yoongi does the same. “Don’t you think that if they wanted us to get ‘closer’ with one another, they’d first want to address the fact that some of our coworkers happen to be pigs dressed in white collared shirts?”

Yoongi snorts at that, his right hand immediately coming up to his mouth to silence the unflattering sound. Not that it wasn’t completely charming to you, but you do enjoy the slight abashment that blooms across his face shortly thereafter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh like that. But, I do agree with you… I can’t say that anyone in our department is especially fond of that Habsburg motherfucker.”

Maybe it was the little bit of alcohol in your system, or perhaps it was the sudden rush of realizing that Yoongi is strangely attractive when he swears, but the laugh that exits your mouth sounds a touch too crazed for your liking. Either that, or perhaps you’re finally dying from the pollution.

Luckily for the both of you, it seems that Yoongi likes your weird laugh just as much as you like his. He tries to hide a smile before continuing, “Like, come on! I’m sorry for saying that because attacks on physical appearance is always a low blow, but why the fuck does that dude look like he’s been compressed and flattened on Photoshop? He’s got perpetual flat-face syndrome. You could - you could land a damn plane on his face or some shit.”

The cork inside of your bursts, and you let out the most ungodly guffaw in your life. You don’t even have the time to be embarrassed by how loud your howls are, not when every word he says hits the mark a little bit too close to home. There’s nothing quite as pleasing than sharing mutual dislike for the same person, and it fills you with the utmost glee that Yoongi is no exception to that rule.

“Oh god… You’re right. You are absolutely right. I seriously can’t believe anyone can put up with him. I mean, the damned bastard couldn’t even remember my name until two weeks ago,” you say, shaking your head in disgust. The first few times he had forgotten, you had been gracious enough to laugh away his mistakes as little more than that: mistakes. But when five years pass and peanuts-for-a-brain still hasn’t deemed that remembering your name to be as important as when the “next big Game™” is, then it’s easy to understand the depth of your resentment towards your manager.

“Are you for real?” Yoongi asks, brows raised in shock. “How could anyone ever forget you – I mean, shit, uh,” Yoongi coughs suddenly, red-faced. You tilt your head in confusion, waiting for him to finish. He’s still kind of spluttering when he continues, “What I meant to say is… H-how could anyone forget their employees name after working here for so long?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I have no idea. Honestly, I think he’s trying to purposefully forget everything I tell him. One time, he had asked me what plans I had for Christmas, and I mentioned to him how I was going to be visiting my parents back home, and he has the gall to ask what country I’m from. Like???” Your face contorts as if you had eaten an entire lemon, so wracked with disbelief that Yoongi can see the hypothetical question marks floating above your head. “Bitch, do I look foreign to that bastard? I’ve lived here all my life!”

Yoongi hums, thoughtful. “Your parents live just an hour away from here, right?”

“I… Yeah, they do,” you reply. You eye Yoongi curiously, watching his all-too familiar flush resurfacing on his neck once more. “Wait… How do you know that?”

“You… You were talking about them, once. To Seulgi? Yea, you were, um…” Yoongi coughs unassuredly, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous tick of his, you suppose. “It was a year ago? Something about visiting them during the weekend… Not that I was eavesdropping on purpose! I would never, er, do that…”

You don’t even register his embarrassment as you are mostly shell shocked that he had even remembered that little tidbit from over a year ago. Hell, you didn’t even remember going to your parent’s house until he mentioned it. “No it’s fine, I get it. I’m just surprised that you even bothered to remember that.”

Now it’s his turn to look at you strangely. “Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I?”

You stare at him in disbelief. Fluttering of wings begin to erupt in your stomach, but you hardly have the peace of mind to fully grasp why you were even feeling so flustered in the first place. It was just that he had said it so… matter-of-fact, like there was no possible way he could’ve forgotten even if he tried. It was kind of disconcerting, but flattering all the same. But more importantly--

“Wait, you’ve been working at the company since last year? How have I never seen you before this month?!”

“Oh,” Yoongi coughs out a laugh, scratching the end of his nose. He turns his gaze away, looking anywhere but you. “I was just, umm… Really quiet? I don’t really talk to anyone unless I need to. I’m more of a listener.”

“Oh my God, now I feel even more terrible for not knowing your name! I must look like an egotistic bitch to you,” you despair lowly, cupping your face into your hands in shame. You feel another pair of cold hands clasp your wrists, and you watch in shock as he pulls your palms away with a determined expression.

“What? Of course not. You are definitely not an egotistic bitch, Y/N. In fact, you’re the complete opposite,” Yoongi whispers, so quiet that you might have imagined it. He grasps your hands tightly, like he’s desperate for you to believe him.

You stammer in embarrassment, staring wide-eyed at Yoongi as you try to regrasp your comprehension skills. It’s especially hard to concentrate with how close Yoongi is to you, the latter unaware of his own proximity. He had stepped closer towards you to hold your hand, and normally you hated it when people touched you without permission, but somehow… This was alright.

(Unbeknownst to you, this will not be the first time that Yoongi becomes your secret little exception. It’s only the first of many.)

“I-I don’t really know what to say?” Your gaze is locked on his firm grip on your hands, the only thing flitting through your mind: damn, this dude’s hands really are fucking freezing!

It takes another few seconds for Yoongi to calm down, and you know when it happens because the realization of what he had said makes itself apparent on his expression. He turns beet red in a second, stepping away from you with his arms flying off of you like those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, taking two steps away from you. You almost take two steps forward to keep the distance closer, but you have a feeling that he would keep walking away from you until you both inevitably fall off the balcony, so you smartly choose to stay away (even if it pains you to do so). You wait for his breathing to settle, all the while still reeling from his blatant confession just moments ago.

Could you even consider it a confession? Were you being delulu, or is there some sort of connection that you and Yoongi were both feeling?

“Yoongi, it’s fine! Really,” you smile wryly, raising your hands towards him open-faced, much like how you would do when approaching an agitated animal. Like a nervous kitty, you think privately to yourself. “I’m really flattered that you feel so… strongly?”

“I’m… I’m really not like this normally. Honest,” Yoongi says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I… I never… do that. Whatever that was. Umm.”

Because you’re a freak of nature and enjoy exacerbating awkward social interactions, you decide to respond to him like this: “No worries, I’m flattered, honest! But hey, maybe next time you try to give me a compliment, you could look me in the eye?” You know, like an asshole. Who points out people’s social anxieties like that? You bitch!

On cue, Yoongi’s cheeks bloom into cherry blossoms once more. “I––I, I didn’t mean to––uh!” he stammers.

“No, no, I’m sorry for even saying that!” You apologize profusely, bowing so low that he could probably see the top of your spine. “I didn’t mean to tease you like that! I’m sorry! That was seriously out of line!”

What a pair the two of you were… Like two trains crashing into each other at mach speed, continuously and eternally. A constant and ongoing catastrophe!

(The little gremlin living inside your brain is knocking at your empty skull, whispering deviously, “But doesn’t that make the two of you the perfect pair?”)

When he doesn’t respond back immediately, you have to wrack up enough courage to look back at him. You gasp audibly when you do, and you have to forcibly grip the insides of your bicep to keep yourself from squealing in pure anguish.

Because there, right before your very eyes, is a blushing Min Yoongi looking you straight in the eye with his face squished between his hands, as if he’s forcibly keeping his head locked in place. His pupils are noticeably shaking and his brows are furrowed in concentration, but he’s looking at you. Like you asked.

He’s… He’s too…

“Okay, let me try this again.” Yoongi takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what may be the most embarrassing thing he has ever done in his life. “Y… You’re a great person, Y/N. I hope you know that,” he whispers, voice trailing off by the end of his sentence.

He’s dry heaving like he’s just finished a marathon, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You’re worried if he even remembers how to blink with how intensely he’s staring you down, but you can’t bring yourself to ask him when your heart is quite literally beating out of your chest like a cartoon character from the 80’s.

“I…” You’re at a loss of words. If Min Yoongi can capture you like this with just a look, then think of how much more powerful he would be if he just learned how to use it. You’re slipping into real dangerous waters, and you don’t know if you’re just a frog in boiling water or if this is where you were meant to be all along.

“Yoongi, I didn’t mean for you to… force yourself like that, really…”

The moment breaks, finally, when Yoongi begins to cry.

“Shit!” you both exclaim, but for two different reasons. “Are you okay? Oh my god!” you reach out for him, not even thinking when you cup his cheeks in your hands. He gently pushes you away with one hand, while the other goes to scrub at his tears.

“Yes, I’m fine! A piece of dust got caught in my eye and I was too slow to blink it away,” he explains, still wiping at his cheeks. He pulls his mask down to his chin, pouting cutely at you. “Sorry. I’m not used to looking people in the eye yet. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Oh my god. At this point, you’d be surprised if your heart was located anywhere near your body. You were running purely on autopilot, so enamored by the boy in front of you that you could almost faint. He was entirely too unreal, unbelievably so. Perhaps, if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to find your heart again, and you know the first place where you’d look.

“Give it back,” you mumble, and Yoongi tilts his head at you in confusion.

“Sorry? Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” you reply, reaching over him and snapping his mask back on his face. You laugh as he splutters in surprise, floundering about overdramatically as if the elastic on the mask had done any damage to him at all. “Oh, stop it. You’re just being silly now.”

“Hey, I have delicate skin! You never know,” he jokes, but stops when you give him an unimpressed look.

“Sorry,” he laughs again. “And well, since I keep saying sorry today, and you look like you could use a little warming up, do you wanna leave this place and get some coffee? My treat.”

And really, who were you to say no to that?

And really, who were you to say no to Min Yoongi?

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his thoughtfulness quietly. It would go something like this:

A steaming hot coffee cup from the nearby cafe manifests itself on your desk one Monday morning. In your sleep-deprived haze, you had originally failed to realize that there was a hand connected to that cup and that it hadn’t actually just materialized from thin air like you had thought. After much blinking and staring, you crane your head up to see Jesus standing in front of you, his glasses still fogged from the outside chill.

“I got you a drink. I hope I remembered your order right,” Yoongi says in lieu of a greeting, a small smile gracing his lips as he watches you lethargically reach over for the cup to lift the lid open. His grin widens when he sees your eyes light up at the sight of little marshmallows bobbing up and down in your hot chocolate, bits of whipped cream already melting away from the heat. When you take a sip, you breathe a content sigh, your eyelids fluttering shut.

“Yoongi, I’m going to kiss your feet right now and you can’t stop me,” you say, upper lip lined with cream and sugar. Yoongi’s hand twitches by his side, but he doesn’t move.

“Even if I have toe fungus?”

“Especially if you have toe fungus,” you say, downing as much hot chocolate down your throat without choking and barfing all over him.

From the rim of your cup, you can see that Yoongi still has his parka on, his signature black mask pulled down his chin indicating that he’s only just arrived at the office. It makes your heart jump a little, knowing that he went straight to you first before anyone else that day.

“I still don’t understand how you hate coffee. Like, I don’t think I’d be able to be conversing with you right now if I didn’t have caffeine running through my veins,” he says, staring at you(r lips) as you chew a marshmallow thoughtfully.

You want to tell him that Yoongi doesn’t talk a lot anyway in the first place, though you have begun to notice that he’s becoming more talkative the more you hang out with him. However, you aren’t quite sure if you’re imagining it, but it seems like Yoongi’s change in personality doesn’t really apply when he’s with anyone else. On the days where you’d pass by his cubicle on the way to the water coolers, he’d still have his usual stoic expression on his face as he goes through his paperwork with the grace of a robot. When he’s with you, however…

“Says the guy who’s started drinking frappes after I suggested them to you. Don’t lie to me, Min Yoongi.” You’re giggling softly, and you can tell Yoongi’s seams are already breaking. Pink gums and straight teeth are seconds away from peaking through. You wink cheekily at him. “You’re just as sweet as your personality is.”

“Stop, that’s so embarrassing!” he exclaims, hiding behind his hands. He’s already smiling. “I’m not as sweet as you think! I’m a mean guy!”

“Yoongi, you literally just bought me hot chocolate with marshmallows because you remembered what I like. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body,” you retort, rolling your eyes at the prominent pout on his face.

“Not true! I stole an extra coupon booklet when I was at the grocery store the other day.”

“Ooooh, I do love a bad boy,” you say, but the two of you are already laughing hysterically. “Seriously, thanks. I really needed this today.”

“Dang, bad morning already?” he winces, having noticed the purple moons under your eyes when he had approached you. He didn’t want to mention it without you bringing it up first, but he had been worried about you since last Friday when you had left the workplace with a slammed door.

“Try bad weekend. Mr. Lee has been pushing my buttons for months now, but I seriously didn’t think he thought it was a challenge. He’s been giving me shitty filing jobs to complete like I’m some overworked intern!”

Yoongi cocks his head, confused. “Aren’t you, like… In the advertising department? Why would he make you file things?”

“Exactly!” You’re all but roaring now, but Yoongi can’t help smirking at the stray dollop of whipped cream that had somehow found its way on your nose. He pulls his sleeve over his wrist, swiping it away with the fabric as nonchalantly as possible (which is to say, he’s as red as a spanked ass when he does it.)

You don’t even notice his actions, still deep in the abyss of your rage. “And also! My shitty phone ran out of storage space the other day so I’ve had to delete all the songs on my library and I can’t find any good playlists on Spotify to help me dissociate on the train!”

“Wow, that’s a mood,” Yoongi says, chuckling. He clears his throat, an idea popping into his head. He turns bashful all of a sudden, gaze diverting upwards as he musters the courage to say, “I-I mean, I think I can help you with that last problem, if you want…”

You stop huffing and puffing long enough to appear intrigued. “Oh? Are you gonna send me a playlist?”

Yoongi splutters. “I mean! If you want it, I do have some songs that I like listening to.”

Yoongi squeaks when you smile at that, radiant and all-encompassing. He wonders how he’s not dead right now.

“Oh god, that would be great actually! Text me the link, would you?” you say, already making grabby hands for his phone. “Here, lemme put my phone number in your phone.”

Yoongi almost drops his phone as he takes it out of his pocket, staring in awe as he watches you type in your number into his phone. He has to keep himself from outright howling when he sees you place a sunflower emoji beside your name. How fitting, he thinks to himself.

When you return the phone back to him, he immediately texts you the link to his playlist. You have to keep yourself from screaming to the heavens when you see the very Yoongi-esque title, “Songs for the Sleepless,” complete with the grainy-noir-film-type playlist art to complete the look. It was just so… personal, so Yoongi, and it’s making you clench organs that you didn’t know were clenchable.

You whistle at the sheer number of songs on the playlist, with the first song being—“Didn’t peg you as a Lana Del Rey fan,” you pipe up, scrolling through his playlist with acute interest. “Kendrick Lamar and Epik High, I understand. But Lana?”

To his credit, the playlist did seem like it had a narrative of sorts, despite the eclectic range of artists and genres. You only recognize maybe ten of the songs from his five hundred song playlist, and you’re very curious to see what type of songs he connects to.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he shrugs his shoulders, though a little bit embarrassed. “Lana Del Rey could sing my obituary and I’d jump out of my grave in an instant.”

“Bit morbid but okay,” you laugh, finger ready to close your music player app when you catch sight of a song with an artist you didn’t expect to see. You reach over to tug on his sleeve, your sly smile already causing Yoongi to break out in hives. “Hey… I didn’t know you shared your name with a singer, unless, of course…”

Yoongi doesn’t even let you finish your sentence when he yelps in surprise, snatching your phone out of your grip as his eyes bug out of his sockets. His ears redden, words tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall as he tries to explain himself despite your raucous giggling.

“I––You weren’t supposed to––I forgot about! That was––I was just––Ugh,” he groans despairingly, smacking himself in the forehead with your phone. You’re still giggling madly, enjoying the spectacle before you as Yoongi’s ears are practically shooting out steam.

“You’re so cute.” It slips out of your mouth with such ease that you almost don’t notice saying it at all; you’re still smiling dreamily at Yoongi as he stares at you in shock, mouth still agape from his earlier rambling. You gasp loudly when your brain cells finally catch up, but by then it’s already too late. Now, the two of you were a matching pair, with your fire engine red ears standing at attention.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that,” you mutter into your hands. You wish the earth would swallow you whole right now.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that,” Yoongi wails beside you, but you don’t notice the small satisfied smile he’s sporting on his reddened face. “Y-You can’t just say things and not expect me to…”

You look up, wondering why he’d suddenly trailed off at the end. “Expect you to what?”

Yoongi, once again, defies the laws of the universe by somehow turning even redder than humanly possible. “N-nothing. Ignore me. Let’s just admit we’re both embarrassing and carry on, can we?”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding enthusiastically. “But, does that mean I can listen to your songs, Mister Min ‘I’m-a-superstar-singer-in-my-spare-time’ Yoongi?”

“I’m not a superstar! I just record songs in my free time, that’s all,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Says the guy who apparently raps as a hobby! Seriously, I can tell I’m gonna love it already.”

His gaze is turned upwards, cheeks puffed up in embarrassment. He looks like he wants to say something else, however, and you wait for him as he tries to gather the courage to say what else is on his mind. “S-say, I was wondering… Since I’m already here and all, do you want to maybe go out wi—”

“Yo! Hyung!”

A deep voice from across the office floor snaps the two of you out of your little bubble in an instant. It doesn’t take a genius to tell who it is, not when there’s only one person in the entire company who would dare wear a sushi-print tie to work at one of the most lucrative companies in the country.

Kim Namjoon hobbles over to your little cubicle space in all his sushi-print tie glory, knocking over a coworker’s potted plant in the process. Between you and Yoongi, you had been more surprised by Namjoon’s sudden exclamation, mostly because you’d never been particularly close with the eccentric man. Yoongi probably can’t say the same since he had briefly mentioned that he and Namjoon go way back, though you’re starting to have some doubts about that due to the dirty glare Yoongi was currently pointing at the sentient noodles-for-legs.

Namjoon waves cheerily at you before cutting to the chase as he envelops Yoongi in a not-too-gentle hug. “Hyung! I’ve been looking for you. You weren’t at your desk this morning so I was wondering where you’d wandered off, but of course I’d find you here at Y/N’s de––”

Yoongi promptly stomps on Namjoon’s feet, causing the younger to yelp out in pain. “Namjoon. I told you I’d talk to you later.” Yoongi smiles sweetly, but you can see the aura of danger radiating off of him in waves. “Emphasis on later.”

Namjoon pouts petulantly, but he doesn’t look all that offended. “I was just gonna remind you to ask Y/N if she wanted to join us for lunch la––OUCH! WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET!”

Yoongi appears unbothered, not even looking back at Namjoon’s shouts of betrayal. All the while, he still has his gaze trained on you, never wavering for one second.

“Please ignore my colleague. He can a bit… Unnecessarily loud,” Yoongi says, accompanied by Namjoon’s splutters of indignation.

“Umm?? I’m right here?? Your actual best friend?? Geez!” Namjoon huffs, looking at the both of you incredulously. You just shrug your shoulders, completely dumbfounded by the last five minutes of human interaction.

“As Namjoon was saying before we were so rudely interrupted… I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with me? Namjoon can join too, but only if he behaves,” Yoongi jokes, smirking at Namjoon’s ireful glares.

You giggle quietly at the unlikely pair, amused beyond belief at this new side of Yoongi that you hadn’t been aware of. So this is how he is with his friends… Cocky Yoongi is definitely someone you wouldn’t mind talking to occasionally, you admit.

“Sure, I’d love to. Just let me finish all this filing crap for Mr. Lee, then I’ll head over to your desk at around 12?” If you work at a breakneck pace, then you could probably finish sooner if you didn’t let anything else distract you. “Oh! And I should probably return your umbrella before you leave. I keep forgetting to give it back to you.”

“No worries,” Yoongi says. “You should keep the umbrella. I’ve got a spare anyway.”

Namjoon’s head whips toward Yoongi at that, staring at him skeptically. “Dude. Ain’t that your favorite Kumamon umbrella though? Didn’t you almost murder me that one time I forgot it at the McDonald’s last mo––WILL YOU STOP STEPPING ON MY FEET! I’M GONNA GET FLATFOOT SYNDROME!”

“Not my problem,” Yoongi replies, pinching Namjoon’s nose for good measure. He turns to you, waving goodbye. “See you in a few?”

You stretch your back, psyching yourself up to get back to work. “Right. I’ll text you when I’m done okay? See you at 12-ish!”

The boys make their leave, bickering all the while. You catch wind of a bit of their conversation as they turn the corner, their voices echoing down the hall.

“Hey, I noticed that you were looking Y/N in the eye when you were speaking. Why don’t you ever look me in the eye when we talk!”

Yoongi snorts, flipping him off. “It’s because you’re not as nice to look at. Simple as that.”

In your seat, you smile secretly to yourself, butterflies erupting in your chest. Filled with newly found fervor, you chip away at the pile of work on your desk until it starts to vanish from view.

Before you know it, you’re off to see Yoongi once more.

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his vulnerability quietly. It would go something like this:

x x x x x

There is a boy you know who likes to show his love quietly. It would go something like this:

Your day begins with a phone call: a warning. Your boss tells you to come into work as soon as possible, not a note of enthusiasm or friendliness in his tone. He ends the call just as abruptly as it had come, the silence following soon after deafening your ears. Your heart races marathons in your chest, and your brain goes to the worst place it can go.

Your hands are sweating gallons upon gallons as you shrug your coat on, fumbling with your keys as you struggle to place them in your pocket. For a brief moment, you think about calling Yoongi for moral support, but think better of it. You don’t want to bother anyone, especially not him.

You, the lone ranger, walk out of your apartment and into the murky urban outdoors, the first pitter-patters of rain making their descent the moment your foot meets the pavement. You don’t have quite the energy to go back inside to grab your umbrella, not when you’re unsure if you’ll be courageous enough to leave your bedroom once more if you did.

You’d always been a coward, a soft-hearted fool. Content with shouldering the consequences of your actions without another word: a sufferer in silence. For the past few weeks, you thought you might have changed. You’d been smiling a lot more, laughing a lot more. Your cheeks were often more red than any other color these days, and it was all thanks to a boy you know.

He was shy, but brave. Quiet, but talkative. Mysterious, but vulnerable.

He made you realize that there was no need to settle for one side of a coin, not when you could have both. The longer you stuck around him, the stronger your desire was to become… more.

You wanted to be open; you wanted to be known. You wanted to be able to ask for what you want, and never feel the crushing sense of guilt that usually came afterwards. You wanted to be unapologetic, wanted to keep your hands open, waiting for good things to come your way. To never cower in the face of a gift being handed to you. You wanted to have all that life has to offer––

(Him. Him. Him.)

But there is something pitiful about being unable to keep your own promises. The embarrassment of returning to the state where you once were, of turning meek at the first sign of adversity. The dreams of a happier life drifts away from you like mist under the morning sun, and the pressing weight of the world once again makes its home on your shoulders.

And so, you do not cry when your boss tells you to pack up your things within the hour.

You do not cry when you cut your finger on the corner of your desk that had never been replaced during your five-year stay at this company.

You do not cry when one of your potted plants smash to the floor when you try to carry too many things at once.

You do not cry when co-workers you’d only barely spoken to come over to your desk with showers of condolences, as if you’d already died.

You do not cry when Kim Namjoon walks over to you, quietly bending down to help you carry your boxes down to the lobby.

And when all is said and done, you most especially do not cry when Min Yoongi runs to you with his lungs burning in his chest, glasses still fogged up from the morning cold outside. His hair is in disarray and his shirt is on backwards, as if he’d jumped out of bed the moment he knew something was wrong. When he skids to a halt right in front of you, the pain etched on his face is as plain as day.

Wordlessly, he takes the last box out of your hands, placing his car keys on top when he can’t hold onto them both. His eyes flit towards your clenched fists for a second, but looks away the moment you notice. Instead, he walks out to the elevator, and you follow soon after.

You do not cry when Min Yoongi helps you load his car with your things. You do not cry when he takes a first-aid kit out of his glovebox and puts a band-aid on your finger. You do not cry when he offers to pass by the local home depot to pick up a new plant when he notices yours is gone. You do not cry when he doesn’t treat you like your life has ended.

(But you feel it. Pricking along your eyes like a dam about to break. He is doing this to you. He’s making you feel again, and it fucking hurts.)

And so, he drives you home.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Yoongi starts after a while, tapping a rhythm away on his steering wheel as he waits for the morning rush traffic to subside. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, worried when you don’t respond. You keep your head pressed against the cool car window, staring blankly at the gray skyline.

“I… I hope you don’t mind if I play you something. Just… Just listen to it, okay?”

You don’t see him, but you hear his fingers switch their tapping to his phone as he unlocks it, searching for the song he wants you to hear. It takes a moment or two for him to find it, soft curses tumbling from his lips as he goes through his Google Drive for the unfinished draft that he hadn’t meant to show you until it was complete, but well––

You were always an exception to him, weren’t you?

The first notes come creeping up from behind you, and it reminds you of the way Yoongi would speak to you. All soft whispers and gummy smiles, like he’s restraining himself. Slowly but surely, the music grows louder, more confident with its sound. You can picture Yoongi standing upright, hand outstretched towards you as he asks you to follow him.

The song is unfamiliar, but there’s something about it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. You’re trying to go through your memories, sorting through the hundreds of songs that Yoongi has made you listen to but none of them seem to ring a bell. You’re still trying to figure out if you’d heard this before when the lyrics finally start.

“Lost in the sea of my regrets, you became my polaris.”

Yoongi’s voice comes from the radio speaker, jolting you from your seat. Your spine straightens, and you stare bullets at Yoongi’s phone as the song continues to play. When you look towards him, Yoongi’s face is a statue; the only thing giving away the fact that he was with you at all was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“The shadows, which had been my haven, no longer feel as good as they once did. You, my light, have changed all of that.”

You gasp, and Yoongi’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. It seems like the two of you stop moving at that moment, neither of you daring to breathe. Even the outside traffic sounds muted compared to the sound of your hearts hammering inside your chests.

“I’ve long since forgotten to pray, but I will remember for you. I only dream of happiness for you, my morning light, my northern star. And I’d give it all up for you.”

Yoongi notices your tears fall before you even do; he’s quick to fluster, scrambling through his car side door for a tissue to hand to you, but he stops the moment he feels your hand fist the elbow of his sleeve. He turns to look at you, all blotchy and tear-stained, but beautiful all the same. And even through your tears, you smile just as radiantly as when he had first seen you.

“Thank you,” you mouth, fingers trembling as you fight to keep more tears from falling, but nothing can stop a dam from breaking. Not when you’re sitting beside the hurricane who broke it in the first place; it was the boy with feelings that never did quite fit in his body the way other people’s did.

Luckily, they fit right in with you.

When the song comes to the end, you’re sniffling up a storm, but you still haven’t let go of him. When you’re only a few minutes away from your apartment, Yoongi parks a little bit far off from your doorstep, so you have to walk the rest of the way home. But you’re still unwilling to let go, not yet.

Gently, Yoongi pries your hand away from his sleeve and you’re about to protest, but the words die on your lips the moment they form when Yoongi rubs his hands along the side of his slacks before placing them in yours. His hands are still cold, but comforting all the same.

“Let me walk you home?” he whispers.

You nod. Of course, you want to say. But he knows what you mean, anyway.

When he goes to unpack your things from the trunk, you shake your head, stopping him from moving any further. “I… I don’t feel like sorting through those things right now. Is it fine with you if I just… Go home for now? Please?” Your brain feels like lead in your skull after all the bottled up tears had finally escaped from years of constant pressure, and you don’t think you’re quite ready to go through all those emotions again. You feel deflated, but better. He always makes you feel better.

Yoongi closes the trunk, locking his car before stretching out his hands for you. You stare at the proffered hand for a moment.

“Oh, right.” Yoongi goes to rub his hands to warm them, but you stop him once more in his ministrations. He looks at you, confused, as you grab his hand from him. You rub circles into his palm, staring at the ground in embarrassment.

“You’re always warming your hands for me… So this time, I’ll warm them for you, okay?”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything in response to that. Instead, he tugs you along towards the sidewalk and keeps you close to him. As he walks with you, you notice the way he leans slightly to the left, like he’s drawn to you––like he can’t help be more than an inch further from you.

You keep glancing back down at your linked hands; he’s shaking, but then again, that could also be you.

You arrive at the gate of your apartment quicker than you would have liked. Neither of you move to separate; when you look back at Yoongi, you see that his eyes are trained on you. He doesn’t even flinch away like he used to. His lips are pursed, like he wants to say something but he’s still too afraid to.

So you say it for him instead.

“Do you have… somewhere to be?” Unlike you, he still has a job. He still has commitments. He still has a life outside of you. You’re hit with fear, once again, at the sudden change in your circumstances.

You might never get to see him again. Is this where your paths cross, never to intersect again? Your stomach drops at the thought, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“No, I don’t. I could…” Yoongi trails off, glancing at your apartment with soft hesitance. “If… If you want me to…”

Yes. Please. I’d love it. I love yo–– ”Yes. Stay with me?” you mumble.

“Always,” he promises.

The pair of you trudge up to your apartment, passing by the prying eyes of housewives with your heads bowed in embarrassment. They don’t miss your pinkies linked behind your backs, nor the subtle blushes on the apples of your cheeks. Thankfully, they don’t comment when Yoongi enters your apartment after you, but they do giggle when his coat gets caught on the door handle in his rush.

When the two of you are finally alone, the air isn’t as awkward as you had feared. You work like two cogs in a machine; he readies your TV and scrolls through your Netflix for a movie, while you go to your kitchen and have a small mental breakdown (while also microwaving some popcorn). Soon, the two of you are snuggled into your small couch, elbows barely brushing against each other.

You’re only half paying attention to the generic action movie that Yoongi had put on; you were still deep in your thoughts. You’re picking away at your hangnail, worrying your lip as you try to enjoy what might be the last time you’ll ever get to hang out with Yoongi again. You’re so deep in your musings that you don’t immediately feel when Yoongi wraps his arms around your shoulder, nestling your head into his chest.

“W… What?” You crane your head and stare at Yoongi in shock, but he’s already returned his attention back to the movie. His cheeks are burning.

You’re still stiff with tension despite his comforting caresses against your hair, so he changes tactics and brings your hand up to his.

You think he’s just going to hold your hand, but he keeps bringing your hand up until it gently caresses his face. Just as you’re about to ask him what he’s doing, he curls your fingers until only your pointer is left unfurled, and casually uses it to poke himself in the cheek.

He leaves it there for a second or two, and when you finally turn to face him, he’s smiling so sweetly at you that you almost feel compelled to cry again. His eyes and nose are all scrunched up, rose petal gums on full display. Your finger is still pressed gently into his soft cheeks.

“You said you liked to dream about poking my bread cheeks. Well, here’s your chance,” he says, like it’s nothing at all. As if what he has done was as simple as breathing.

Yoongi’s smile brightens when he feels your form relax against him, giggling softly when you go to pinch his cheek for good measure.

“Bread cheekies,” you say, like you’re in a trance.

Yoongi nods. “Bread cheekies,” he repeats. “And it’s all yours.”

There’s a promise in there, you know. Somehow, he had sensed your worry and had thought of the perfect way to calm you. Like always, he never has to say it. He’s never needed words, anyway.

The two of you stay like that for hours. The sun sets as surely as the moon rises, and Min Yoongi stays with you through the night. When your mind drifts off and only your steady breathing fills the room, Min Yoongi brushes a small kiss against your forehead.

“Dream of happiness, my love,” he whispers into your skin, just when he thinks you’re asleep, “I’ll dream of you, too.”

It’s a promise that he keeps.

There is a boy you know who never learned how to say he loves you, but it never mattered all that much to you––not when he’s willing to show you over and over again. It goes something like this––

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luminescencefics · 3 years

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fade in, fade out: deleted scene

"Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

Hi all! In honor of Fic Slam 2, here is a Fade chapter six deleted scene. You don’t have to be caught up on the story to understand it as it can completely stand alone, but if you’d like to get a glimpse of Harry and Nora’s world, click here to check it out! Thanks to the lovely as ever @oh-honey-styles for putting this together. I can’t wait to see what everybody else has come up with!

1k word count

my masterlist // read below:

***

Harry was drunk again.

It’s not like he really had any other choice in the matter, considering his mates were buying him round after round and the girl he’s been both simultaneously terrified and begging to talk to has barely spared him a second look in the past two hours.

He really doesn’t blame her, though.

Because things have been unbearably awkward ever since she first stepped on English soil and unknowingly ran into him that night at the pub nearly a month prior. A month filled with longing and confusion and wonder and a ridiculous amount of feelings Harry hasn’t let himself think about in the three years since his eyes last fell on hers.

Harry has so much to make up for—so much grovelling, so much apologizing, so much owning up to do that the weight of it all is practically unimaginable to him.

But like most boys at the ripe age of twenty-two, Harry is a coward. So he sits. And he drinks.

His tactic of avoiding and observing her from a distance seems to be working, because from his vantage point on the other side of the crowded room, his body leaning against the sticky beer-coated cherrywood bar top, he can watch the way her newly dyed dark brown hair flits whenever she turns her head to continue a conversation with her new girlfriends. He can practically hear the melodic giggle falling from her pouty, raspberry stained lips whenever somebody says something worth laughing about. He can practically feel the warmth of her gaze as her bright blue eyes squint in adoration whenever she speaks to somebody she feels undeniably comfortable around.

Because it’s Nora fucking Priestley, and everything she does seems to affect Harry in the most impressive yet terrifying way. It’s as if he’s a livewire and every single time Nora giggles or smiles or leaves a lipstick stain on her pint glass, Harry flinches with the possibility of rupture. His heart does things his drunken brain can’t seem to comprehend, and when her blue eyes fall onto his hazy greens and she stares at him with a look he can’t decipher, Harry feels his stomach bottom out. He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clutching onto his pint glass until the skin surrounding his knuckles are painted white and practically ripping at the seam, and it’s only when she looks away when Harry feels his lungs expanding for a proper breath, and he nearly collapses under the weight of it.

He needs another fucking drink.

Somehow he’s ended up alone in the ripped, red-leather clad booth, an empty beer and shot glass in front of him. He’s been staring at the same chipped wood for so long that he hasn’t realized that the rest of his mates have upped and left him until the gentle thud of a smaller body falls into the seat near him. Suddenly, the smell of sandalwood and rosebud flood through his nostrils, and he doesn’t need to look up to see that it’s her. The pathetic drumline of his heart thundering underneath his expensive dress shirt practically gives him away.

“Are you ever going to talk to me?” Nora’s quiet voice asks, and Harry’s surprised he can hear it over the loud clamor of the band from the stage in front of them.

He looks up then, sad green eyes looking into blue. It still shocks him how familiar she feels, his body practically rendered motionless when he feels the warmth of her smooth skin, remembers the quirk of her upper lip, refamiliarizes himself with the beauty marks littering her face.

God, he misses her so much, to the point where he can hardly breathe sometimes.

“I don’t know what to say to you, I just—I don’t want to fuck up anymore. ‘S all I seem to do whenever I’m around you. So not saying anything is the—’s just the better alternative.”

“So you won’t talk to me, but you’ll stare at me from across the bar?” Nora asks with a teasing grin.

Harry laughs a bit, his cheeks pinkening when he realizes his tactics were not as subtle as he originally planned.

With a shrug, Harry says, “Can’t help it, you’re too pretty not to look at.”

Now, Nora’s the one blushing. “I think you’ve had one too many of these, mister,” she says, flicking her navy-painted fingernail against his empty pint glass. The action causes her bare arm to brush against his, and Harry shudders at the simplest form of contact.

God, he really is pathetic.

She’s a bit closer now, and without really thinking of the repercussions, Harry grasps at her wrist gently and observes the color coating her fingernails a bit closer.

“Hm, ‘s nice. Brings out your eyes,” he whispers, suddenly realizing how closely they’re sitting to one another. Nora’s kneecap is digging into the meat of Harry’s thigh, and the point of her elbow is resting on the sticky table while her forearm brushes the material of his shirt covering his ribs.

“You aren’t even looking at my eyes,” Nora whispers back, her body quivering when Harry lifts his gaze from her bitten lips to her darkened pupils.

Harry licks his bottom lip, coating the dry skin with his saliva until they look alive again—two glistening pink pillows that Nora remembers thinking about long after she first tasted them nearly three years ago in her tiny Townbridge dorm room in the middle of winter.

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Harry asks, leaning a centimeter forward so that Nora can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“Do you want me to?” she asks timidly, feeling his thumb gently caress her palm, his digit creating a tantalizing path from wrist to palm, back and forth, the sensation embarrassingly dizzying.

“Nora, I think I’ll die if you don’t kiss me ever again.”

Nora feels a breath trapped in her lungs, a hitch of her breath as she flicks her eyes back and forth, zeroing in on the enlargement of his pupils when he realizes that she hasn’t backed away from him yet. The revelation is so honest and so un-Harrylike that Nora isn’t sure why her lips aren’t fastened to his own yet, and when she finds that she hasn’t blinked in nearly sixty seconds, she brings her face just a bit closer to his, a subtle shift that causes the loud noise of the pub to fade into the background.

And just when she’s about to close the small distance between them, the tips of their noses brushing as their lips hover dangerously close to the others, sporadic spurts of hot breaths passing between the two like a secret, Piper calls Nora’s name from the bar, causing the sound of the busy pub to come crashing back into her ear canals, forcing Nora to spring backwards as if Harry’s lips were made of fire.

“Nora! Refills!” Piper yells over drunkenly, seemingly unaware that she interrupted Nora and Harry’s second first kiss in almost three years.

“I, uh—I should go,” Nora says quickly, cheeks permanently stained red as she tries her hardest to regulate her breathing.

“Yeah,” Harry says defeatedly, watching as she scrambles out of the old leather booth and stumbles over to the bar without looking at him over her shoulder.

When she’s finally gone, Harry sinks into the leather seating, slamming his head back against the booth as he struggles to get his erratic heartbeat back to the standard sixty beats per minute. His fingers itch for another drink, and when he maneuvers his legs out from under the table, he nearly flinches at the sudden tightness of his pants.

He looks down, noticing the slightly risen bump covering the front of his dark jeans, and he sighs frustratedly, running a shaking hand through his long, mangled curls.

He’s half-hard and embarrassed beyond disbelief at the fact that Nora’s lips barely grazing against his own roused such a reaction out of him.

Harry Styles truly is pathetic—pathetic, indeed.

***

#HSFICSLAM #harry styles drabble #harry styles imagine #harry styles x ofc #harry styles x reader #1dff #1dffupdates #onedirectionfanfiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #fic: fade

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cherrynojutsu · 3 years

Text

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes ending author's notes

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Chapter 8/?: Grasping

Sasuke awakens abruptly, nausea clawing its way out of his throat like a soup of sepsis that’s been left percolating on a stovetop for too long, finally boiling over and soiling everything.

Stomach churning, he tries to aim it at the floor - he’s gotten better at doing that, over the years - but he doesn’t quite succeed. Hot bile, acidic with mostly digested dinner, coats the side of his bedding and part of his sleeve.

He coughs, gagging on acid and torment and hyperventilation. Then his stomach lurches again, and he turns to retch another round at the floor. Part of it floods his nostrils, stinging, and he rasps more.

That triggers another round, after which he waits a minute, sharp coughs punctuating the stillness, familiar at this point with what his stomach’s settling feels like. He shrugs off his shirt once it does, and makes his way to the kitchen, hacking on a foul aftertaste and vomit-inducing visuals flashing before his eyes.

A glance at the clock tells him it’s half past midnight as he gulps water, snorting in a manner very undignified to clear out his nasal passages and soothe the putrid taste overwhelming his insides. Then he chokes more of it down, feeling the beginnings of a pounding headache.

There are times when having a near photographic memory is not a good thing. He is very tired of recalling crackling electricity, of stumbling over body after body with lifeless eyes. Men, women, children, all with charcoal irises like his.

And teammates, with irises decidedly not like his, luster flattened to single dull colors.

And himself, at the end, deranged and dispiteous, standing where Itachi had stood a long time ago, looming over remains as if he himself is the final obstacle to defeat before it just ends, the culminating villain in some fucked up fable. All at once, he’s a child again, gagging on a demented form of truth, left to stew there for years and years and years, rotting him from the inside out.

He's noxious. He knows he is. He wishes he could spit himself out along with partially digested yakitori.

Sasuke takes another sip of water as his vision blurs, trying desperately to focus on the wood grain of the cabinets and not daring to close his eyes, lest another flash snake its way into his ocularity and undo the mild soothing the water is providing. He coughs again, throat raw. Then his mouth starts watering, a telltale sign that he’s going to throw up again, so he walks carefully to the bathroom, bottle in hand and trying not to jostle his stomach more than is necessary. Switching on the light and flipping up the seat of the toilet, he makes it just in time.

This round it’s mostly just water, and it burns a little less. The murky brown color he’s faced with seems very reflective of what he feels inside, ignominy and wretchedness and self-loathing, no substance at all, just a bitter aftertaste of that which was left behind on a wood floor a lifetime ago. There had been saliva then, too, seeping from his mouth to the floor in his cowardice.

He swallows once, a gargantuan effort. Then he takes another sip of water, studying the text on the label to try to distract himself, vile and unsettled as he is.

He doesn’t deserve Sakura, not after what he’s done. When his vision starts to blur again, he can’t read anymore anyway, so he looks at the mangled mess left of his left arm instead.

He deserves that, a maiming to fit the crime. He wishes he were a better man.

Slowly so as not to further disturb his stomach, he lies down sideways, pressing his cheek to the coolness of the floor. He feels disconnected from everything, at a loss for proper coherent thought, a mess of misery sprawled on a tile too clean for his own rancidness.

Nothing matters for a long time. He just stares into nothingness, a mild burning in his throat and eyes on a void of pure white that he doesn’t belong in, thinking about how it matches the skin tone of bodies that have been drained of all their color. It’s like he’s barely there, nothing seeming real except the hollow feeling in his chest and the buzzing sensation tempering the edge of his consciousness, like his brain has been stuffed with cotton but parts of it are burning away to nothing. Everything of substance singes away in a controlled burn, destined to always have gaping holes of meaning scorched away at random wherever the fire takes hold.

He doesn't know if there ever even was anything in the first place, deep down. Maybe corrosion is a terrible metaphor, because what's left, at the end of it? Layers and layers of useless shale and sandstone and limestone, packed atop Precambrian filth that’s been decaying there for what feels like centuries. Or magma, set to burn anything he touches.

Or electrocute it.

XXX

Suddenly it’s hours later, and a bird is chirping outside, twitters resounding through a metaphysical tunnel of distortion. Gradually it shifts into an audio that doesn’t sound quite as echoed, accentuated by light filtering in through the miniscule bathroom window.

This happens, sometimes, the nightmares and the absconding into abeyance where his brain seems to shut off, a resulting loss of significant chunks of time. Not sleeping, just staring at something dully for a while, stuck on the same cycle of repeating thought. The memorial stone is a trigger for it, he thinks. It’s why he dreaded going there, upon his return, although it's complicated. Occasionally, visiting it seems to bring feelings that are almost positive, where it feels like he’s reaching out to reclaim tiny shattered shards of what used to be his heart. Mostly, though, it’s just mourning. The reading of names may be what compels the worst of them; sometimes he thinks if he looks too long, he’ll learn things he doesn’t want to know.

Exhausted, he drags himself to his feet and begins wryly picking up the pieces, chest hurting from heaving. He throws his bedding and his shirt haphazardly into the washing machine, drowning them in soap before he grabs cleaner to do the same to his floors.

It smells disgusting, like it’s been petrifying in his stomach for years. He supposes that makes sense; a lot of things have.

Once the surface is clean, he gets in the shower, not caring that all of the hot water is being used for the laundry; the icy cold helps wake him up. He’s fatigued, lethargic, but he knows better than to try to go back to sleep at this point.

As he fights shivers in the towel afterwards, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks awful. Pale and sickly, repulsive, purple sallow staining his skin the same color as the Rinnegan. His normal eye is bloodshot, vacant charcoal that pollutes everything it touches. He lets the black of his hair shift over his Rinnegan eye in a manner he's well accustomed to by now.

His remaining eye inches to the corner of the mirror, the front of the medicine cabinet.

He carefully procures a cough drop, and then makes sencha tea, hoping the caffeine will dull his headache. There’s a part of him that still feels like he’s hardly there, like he’s a ghost just going through the motions. When he takes a sip, it feels good on the throat, but the vomiting earlier has partially singed away the surface of his tongue; he hardly tastes it.

Sasuke then takes the photo from when they were Genin to the living room, grasping onto it for dear life in more ways than one. He alternates between studying it and gazing out the glass, to the cherry blossom tree across the street.

An hour passes, slowly, sitting there thinking about what he does and doesn’t deserve, a mess of thoughts swirling down the drain of his mind. Then another. The luminescence of the day begins trickling in more, green buds across the street gaining back their pigment.

He’s not sure if he should even go to Sakura’s still, because he feels like he’s going to make even worse company today than he usually does, as tired as he is. But he’s weak, and he selfishly wants her; there’s an equanimity only she can provide, the swingback of a pendulum briefly through a sense of normalcy, and he needs the chance to look into jade eyes, to see the light hit them, to ascertain that the chatoyancy has not been dulled. And she’s not dead, despite his inner psyche screaming at him that she would be, had Naruto or Kakashi arrived just a second later. He needs to thank them for that, when he gets the chance, though the timing has never felt right to bring it up.

And he loves her. He's not sure if his love is worth anything, contemptible as he is, but it’s the main reason he can make sense out of the absolute mess that is his inner thought process this morning. So he goes.

XXX

It helps. He’s enormously exhausted, and the light of day hurts his eyes, even once he’s inside and is only absorbing its rays from the diamond window, but it helps.

“Sasuke-kun,” she greets in a voice like honey as she opens her door to him, dimple on open display. She really is so lovely, multi-faceted jade sparking with life that nearly instantly calms some of his anxiety.

He is briefly concerned about what he looks like to her, today. He checked prior to coming over here, brushing his teeth thrice in the hopes that his breath wouldn’t be bad, that he could drench his innards in enough clarifying mint to be even remotely deserving of a small amount of her affection. His eye was a little less bloodshot at that point, but overall he still looked like hell, sickly and pallid.

“Sakura,” he murmurs in response, voice hoarse from being put through a ringer of his own making.

There is a prolonged moment in which she examines him, wearing an analytical expression that reminds him of clinician Sakura. Then the spell is broken, as if she’s forcibly turned that part of herself off, and she’s stepping aside and telling him softly, “Come in! I made onigirazu.”

He steps inside her entryway, setting his book on the console table momentarily beside where Hazel Wood lies, ready to be returned. He then shifts out of her way so he can remove his shoes. He’s not particularly hungry, but he’s glad it’s something fairly simple and heavy on the rice; he should be able to eat it fine.

He follows her inside, appreciating the subdued luminosity of her lamps along the way. The blankets are already laid out on the couch, a promise of simple warmth and companionship that he is very much looking forward to.

As his eye adjusts and he enters the kitchen, ready to grab a plate, his gaze locks on remnants of sliced tomatoes atop a cutting board he recognizes, though it’s familiar to him from his own apartment, not hers.

It’s exactly the same design as the one Naruto gifted him.

A fire roars to life in his ribcage as he freezes for a split second, an exhausted icy hot appreciation. It’s an implication that means the world to him, and particularly well timed.

She wants him around, to help prepare future meals.

“I put some sliced tomatoes in yours. I hope it’s okay,” Sakura says as she hands him a plate, not addressing the elephant in the room at all, as if she just needed a new cutting board and happened to pick up that one, though he knows that cannot possibly be the case; he'd seen at least two in her cupboard, before. “Would you like tea, or maybe some water?”

He nods stiffly, vision a bit blurry, then comprehends the second question.

“Water is fine,” he manages thickly.

They sit in front of her window, supple sunshine streaming in. It’s not too bright here, angled just right.

“...How was your morning?” He asks after taking a sip of water, voice still gravelly. He is beyond content to be sitting here, just looking at her, so much better than a picture.

“Good. Ino and I walk or jog in the early morning on Sundays, if it's nice. Hinata comes sometimes; she did today.” She chews a bite of her rice sandwich.

Sasuke blinks; she hasn’t mentioned that yet. Another chunk of her schedule falls into place. “...Where?”

A half smile blooms on her lips, dimple pushed into being. “Sometimes we run laps around the village, but usually there's no real destination; we just walk and visit.” She takes a sip of her own water. “It’s nice when Hinata comes; it tones Ino down a notch.”

He would snort, if he was in a different sort of mood.

“We went to the southeast part of town today,” she continues. “Ino wanted to see a new building they put up. Her mom has a big order of flowers to deliver there later this week.”

Flowers. In the chaos of the night he’s had, lily bulbs fell to the wayside of his mind.

Sasuke carefully takes the first bite of his own food. It’s good, as he expected; a mixture of salmon, tomato, and salted rice, simple enough to hopefully help settle his stomach. He can kind of taste it.

He chews slowly, reverently, alternating between eating and taking small sips of water as she chatters animatedly. “The flower shop's orders are really taking off now. Ino’s usually busiest once May comes. Hopefully things stay peaceful, so she can stay in the village for the most part; her mom can always use the extra help.”

They wash and dry the dishes together, afterwards, a routine that is beginning to feel familiar. She still doesn’t say anything about the cutting board, but Sasuke greatly appreciates the way it feels in his hand when she gives it to him, weighty and with a designated home under her roof. It slides into place easily in the cupboard with the two others.

They read for a while on her couch again, wrapped in their respective blankets; Sakura keeps her apartment fairly cool. It’s cozy in a way that makes his head feel funny, like he could fall asleep in minutes if he really tried, lulled by the soothing scent of berry and cleanliness. He wonders if it would be restful, if he did. Usually once enough time ellipses, well into the next day, his brain cuts him some slack, though it could be that he's just too exhausted from being up most of the night for the neurons to fire up again to such a frenzy.

Sasuke finishes the last chapter of his book sluggishly and contemplates the ending, a lengthy description of the fisherman gripping the solid railings of the dock with both hands as he comes ashore for the first time in months.

When he flicks his gaze to Sakura tiredly, she’s a third of the way through a new book, titled Among the Ruins: Post-War Reflections. It appears to be a memoir; he assumes it must be one she’s purchased, as it doesn’t have the library label. Perhaps it’s new, picked up this morning while she was out, or it could be one from her bookshelves. He would like to peruse the titles she has, sometime. He drowsily wonders which war it’s about.

He takes a careful breath and just revels in it, being here with her, mere feet away with his eyes closed but able to sense her presence, worn out with thoughts that have edges as frayed as he is. He would like to stay for dinner, too. He thinks it’s perhaps becoming implied that they’ll eat together if she doesn’t have other plans, but he doesn’t want to be rude or overstay his welcome.

Sasuke hopes he can stay awake. Maybe he shouldn’t have said no to tea earlier; the additional caffeine might have helped. He could offer to make them both some, he thinks fuzzily, but then he starts wondering if that would be odd or overstepping. It’s her tea, and her kitchen, and her cups.

Then he sleepily remembers the cutting board.

“You can take a nap, you know,” Sakura murmurs kindly, soft words echoing a little in the stillness of her space. “If you’re tired. I don’t mind.”

He blinks his eyes open, vision adjusting as he realizes he nearly dozed off.

She’s smiling from the other end of the couch. “I can make dinner later, and wake you up when it’s ready. You should rest until then.” She pauses, then adds, “I can grab you a better pillow from my room, if you want.”

His brain catches up to his auditory processing, and then his ears warm.

Oh.

The offer is tempting, though he doesn’t want to be rude. If it were any other day, he would force himself to stay awake, to spend more time with her. But it’s not any other day, and he’s drained, enervated in a way that makes him want to give in. He should ask, to make sure it’s okay, but he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t.

“...Here?”

A flush inks its way onto her cheeks as her expression turns thoughtful. “Yes. Or... you can use my bed, if you want.”

Sasuke forces his gaze away from hers, because his face feels extremely warm all of the sudden. “...I meant… here, at your apartment.”

“Oh.” Sakura laughs in a way that sounds nervous; he hears her fiddling with the book in her lap. “I, um… just meant whatever’s most comfortable.”

When he hesitantly looks back to her, she’s red, too.

“...What will you do?”

She gestures with her hand in a waving motion to indicate it's fine. “I can read, or do some laundry or work stuff. It’s no trouble. Really, Sasuke-kun.” Her blush deepens. "...I would like you to stay… And to have dinner later. If you’re free."

He swallows before slowly nodding his acquiesce, and then Sakura is up and heading to her bedroom in a blink of mismatched eyes. Muffled footsteps pad back moments later, a pillow with a lavender pillowcase clutched in her hands.

Her bedding must be a variant of violet, then, a pastel contrast to the black of his own. He is curious about the color of her bedroom walls all over again, but then she’s handing him the pillow, and he’s too tired to continue thinking.

“...Thank you.”

The smile she wears is so soft, treasured. “You’re welcome.”

He’s out within a few minutes of laying his head on the pillow, drowsing eyes barely catching the lamps flickering off one by one as she meanders around her space.

The pillow smells like her, too, cogent in its beckoning. He sleeps like a rock.

XXX

Sakura nudges him awake hours later, leaning forward to rest her upper body against the back of the couch. The scent of miso and roasted tomatoes drifts into his nostrils while lively jade peers down at him. The light coming from her window has dimmed quite a bit. It must be well into the evening; she let him sleep for a while.

“Dinner’s ready,” she murmurs softly, wearing an expression that is incredibly fond.

He stretches slightly as he rises from her sofa, working out a crick in his shoulder and thinking that he feels much more rested. Sasuke is about to head to her kitchen to get his own bowl, until Sakura turns towards the table, and he sees that she's already set out food for both of them, green market light switched on overhead.

There's onigiri, too, and a steaming cup of sencha placed on his side that he's sure is decaffeinated.

His side.

The realization, albeit a good one, disarms him.

He has a side of her table. And a side of her couch.

Sakura recites a story Hinata told her this morning as they eat, about how Naruto initially buried every single flower bulb in their garden beds six inches deep instead of reading the directions, so they had to dig everything up and salvage the instructions on the package from the trash to replant.

“He mixed them all together, too, instead of planting them in sections like a normal person.” She laughs, and his lips turn upwards in shared amusement. “She said she hopes they didn’t miss one. Iris and echinacea can sometimes multiply out of control. She was happy she didn’t add bee balm to the list, too, or they’d really be in trouble; those can grow anywhere, even in gravel.”

The soup and tea feel good on his throat, and the rice is filling in a way that would be difficult to throw up, absorbent of moisture and chunking together to expand in his stomach until he is full, in more ways than one.

He can taste again, the richness of tomato and miso and calming ubiquitous green on his tongue and in his heart, thoughts of flowers and their idiot teammate helping to cast aside his earlier melancholy.

Sasuke loves her so much in that moment that it physically aches, her voice a balm that puts the rawest parts of him at ease.

"Thank you," he says quietly at the conclusion of the meal, grateful in ways he's not sure he'll ever be able to put into words.

Her response is simple, gentle, pure. “You’re welcome.”

As they wash and dry the dishes together in the dim light of her kitchen, Sakura tells him softly, “I put leftovers in containers for you in the fridge. Please take them with you tonight.”

He nods as his eyes sting with appreciation. When he turns to put away the teacups, he blinks to clear them as she wipes down the sink one last time for the evening.

As she sorts through her movie selection afterwards - it’s her turn to pick - he asks, “How is the poison antidote coming?”

Sakura glances at him curiously for a second from where she’s perched on the wood floor, rifling through the lower cabinet. “I think we might have it solved. Blarina toxin from a southern short-tailed shrew, and then possibly lionfish toxin, laced with algal bloom cyanobacteria. The lionfish toxin is part of the trouble; it’s such a trace amount that it was hard to identify, not enough to cause swelling on the exterior body like you’d see if you were stung by one in person. We’re still running tests, but the neutralization seems to be working on the mice so far.” She blanches a little. “Or, rather, the mice we have left. It’s diminished our stocks; shrew venom is particularly deadly to them.”

Sasuke knew it was likely to kill several of them, but not quite to that extent. He’s interested in her work, so he asks, “How many?”

She turns back to sift through her cabinet as she answers, pulling out another movie to examine. “A gland-full of venom is potent enough to kill up to two hundred of them. It’s why it took us longer than usual; we had to give them the absolute tiniest dose in order to not kill them within hours. I guess it makes sense; they’re one of the things they eat in the wild. The dose in the poison sample was high, though, venom from multiple shrews. A single bite usually isn’t enough to do any harm to humans, but when it’s quadrupled in dosage and laced with other things, it’s more severe.”

“...What’s the treatment?”

Sakura rattles off the extremely complex answer as if it’s nothing. “An antihistamine, steroid, botulinum toxin, and an antibiotic. We’re also giving them blood transfusions and flushing out the blood as it comes to the exterior machine, to get rid of the cyanobacteria. Kind of like conventional water treatment… just more complicated. More steps, filtration, and obviously we can’t use chlorine, so it takes longer.”

Sasuke blinks somewhat in awe. She really is so intelligent.

“...That sounds lengthy.”

She shrugs, movie still in hand. “It is. It’s why we’re not one hundred percent sure if we’ve solved it yet; the lionfish venom is still the weak link, and will be until we can see that the other portions of the treatment have worked to isolate it.”

“...I’d like to learn the process.”

A smile plays at her lips and a flush inks its way onto her cheeks. He supposes it was a roundabout sort of compliment; he could have worded it better, but she seems to have understood him anyway. She does about a lot of things, he thinks.

“I can bring home a kit, sometime, and teach you the basics. It could be useful.”

He nods; he would like that.

There is a long pause as Sakura bites her lip before further examining the movie case in her hand.

Then, she asks, a tentative expression on her face and peeking at him to gauge his reaction, “Want to watch a bad one?”

Sasuke wonders if she knows he would watch any movie with her, if it means he gets to be in her company like this, saved from a room with white tiles or dark wood.

“...Sure.”

She wasn't exaggerating; it is truly terrible, riddled with plot holes so nonsensical that it’s almost funny. The acting is bad, too, though perhaps that’s more to blame on the script rather than the actors.

“Even the camera work is awful,” Sakura says at one point, gesturing towards the left side of the screen. “If you look in the background here, there’s an extra that just… walks into the wall.”

He watches, and sure enough, behind the main characters, a girl walks directly into a corner and just stands there.

He snorts, genuinely enthused in a manner he would not have thought possible hours ago. Sakura laughs at the other end of the couch. It’s a sound he could listen to forever, sweet and chiseled into his heart.

They play an extensive round of go afterwards, venturing well into the night with the plinking of small pieces into place. It’s nearly eleven when she finally walks him to her doorway, two containers of tomato miso soup and onigiri in her hands. As he pulls on his shoes, Sakura sets them by his library book on the console table.

“Would you want to read tomorrow afternoon?” She asks as he rises to his full height.

He nods. “...I’ll meet you here.”

Her dimple makes a reappearance. “One fifteen?”

He inclines his head again in agreement, then decides to ask. It’s becoming easier, now that she has said yes so many times.

“Dinner, after?”

Her smile widens. “Of course. I was thinking gyudon. Light on the sugar. You could…” She bites her lip and shifts a bit. “...You could help me cook, if you’d like.”

Something turns over in his belly. “...Okay.”

She glows at him. He swallows once before reaching out to skim her freckle, enjoying the feel of her cheek against the pad of his thumb.

And then her fingers against his fingers, holding him there against her cheek, soft and steady.

Then he leans down, and his lips are on hers, a breath exhaled in unison as her entryway falls away. Her free hand twists around his neck, delicately brushing the fabric and a fraction of his skin in a way that nearly makes him shiver. It’s a long moment of quietus, a finishing stroke to a day that could have gone very differently.

It is also the longest kiss they’ve shared yet, and it is over far too soon.

He’s pulling away to look at her, letting his hand drop away, when she wraps her arms tenderly around him.

He can hardly breathe, taken off guard by the absolute sensation of comfort he’s enveloped in.

She doesn’t say a thing; just hugs him tight, her fingertips spreading across his back and face pressed to his sternum. Berry invades his olfactory senses.

Slowly he lifts his arm to carefully return the hug, swallowing a tender sort of truth, a kind that goes down easy, the evidence and action of her affection. He can feel Sakura’s heartbeat against his chest, a tempo teeming with life.

They stand there together in her entryway for a long time.

XXX

He sleeps wrapped in a clean comforter, and though it’s not for very long, it is dreamless.

He’s eating leftover onigiri when he receives a mission summons, barely past seven in the morning. He finishes his meal and pops a cough drop in his mouth before departing for the Hokage’s office.

It’s a nice day, he thinks as he walks, coming to a decision as he admires vernal greenery lining the streets. The sun is just lifting over the horizon, painting everything pale amber.

“Sasuke,” Kakashi greets as he walks in; he’s the first one there again, apparently. “Good morning.”

“Kakashi.”

Their old sensei smiles at him in the strange all-seeing manner he has. Sasuke notes the presence of a new picture frame present on his desk, replacing the one he’s given him.

He is extremely grateful to have that picture to grip onto in his darker moments. Sasuke considers thanking him then, for Iron, but then Naruto is barreling in noisily.

“Whaizzit?” He yawns raucously, as if he just woke up, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes. They are multi-faceted, too, even in their barely aware state, and Sasuke inwardly breathes a sigh of relief, normalcy shifting fully back into place as the door clicks behind his teammate.

Then Naruto registers that Sasuke is present. “Eh? Teme?!” Cerulean scans the room as if he’s searching for something, then he frowns, directing a lengthy glare Kakashi’s way.

“If you've called me here at seven in the fucking morning for anything that isn’t a Team Seven reunion mission, I’m going to lose it.”

Ah. He was looking for Sakura.

“Afraid not,” Kakashi answers cryptically from his desk, and Naruto’s sleepy glare tightens. Then the Hokage smiles, as if something is incredibly amusing. "Guard duty. Kotetsu and Izumo deserve a break. Things are slow this week, and we have the extra numbers.”

The copy ninja skillfully dodges Naruto’s sandal as it flies towards him. “You’ve got to be kidding. You woke me up for this? You could have told me later in the day or something!!”

“Future Hokages don’t receive special treatment, and it’s professional to give more than twenty-four hours notice if possible.”

Naruto grumbles. "All week?"

Kakashi grins. "Tuesday through Friday."

Inwardly, Sasuke twitches.

"I should specify; nine to six, Tuesday through Friday."

Outwardly, Sasuke twitches.

It's not exactly her work schedule for all four days, but it lines up closely enough that it's fairly obvious what Kakashi’s doing.

Naruto barely reacts; just snorts in a way that is caustic, as if he finds the times unsurprising. "Cool. Can I go back to sleep until it’s time to kick teme’s ass now? Hinata-chan and I were cozy."

Sasuke rolls his eyes; when they spar in the mornings, it’s typically between eight and nine. He’ll have around an hour's extra sleep at best, though he supposes he’s not in any position to judge at this point, given his nap on Sakura’s couch yesterday.

Kakashi’s smile widens, mask wrinkling. "Sure. Dismissed."

They both watch on in faint amusement as Naruto stumbles sleepily out of his office, neglecting to collect his missing shoe.

“...Some things never change,” the Hokage murmurs, sighing.

“...No, they don’t.”

“Well, anyways, before you go…” Kakashi turns to him, tapping the pen at his desk absentmindedly. “How are things?”

Sasuke blinks, recalling leftovers and a new cutting board and the feeling of Sakura’s arms around him.

And kissing. Mostly kissing. Probably too much, if his neck’s sudden warmth is anything to go by.

“Good.”

A lone visible eye crinkles at the corners. “Great. Don’t hesitate to let any of us know if you need anything.”

He lets the words hang in the air for an extended few seconds before nodding slowly.

"I was thinking…” Kakashi continues, gaze flicking down to the photograph on his desk. “...Perhaps we could make Team Seven dinners a monthly thing. It would be good, don’t you think?"

“...Yeah.”

A dark eye locks on him again. "Sai could come, too."

Ah.

"...Sure." He really should make an effort to get to know him better. His replacement seems nice enough, peculiar as he is.

"Wonderful. Let's plan on the first Saturday of every month at six, shall we? If we're all in the village, that is. I’ll let him know when I call him in later this morning."

“Okay.”

A long moment passes, then Kakashi is procuring the shoe from the area behind his desk. Sasuke notes that he holds it as far away from him as his arm will allow.

“...I don’t suppose you’d return this, when you see him later?”

Sasuke says nothing.

“...Though I suppose I could assign it as a mission to some Genin.” Then he's sighing, setting it on the farthest edge of Naruto’s work area. “Too bad I just gave an assignment to my last two.”

Shooting him a withering look, Sasuke departs the Hokage’s Office. He gets the distinct feeling as he goes that Kakashi is incredibly pleased with himself, solidified by what he calls after him.

“Tell Sakura I say hi.”

Guard duty is easy in theory, but spending thirty six hours with the dobe may be… a challenge. He supposes if the reward is being able to see Sakura after she works most of those days, he'll take it. He's sure Kakashi won't keep him in the village forever; eventually duty will call him away for extended periods of time.

It solidifies his decision; he should take the opportunity of being here to plant something.

He stops by the market vendor on the northern end to buy two packages of lily bulbs on his way home. The market is fairly slow, so there are few other people around.

The packages feel good in his hand, lighter than he expected.

Sasuke works through a section of one of his other books before Naruto shows up on his doorstep, still appearing for all intents and purposes half asleep. Their spar ends in another draw; luckily there are no cracked bones this time.

He eats more leftovers for lunch after, appreciating the taste.

XXX

Sasuke feels at home in Sakura’s kitchen, cutting scallions easily while she broils beef and prepares the egg mixture for gyudon just a few steps away. The meal comes together quickly between the two of them, savory with a sauce that is heavier on the mirin and sake than the sugar.

Food they prepare together somehow tastes even better. It’s late when they finally sit down to eat dinner, gazing out through glass at the streets below as they take their first bites.

The sauce is perfect; not too sweet.

“...I have guard duty this week,” he mentions after a while.

“With who?” She asks, though her lips twitch upwards.

He rolls his eyes. “...Guess.”

She bites her lip, and he tears his gaze away from her mouth and up to her eyes. The green is filled with mirth, twinkling with illuminated flecks.

“Good luck,” she says sincerely. “What times?”

He glances away, ears warming and wondering if Kakashi has mentioned anything to her about them being… together.

“Tomorrow through Friday, nine to six.”

There is a long pause. When he peeks back at her, she’s blushing.

“...Kakashi-sensei is nosy.” Sakura takes another bite of her food, looking shy for some reason, and suddenly Sasuke is certain that their sensei has said something to her, perhaps on multiple occasions. He wonders what.

“...He is.” He thinks, then adds as an afterthought, “...He says hi.”

They do the dishes together and play two rounds of chess. Sakura wins once, and the second round is another stalemate, though he suspects he was close to beating her.

It’s close to nine by the time they’re putting the board away. As he works on packing up the last of the pieces to store in their allocated compartment, he notices she’s gazing out the window, scanning the sky as if distracted.

The way she’s angled puts the freckle on her cheek in plain view, pale hair loosely tucked behind her ear.

Then she turns to him, pink flooding her complexion, and Sasuke realizes he’s been staring, the remaining few pieces still clutched in his hand, frozen in midair in his distraction. He hastily finishes putting them away as his own face warms. Sakura rises from the table to put the box away, footsteps echoing softly through her living space.

He looks outside quizzically for a moment, embarrassedly trying to will the color away from his face and wondering what she was looking at. It’s a clear evening, calm without a cloud in sight.

"I was wondering if…"

His vision snaps to her expectantly across the room, and her cheeks flush darker; he can see it even though it’s dimly lit, shifting from one foot to the other. She seems nervous.

"If you would maybe want to… go stargazing for a bit tonight?"

His pulse quickens, pushing at the seams of chambers and ventricles in a way that makes it feel like the vines have twisted their way in, taking hold of whatever they can clutch.

She apparently does still like that sort of thing.

And she wants to go with him.

He nods immediately, struck speechless with elation before he manages to form the question, "...Where?"

Her expression is one of relief. "I was thinking just outside the village. There’s…” She looks away, smiles. “There’s a place Ino and I go to sometimes; we went today for a bit, after training. There are wild lilacs blooming right now.” She shifts her gaze to him again. “It's supposed to be a little cooler, but the sky’s clear. We could bring tea in a thermos; I have two."

Heat creeps up his neck as he agrees, heart stammering in his chest a little, because he’s started thinking about it now, and stargazing together is very clearly romantic in nature, amongst flowers even more so.

Sakura brews tea for the both of them as he distracts himself by slicing a lemon for hers. When he glances at her surreptitiously, she’s still blushing, and jade eyes snap away as if this time she’s the one that’s been caught staring. That makes his heart pound, to the extent that he’s glad she’s a few feet away, because it’s so loud that she might hear it.

They meander to the edge of the village as evenfall settles, into the forested area just beyond the gates. As Sasuke trails behind her, divagating through subtly flattened pathways between the trees, his thoughts wander to bygone seasons.

There once was a pond, three quarters of a mile outside of the village, beyond where the Uchiha District used to be. It wasn’t officially a part of their grounds, but it was remote enough that it wasn’t easily happened upon by anyone other than their family, off the beaten path and through thicket and thistle as it was.

Itachi used to take him fishing there.

He thinks they’d gone four or five times in all, but he remembers it well, because he had been terrible at fishing, not a shred of patience. His brother caught most of them, but he would sometimes set the hook before passing off the reel to Sasuke to help him learn. It was quiet, peaceful in the way that only the wilderness is, away from the pressures of expectations. Wildflowers poked up everywhere in the later summer months, situated on a hill towards the far side of the pond. They picked some together for their mother, once; Sasuke clutched them in his hands while they made the trek back to the village, Itachi carrying their bucket of perch and bass.

It was nice in the autumn, too, warm tones flooding everything. One could sit in the swaying overgrowth flush with falling leaves for hours taking it all in and still not see it all, an overwhelmingly pure sense of peace, made heartier by the taste of freshly grilled fish later in the evening.

The walk had seemed like it took forever back then, on short legs looking upward. He’s never returned to that place, not once, since he was eight. It would hurt too much, for different reasons now than when he was twelve.

He remembers passing wild lilacs then, too, on the way there and back. He supposes they probably thrive in the chaparral throughout Fire Country, if one cares to traipse through the foliage to look for them. He stumbled upon many on his journey, just passing through on roads less traveled.

The small clearing Sakura leads them to reminds him of the pond a little, wild and flush with fading hues, framed by fragrant lilacs in bloom as she said, but there are no memories tied to it yet, so it’s better. Huge bushes of them grow unaided here, wispy purple redolence scattered by the wind into the earth's cracks, ushered in by whispers through the trees.

The wilds are not so far from Konoha, really. Like the cherry blossom tree on the hill, it's a good reminder that some things can grow easily even on rougher terrain.

Sasuke sits rather close to her, so they can drink their tea together. The sun slips just below the horizon, a cloudless sky awash in a shifting gradient. He catches jade as he takes a drink, appreciating the taste, a small bit of warmth on a cool night.

The way she’s looking at him makes his heart rate accelerate again, a serene expression that implies there is nothing she would rather be doing right now than be here.

With him.

Eventually stars begin inking into existence overhead one by one, the last bit of sun lingering just on the horizon, a muted blur of violet bleeding into black. Things are slightly clearer here, beyond the boundaries of the village, no glass or light pollution to obscure the retinas.

Once she finishes her tea, Sakura lies down the same way she does on the hill, so he does, too, trying to calm his heart rate, because he is very close to her, just within reach. The forest breathes around them, coating everything in a lilac perfume.

He used to think about her, when he looked to the stars, feeling worlds away and wondering if she thought of him that day. Being next to her is better, revered, the calm din of an evening he has craved for a long time.

When he turns to steal a look, her eyes are already on him, and there is something about that moment, as the last light fades, being here with her, that makes his chest go aflame.

And then Sakura turns slightly, reaching out towards him with her right hand, and he blinks.

She sweeps his hair away from his Rinnegan eye, a thumb gently skimming his cheek as he has hers, before her hand falls away. Though they are cloaked in the gloaming of dusk’s darkness, enough he hopes to hide the warmth that has crept into his face, there is adequate light left to see her expression, so tender, jade eyes desaturated to dark sage.

He feels seen in a way that he hasn’t felt before, recalling soft words in an exam room.

Not me.

The sky is fully lit in short order, beautiful and dark with only a tiny sliver of the moon visible. It is truly lovely, Ursa Major, Leo, and Hydra scattered before them like a painting a million years old, ageless messengers traveling from who knows where, as he did. It took many steps to get here to her, scattered revolutions passing wide arcs around the sun, yearning for a day to close the gap, to feel like he was close to ready.

It was worth every single one.

A question is on the tip of his tongue, so he decides to ask it, to give in to the impulse.

“...Any poems?” He wants to learn the words she likes, what kinds of meaning she applies to things, intelligent as she is. Sasuke imagines the inner workings of Sakura’s mind to be quite complex, teeming with all of the things she’s read, research and fiction and nonfiction. He would like to know her favorite pieces of poetry, what she holds dear in her own heart.

She shifts slightly; he thinks she must be looking at him for a split second.

There is a lengthy silence punctuated by crickets before she finally answers, “A short one,” voice hushed like the breeze around them; if he wasn’t so close to her, he wouldn’t be able to hear.

He shifts his gaze to her on his right, barely able to make out her silhouette in the dark.

“Take notice of what light does - to everything.”

The words sink into him like rain on freshly tilled soil, triggering a bricolage of recollections. Instantly he is reminded of light through the window of his bathroom, stirring him from a pit of self doubt and guilt. Then light through the windows of Sakura’s apartment, cooking and doing the dishes together in her kitchen. A nap, comfortable on her couch as day fades into dusk, lamps switched off for a period of much needed rest. Flowers, grown by a doorstep with the sun’s rays seeping in through diamond patterning. The shadow of a jasmine plant, inked onto her cheekbone, and neon lights reflectant atop pale pink hair.

The intricate stitching of an uchiwa fan, thread catching iridescence as she holds it daintily in her hands as if it is something important, to be cherished.

Her eyes when she is happy, hints of gold flecks, catching like fractals of color atop shifting seafoam.

The way white nerine lilies looked drenched in sunlight, on days that are decidedly not summer monsoons.

Stars are a form of light, too, and despite being far away, they are refulgent in their luminosity, a beauty that cuts through murk and offers much for contemplation; the gaps of darkness between them are what allows people to make meaning out of them, constellations strewn together.

He is home, surrounded by spring. It is something to behold.

“...Did you write letters to Naruto?” Sakura asks after a lengthy period of reflection, so softly that her voice is almost a whisper.

The concept is so ridiculous to him that he would snort, if not for the moment they are sharing right now and the way she asked it, no hint of a joke in her tone.

So he answers seriously, just as quietly. “No.”

There is a long pause.

“...And Kakashi-sensei?”

Ah. He understands what she’s really asking. “...Other than missions, no.”

It’s hard to tell, but he thinks he sees her fingers grip in the grass next to her, gently as if in reflex.

Sasuke tries very hard to swallow his doubts.

When they were on missions as Genin, she used to lay sprawled out like this, hands spread next to her. So did Naruto. It bothered him then, because he liked his folded together on his stomach and he was very particular about personal space, which they both invaded.

Sasuke doesn’t have another hand to fold his with anymore, though, and he’s less concerned about personal space with her than he used to be. The darkness helps bolster his confidence, too, nyctophile that he is; she won’t see the heat that’s spreading to his face here, lit merely by distant flickering stars.

Take notice of what light does - to everything.

The luminaries above them offer only a little of it, yet it's a transfixing sight, something of the epochal and the divine present that he has been drawn to for years.

So he reaches out to skim her hand with his, a tentative sort of constellation in itself, recorded in points of contact and palm prints on the skin rather than etched in alembic light in the sky.

There are soft fingertips, a knuckle gently gliding by. Then she’s interlacing her fingers with his, and suddenly it’s not tentative at all. It’s leal, steady, her small hand in his as if it has always belonged there, the scent of flourishing blooms wafting around them and painting everything in his head lilac starlight.

Her thumb brushes his skin once, twice, thrice, achingly gentle.

He should have reached out sooner, but he supposes they’re young, still. There is a lot of time ahead of them. The stars will align eventually, slow in their revolutions around common centers of mass as he is in letting people in. She accepted his apology for being late already, fine fingertips clutching an uchiwa fan with a touch just as gentle as now.

If he can only hold her hand in the dark, maybe that’s enough for now, a single star he can reach. He hopes he'll reach the others eventually.

Hours pass with her hand in his, and he is a small bit closer in revolution by the time he walks her home.

Lilac and raspberry and starlight coalesce against his lips when they collide with hers, an allegorical perfume he could easily get drunk on. He skims the freckle again, tenderly osculant, and realizes that is the start of a constellation, too, a novitious star burning brighter every time he reaches out. Kissing makes three.

Her hands around his neck make four. This time he does shiver, but he doesn’t pull away.

Sakura’s lips are so soft.

XXX

He plants the lily bulbs shortly after they say good night, under the cover of the caliginous dark that shepherds in the dew of the morning, tiny drops of moisture beginning to collect on nearby blades of grass. The stars are still out, bright enough to be beautiful but dim enough so that he can’t read the names.

Sakura would help him if he asked, he knows, but he doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that yet. He settles for trying to make his touch as gentle yet sure as hers, an elegy of calloused fingers digging carefully through the dirt, grasping and placing lily bulbs one by one. There are four bulbs in total, so he plants two on each side, nine inches apart, allowing them to poke up through the soil slightly and frame the stone; he reread the instructions when he stopped by his apartment earlier. It’s a different brand of corrosion, manually digging up layers of dirt rather than hoping they slough off, but it’s progress, and it doesn't require digging too deep.

There has to be something beneath the layers of sediment, he thinks, to feel the way he does about her. He hopes that what he feels is enough, that his slow revolutions will be worthwhile for her, in the end.

I’m sure it will be lovely, when everything finally comes together.

Being in Konoha is not easy, after everything, but being with Sakura is.

When he’s lying in his own bed a short time later, he recalls the love in her fingertips against his. It lulls him to sleep.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like gold #fanfiction #sorry for the wait it's homecoming week and i'm a yearbook adviser lolololol

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polyghostfacehours · 3 years

Note

Omg omg if you wrote a predator/prey lil fic with Davis I would die. I die for Predator/Prey dynamics and I love him, so, yk, I'm 👀😳

YES I CAN OML. Warning, I POPPED OFF. I really went to town with this. This is also a snapshot into a scenario with a Reader he does actually really like. One he intends to keep (at least for now). It has a (kinda) happy ending and is (kinda) sweet if you squint your eyes and tilt your head.

TW: NSFW, !!!HEAVY DUB-CON!!!, Predator/Prey Dynamics, Knifeplay, Manipulation, Toxic Relationships

I Know You Won't Tell - Davis Nikki x afab!GN!Reader:

---

'Why did I agree to this.'

Because it was either this or the grim alternative, your brain yells. When Davis - your previously harmless, disarming traveling companion - had told you to either play his game or die, you knew you didn't really have a choice in the matter. Not really. Not when you weren't sure you'd be making it out alive anyway.

Your heart thundered in your ribcage, threatening to crack it in it's fervor, and the nicks and cuts you were getting from the branches and bushes you zipped by stung. Behind you, you could hear something. It sounded like laughter, but it could also be the wail of the grim reaper himself.

You could barely see, the forest dense and moonlight sparse, and you knew he had counted on that. You turn a corner to dive behind a large tree and take a breather before you threw up.

Silence was all you heard. The distant sounds of taunts had faded away and no footsteps were heard. Hope bloomed in your chest and you began thinking that maybe, just maybe, you'd make it out of here in one piece.

The despair you felt when the lean arm of your would-be travel companion casually drape over your shoulder was terrifying, and you feel your stomach drop. His hot breath cascaded along your ear as a singular sentence left his lips.

"I win."

The scream that you let out echoed out in the forest in tune with his manic, delighted laughter. You fall back on your ass and he lets you as you frantically back up from him. Your scared eyes set upon his hazel ones, and in the soft moonlight you notice that they were wide in glee.

"I-I-uh- you- s-sto-"

"I- uh-duh-s-s-stop what?" he mocks cruelly, mirth blanketing his voice.

He crawl across the few feet needed to get to you, grabbing your wrists before pinning them above you. You wince, rocks and sticks digging into them, and his grip bruising the skin there.

Davis lowers his face down to you and the spearmint scent of his fills your nostrils, sharp like a knife, making your nose sting. He pops his gum obnoxiously in your face and you grimace.

"Run faster next time, baby." he sneers. Tears finally prick your eyes, a flurry of emotions bubbling within you. And then, in a fit of anger, you spit at him. The glob hits him square on the cheek and regret immediately takes hold of you, your breath catching in your throat. Shit.

Davis leans back, the bleach-blond regarding you for a second, his face blank before morphing into a much more inquisitive one. His eyes trail along your features before he moves your wrists into on of his hands, the free one coming up to wipe at his cheek.

"So." he begins, shifting to straddle you properly. "I'm gonna ignore that. I have a proposition for you, firecracker."

Your eyes furrow at this. A proposition? You weren't sure you could trust anything this bastard said, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't curious. You give a slow nod and he grins.

"I like you." he gives you a moment to process that. You scoff and he chuckles "No, really! I do, hun. I've had a blast these past few weeks with you. So I'll tell ya what." he licks his lips.

"I'll let you live. You'll keep traveling with me, we'll find some people to fuck up. It'll be fun."

Your stomach drops. That sounded like the exact opposite of fun.

"All you've gotta do..." he drawls, his hand reaching down to boldly cup your crotch, and you startle.

"Is keep playing with me. Easy."

You stare at him, saying nothing. Was he for real? He wanted to...keep you? It sounded crazy. Why would he do that. Wasn't he scared you'd go to the police? It seemed like he was reading your mind, because he spoke up again.

"I don't think you'd wanna go blab. Because I'd take you down with me. Tell them how you helped. You know how good with words I am." he says as he continues stroking your lower half. A moan leaves you and he laughs before slipping his hand into your pants and down your underwear.

"Besides, think about how nice it's been. This thing between us. Shit, I know it's only been a couple of weeks but I haven't had so much fun shooting the shit with someone. Even when you're being annoying I just..." he trails off and he licks his lips again, his hand working faster. A digit slips into your dripping entrance and your head tilts back.

Suddenly his hand stops and pulls out of your pants. Your eyes shoot open when the cool metal of his pocket knife touches your throat.

"So whaddya say, compadre? Yay or nay?"

Your press your thighs together, internally cursing. He was right. The last few weeks had been fun. More fun than you'd ever had. The entire time you've been thankful that a friend like Davis had dropped into your life on a whim. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't attracted to him. Or attracted to the thought of not dieing in the woods. You steel yourself, mustering all the confidence you could.

"Yay."

And the band snaps. Davis' large hands release your wrists, but before you could bring them back down he makes you loop them around his neck. He lowers himself, pressing his body fully against you, grinding and sucking hickies into your neck with a groan. Shit, you thought. He was already rock hard.

"Fuck. Yes. I knew you'd say yes, baby. Knew you'd want me like I want you. Mmmmm..."

His words made arousal pool even further within you, and the grind of his cock against you brought out a whine. He lifts himself to sit back on his heels, spitting his gum out in the dirt somewhere, before roughly pulling your pants and under wear down in one go, throwing them somewhere. Grabbing your hips, he pulls them up to his eager mouth, wetting his lips. You gasp, almost upside down as your thighs rest against his shoulder, and his tongue makes first contact with your dripping core.

The wet sounds of your slick and his tongue rang out lewdly in the empty woods, the only thing you could see around you being dark shapes and spots of moonlight on the forest floor. His lips wrap around your clit and suck, and your hands turn into fists.

He removes his mouth with a pop, a groan leaving his lips. "You taste even better than I thought you would. Is it the fear?" he laughs, before dropping you roughly back down with a thud. You feel bold again, and reply.

"No. It's the pineapple juice you keep in the fridge."

Davis gives a breathy laugh, clearly amused at your quip. You hear a sound, and watch as he unbuckles his pants and slides them down to his mid thigh. His cock springs out, heard and leaking, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

"There's a reason I keep that shit in there. Wanna have a taste yourself baby?"

He phrases it as a question, but before you can reply he grabs you by the hair and places you on your hands and knees. He shoves the head against your upper lip, smearing pre-cum on it before give your lips a few smacks.

"Open wide."

You do, and he shoves himself to the hilt. He throws his head back with a hiss and begins a rough pace of face-fucking you, uncaring for your comfort. You clench your eyes shut as tears once again prick in them, but the rough treatment somehow gets you wetter. You press your tongue against the underside of his cock as he slides in and out and he praises you.

"Yeeeees. That's it. Just like that, baby. Suck as if your life depended on it." he gives a laugh at that last sentence.

It was a cruel joke, but one that amused you more than it should've. But you do as he says, hollowing your cheeks and making sure to give tight sucks each time you pull back. He seemed to like that, and you swear you hear him whine a little.

After a bit of this, you're roughly pulled off. Impatience is apparent in Davis' face, and you guess he forgot about the whole 'want a taste' thing, because he moves to frantically grab your hips and line you up with his length. Your eyes lock and, with a dumb waggle of his eyebrows, he shoves himself to the hilt and begins a punishing pace.

"Ah fuck! God damn it!" you say loudly as you clench your eyes shut. It hurt. You were wet, but not prepared enough. Metal returns to your neck, and when you open your eyes, you realize the pocket knife was once again in his hands. A toothy smile on Davis' face was equal parts terrifying and arousing.

"Sorry. Couldn't wait anymore." he states without a hint of remorse in his voice. "Don't worry, it'll feel good soon."

Davis' does stay true to his words, however, and he brings his hand down to gather your slick and begin circling your clit. A loud moan escapes you and, as you loosen up and get even wetter, the pain fades and pleasure takes it's place. The sweet friction of his cock dragging in and out of you was heavenly, and he angled himself in ways that you didn't even know you needed before. Every stroke bumped perfectly along sensitive tissues, and his hand on your clit didn't let up for a second.

Above you Davis was panting. Sweat coated his face, neck, and shoulders and a little bit dripped onto your torso. You would've been disgusted if not for the fact his pink lips and half lidded eyes looked so beautiful in the moonlight. Eyebrows furrow as he continues pounding into you, groans and moans leaving his lips and yours in earnest. He praises you one moment; degrades you the next. It's a dichotomy that has you clenching around him, pulling even louder noises from him.

Before long, you're pulsating around him around him. The orgasm hits you wonderfully and powerfully as he worked your body. It was wrong, to get off in this situation at all, but you no longer cared. It was pure bliss. Your blond-dyed lover above you seemed to agree as he follows a few minutes after, his cock pulsing deep within you before he pulls out and coats your stomach, your name groaned out through gritted teeth.

The silence that follows is deafening. Your body buzzes in post-coital bliss, and your chest heaves as you catch your breath. Davis remains above you, balancing himself on on hand as he stares down at you with an unreadable expression. Slowly he removes the knife from your throat that you forgot was even there.

He straightens himself up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck with a grunt, before taking a moment to stare out into the darkness, his face devoid of emotion. A quiet beat passes and the air feels tense. You slowly begin trembling again. Oh god. What if he had been lying. What if he was gonna leave you and your cum-soaked body in the woods for the wolves to feed on. What if-

"Damn. That was good."

His voice is much more stable now, no longer crazed and manic with sadistic glee. He looks down at you again, a friendly grin breaking along his lips. He tucks himself away, pulling up his pants before handing you yours. Once you redress he holds out his hand to you. You eye it warily, before reaching up to grasp his hand. It was cold.

Once you're standing on your two feet, Davis wraps his arm around your shoulders, walking forward with you towards where you assume his van was, and he just begins...talking. Talking like nothing you just experienced even happened. Talking like he hadn't just threatened to murder you if you didn't become his...lover? Fuck toy? Friends with Benefits? You had no idea. You couldn't get a read on his capricious intentions.

You humor his conversation, playing along with him, scared that if you didn't he'd change his mind. You banter just like you had been doing these past few weeks, like old friends just road-tripping together, no malicious or blood-thirsty intentions to be had.

You block out any and all thoughts of Davis making you kill with him, or lying about you helping him. You try and focus on the two positives you could think of.

One: you were alive, at least indefinitely.

And Two: that was the best orgasm of your goddamn life.

#davis nikki x reader #davis nikki #slasher oc #slasher oc x reader #slasher ocs #slasher oc imagines

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timextoxhajima · 3 years

Text

Love Me A Little Less: Chapter 1 - Frankenstein

LOVE ME A LITTLE LESS CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Member: (3rd person pov) arranged marriage au with Lee Juyeon

Genre: angsty wangsty

Taglist: @hyunvelies

“We buried you.”

The feast before Kim Jang Won is absolutely stunning. Lemon meringue tarts, strawberry smoothies (with actual strawberry bits in them), pancakes and freshly buttered croissants, a gorgeous transparent glass pot with the golden shade of chamomile tea and a beautiful tray of puffs and eclairs.

It would be even more stunning if it wasn’t her view every morning though.

“Hey, um, don’t we have like alternating menus or something for breakfast? I feel like I’m eating the same thing every morning now, it’s kinda getting tacky.”

“Miss Kim, I hope you know you’re the one who decides what the menu is. You chose this set like a week ago and you told us not to change it for the next two weeks.”

Jang Won sneers at her butler, arguably the only person on the property to has the guts to talk to her in a way that could get her fired.

“You’re lucky I can trust you.”

Ro Il Jung purses his lips into a thin white line, scratching his cheek with one of those knuckly, wrinkly-skin-covered fingers of his. “You seem to forget that I wanted to retire last year, Miss Kim.”

Jang Won huffs childishly, sticking her tongue out, now a gentle, thick shade of smoothie on her tongue. “I’ll let you retire when I find someone else I can trust, Mr Ro. It’s just too bad I don’t have anybody in mind right now.”

Mr Ro shakes his head like a parent disapproving of his child, but a house guard pulling the heavy doors of the entrance over accompanied by some urgent yelling tears his attention away from the owner of the mansion.

Jang Won looks up from her butter and croissant, at Mr Ro, who excuses himself before heading for the entrance hall.

“Sir,” He begins before he can even note the visitor. “If you could--”

“Mr Ro!”

Jang Won hears her butler’s words fade to a complete silent, only listening to their visitor talk. But it’s strange, because it’s a familiar voice...

Mr Ro cannot believe the sight before his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re still working here. It’s so great to see you again!” Then the visitor pulls Mr Ro into a hug, harshly patting the space between his shoulder blades.

The lady of the house cannot take it anymore, not when she can’t eavesdrop on the conversation occurring in her own halls. So she gets up from the table, heels clacking against the marble floor as she heads into the entrance hall.

“Alright now, who’s got the guts to stop me in the middle of my French breakfast this morning?”

Mr Ro turns in silent shock, eyes wide and glaring while Jang Won processes the face of the visitor.

The man hadn’t looked like he aged a day since he was--

“I’m sorry,” Jang Won scoffs, waving her beautifully done manicured fingernails in the air. “If this is some impractical joke, please do tell because my brain is just about to explode from the sight right now. Y’know,” She gestures to her head and mimics the sound of a bomb.

“Jang Won...” The visitor strides towards her, arms wide. But she raises a palm and shifts backwards, a cautious half-smile mixed with a frown plastered to her flawless skin.

“Not another step, nuh-uh,” Waving a finger before his nose, she shakes her head. “There is no way in Hell you can be standing here.”

“Oh, but I am, love,” Once a warm voice that sang her to sleep, Jang Won cannot decide if the tears in her eyes are welling from relief or fear. “I’m home.”

“No... no!” She slaps away his outstretched hands. “We... we buried you...”

“And I can only imagine what you’re feeling right now, my child, but... we have more important things to worry about.”

Mr Ro’s face is contorted with a mess of confusion and anxiety and he watches the first tears fall down Jang Won’s cheeks.

“What...? ‘More important’-- No, how is anything more important than you... standing here?” The last word comes out like a final breath, at a volume just enough for him to hear.

“I came bearing news, Jang Won. I-- Well...” He rubs the back of his head, eyes tilted down to his feet. “Because I’ve return to the board of administration now... part of the company now comes back to... me--”

What?

“And... you cannot inherit any part of the company unless you are married to someone from a family from the same administration board.”

Jang Won’s tears solidify into fumes of anger as the thought runs through her neurons. The middle aged man begins to panic when he can read the rage in her eyes, her fists now clenched and the markings of her rings probably embedded into the flesh of her palm. Her knuckles begin to turn white as does his face, ever so slightly.

“Now, now, love. I know what you’re thinking and we can sit down and have a chat about this--”

“‘Sit down and have a chat’?” Jang Won scoffs miserably, lower jaw hanging agape. “Why don’t we sit down and let me ask you whiCH SCIENTIST MADE YOU FRANKENSTEIN?!”

The hallways of the mansion echo the shouts, the sound waves bouncing back and forth between the marble walls mostly adorn with gorgeous, one-in-a-million paintings.

“That’s not important now, hun. I just need you to understand that without this marriage, you will lose the house and everything you own from HERA & ARTEMIS.”

“I built HERA & ARTEMIS after you were fucking bURIED! Who are you to tell me that you will inherit it ownership and I can’t just because I’m not married?!”

“These were instructions from The Board, Jang Won. I had absolutely no say over this--”

“BULLSHIT! If you have the power to take ownership of HERA & ARTEMIS just because you climbed out of your own grave, why don’t you have the power to help m-- Oh, oh...” Jang Won frowns in disdain, disgust welling her lungs and her gut.

“What?” His eyes widen and shoulders shrug.

“You came back just to tell me this... because you want HERA & ARTEMIS for yourself.”

“What-- No--”

"You... low-life... scumbag!" The sharp shatter of the glass cabinet behind him echoes through the entrance hall of the mansion. One of the palm-sized statues sitting on the table in the middle of the circular hall lands amongst the billion pieces of glass on the marble floor.

"You give me my freedom and now you tell me I have to get married?!" The final word is literally pushed through her teeth when she cannot clench her jaws even harder. The tremors vibrating up her fist and into her arm and then her entire body makes her look like a volcano ready to erupt, so if these people haven't gotten enough, they have yet to see what's in store.

"Just who the HELL do you think you are?!" Grabbing another one of those tiny statues, Jang Won throws it into the other glass door of the cabinet.

"Jang Won, will you calm down?!"

"Don't you DARE tell me to calm down! You waltz back into this house after GOD knows how long- Hell, we BURIED you!"

"There was a mistake of the body identification and frankly, I expected a warmer welcome from you!"

"HA! A ‘warmer welcome’?! What do you want me to do? Set the entire house on fire? Do you want me to? Because I will!" The man has his brows furrowed back, palms out stretched to her. The mansion staff have all gathered a safe distance around the two of them, Mr Ro and some of those closer to Jang Won trying their best to get to her and calm her nerves but there is just absolutely no way she isn’t going to hurl a brick at her father.

"I can't BELIEVE you're standing there as if you own this place," The muscles around Jang Won’s nose twitches as the frown sinks deeper into her forehead. "I want you to hear this mighty well and crystal clear. You may have been the one who gave me life, but you will never EVER be my dad.”

The huffs that are billowing out Jang Won’s nostrils are starting to hurt.

"There is not a single cent you're stepping on - or touching, for that matter - that belongs to you. The only reason why I haven't fucking put a bullet through your right eye is because I'd go to jail and every thing I've worked for would be thrown out the window.”

“Now, now, love, we can sit down and be civilized about this—”

“Fuck you,” The anger surges through her, and she picks up one more palm-sized statue from the blue resin table. The heavy bronze weight leaves her fingers, and before it can hit the slightly aged man, someone reaches out and catches it instead.

“What the HELL are you doing?!” The scream echoes through the hall of the mansion. Younghoon sighs heavily, hand retreating back to his side as he hands the statue to one of the house staff.

“You have no right to get involved in this—”

“Jang Won, let’s go,” Younghoon strides across the space and grabs her arm, back-facing his father and trying to pull her in the opposite direction. “We can talk about this in your office.”

“How are you thinking straight?! We BURIED him! We watched his coffin get lowered into—”

“I know! I was there!” His eyes flutter shut in frustration, shoulders raising as he sucks in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. “There’s no point destroying your own property over this. We can carry out some investigations, figure out what really happened, then we’ll work from there.”

The grip on her arm tightens when her instincts try to writhe away from him, but obviously, he doesn’t relent.

“Don’t do it. It’s not worth your time, or mine.”

He stares down at Jang Won, but it doesn’t scare her, not when she has a ghost standing right in the middle of some shattered mess. Not one cut on him.

Younghoon grimly shuts the door as Jang Won stomps over to her office desk and rests her palms flat against the Agar Wood surface. With a sharp, swift feat, she swipes nearly all the documents off the furniture. But when she misses the empty glass (that would usually be filled with some kind of alcohol or soda), she doesn't hesitate to pick it off the desk and propel it into the marble by the television mounted to the wall.

The shatter startles Younghoon as he whips around, eyes darting frantically between her and the mess she’s made.

"Jang Won!"

"Should I be concerned you don't seem one bit bothered that a dead man is standing in our living room - MY living room?"

"That dead man is our father."

"No, that dead man WAS our father before he ditched us! How are you not- UGH!"

Frustrated, furious and absolutely exasperate, she plops down into one of the two sofas sitting in the middle of the office, feet almost tempted to kick the frosted glass table in the middle but she holds herself back. Younghoon manages to get a few house staff into the room, who hurriedly help clear the glass and return the documents to the table. Fingers pressed into her temples, Jang Won could only imagine the gratification she could receive have if she had the chance to ram her first into someone's face.

Younghoon waits for the staff to leave, then stands by the sofa opposite her, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair. The late morning sun reflects off his soft, dark brown locks when he absent-mindedly rubs the back of his head and he proceeds to unbutton his blazer to allow him a seat. The leather squeaks under his weight before he leans his elbows on his knees, knuckles resting under his lips and chin.

"Please tell me you're actually thinking and not just trying to look pretty. You're in my house now, not some studio photoshoot."

"I'm thinking about where to put a whole person for you."

"Don't bother, he's moved half his things into the first guestroom. He's probably holding a conductor's wand right now and asking the staff to help him with the second half."

"Have you called the funeral services?"

"And say what? 'Hey sir, have you... perhaps mis-screwed a coffin about 2 years back and now we might have a problem of a zombie'?"

"I'm just saying someone might've paid someone to replace the bodies!" Younghoon frowns, eyes stuck to the rug under his feet. "We don't know how it happened but someone MUST know, right?"

"I think your best bet is the asshole living down the hall now."

"He's not gonna budge, we both know that."

"Well, Sherlock Holmes, thanks for pointing out the obvious."

"I'm just trying to help. You need to stop your nonsensical whining and use your brain like how you used it to get all this money."

Jang Won picks up a pillow and hurls it into Younghoon. “You’re lucky you still stick around, else I’d have the both of you screwed over.”

Younghoon catches the pillow, holding it to his side. “The day I stop looking out for you is the day I die, alright? So you can be rest assured I’ll--”

“Miss Kim!” Mr Ro’s voice calls out from outside the office.

“What is it, Mr Ro?” Younghoon turns and returns the call, head tilted towards the door. It croaks open, and Mr Ro’s eyes are tired, wary as he sticks his head in.

“Your father just left and... and I think you should see the news.” Mr Ro pushes past the heavy door and reaches for the remote sitting on the frosted glass. The television screen mounted above the fire place flickers on, and there it was, her father’s face.

“The Board has just confirmed the ownership of HERA & ARTEMIS will thus forth be returned to Kim Jo-Pil, father of Kim Jang Won, the current owner. Investigations as to Kim Jo-Pil’s supposed death two years ago are still ongoing.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“We’ll be-- Wha-- The Board’s just come in with some new information! Kim JO-Pil has announced a marriage between Kim Jang Won, current owner of HERA & ARTEMIS and Lee Juyeon, the next-in-line to becoming the next Director of Apple, South Korea.”

Younghoon’s eyeballs are about to bludgeon out of his eye sockets. “Jang Won... I know what you’re thinking... But don’t--”

“I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM!”

#lee juyeon #the boyz lee juyeon #lee juyeon fanfic #lee juyeon scenarios #the boyz fanfic #the boyz scenarios #tbz juyeon #tbz lee juyeon #juyeon #the boyz juyeon #juyeon fanfic #juyeon scenarios #love me a little less

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slashingdisneypasta · 3 years

Text

Inkubus x Vampire!Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: Always There

Notes:

I think outta all Englund's characters on this blog, I like writing for Inkubus the most. Which is criminal seeing as I write for him the least. I need to change that haha.

Plot: You meet up with a very old friend of yours and you spend some time catching up. And he's so clearly in love with you, its unbelievable and torturous to him that no matter what he does, you don't notice.

Warnings: A very unreliable narrator (In terms of particular other peoples clear feelings for her), BLOOD, DRINKING BLOOD, DRAINING SOMEONE OF BLOOD (But in a sort of polite way? Hah), MENTIONS OF AN ABUSIVE EX PARTNER, vampires and incubus'.

The smell of iron and petrichor fills your nostrils, disgusting and refreshing and also, just... relieving... in equal measure filling you up as you kneel by the victim - the man you'd chosen, - for tonight; A needle and tube attached to a blood bag between your fingers and digging into the poor mans neck.

You hate doing this, knowing this guy will be weak and sick feeling for the next day - maybe two depending on how much you take from him, - without understanding why. But, its for sure better then the alternative- which is just digging in right here and now with your teeth. That's messy, and the marks you leave behind aren't easy to explain away as 'animal attacks' anymore.

You need the blood, but you aren't a savage, jeez. You always catch any new vampire movies or shows together with your daughter and watch those actors with blood all over their chins, and think... How old are these vamps supposed to be?? 300 hundred years old!?

And they don't know how to eat without getting it all over their face?

Pfft! Rolling your eyes, you gently shake your head at the memories of bloody Edward Cullen and Lestat and Damon Salvetore swimming around in your head as watch the man's breathing. To be fair, you love them all - Twilight, Interview with a Vampire, The Vampire Diaries, Nosferatu, Vampires Vs the Bronx, etc, - but that's just because its more fiction then truth- and that's coming from an honest to goodness bloodsucker.

Finally deciding you've taken enough without truly hurting the man, you put pressure on his neck and pull out the needle, carefully wipe away any mess with a cotton ball from your bag and put a band aid on him.

"Now," You talk firmly, softly, as you look into his eyes - which are dull, almost sleeping. A nice touch to the docile state you put your victims, in so they can at least not feel any pain or fear while you're collecting your feed, - , hands on his shoulders. "You're not going to remember this, or me. You're going to get a taxi home," You tuck some money in his shirt pocket, a thank you for his service; Its the least you could do. "Then get into bed and have a wonderful sleep with lots of lovely dreams. Thank you so much."

After you watch the man get up, still in a bit of daze but shaking it off - and not even noticing your presence, crouched down by where he's standing, - and leave the alleyway, you carefully pack away the blood bag and the tube and needle (In a separate plastic bag, for you to clean and sanitise when you get home) in your satchel and finally get back up, wrapping the strap over your head and resting it on your shoulder.

Brushing a hand through your hair, you turn to leave the alleyway and go home- when a familiar voice speaks up from the very back of the alley- and immediately your hopes rise.

"You look even more beautiful every time I see you."

You smile, peering into the darkness. "Oh, that's very sweet... but you and I both know I look like trash. I haven't eaten for a week!" When he just chuckles back, you tilt your head and waive him over. "Come out here so I can see you!; When did you get into town?"

Gracefully - more so then even you can manage, being a goddamn vampire, - Inkubus slips out of the darkness and you're happy to see he looks well. Its been forever since you say him last - 40 years? 70? - and you always have it in the back of your head for some reason that next time you see your friend, it'll be the last time. So its always lovely when he turns up and looks just as healthy as he always does.

"Oh I just got here; Thought I would come see you immediately. Otherwise you might nag at me." This time you chuckle, rolling your eyes. His eyes flicker to your satchel. "Collecting our dinner our we?"

"Yep! Smells like A Negative, my favourite. When was the last time you ate?"

"Ohh, a couple weeks ago. I'm due for my next fill soon, though... any suggestions?"

"No," Scrunch up your nose, you put a lot of emphasis on your response; See, you don't subscribe to the notion that monsters like the two of you have to act all blasé and cocky about the terrible things they must do. Apart from these night time trips to find breathers to bleed, you live a... mostly... normal life! So no- you definitely don't know anyone he can make his next victim.

And Inkubus knows this, which is why he laughs and you roll your eyes again at him, fixing the satchel on your shoulder. "So- " Again his eyes flicker to your bag, this time with meaning. A cheeky grin flits across his lips. "Want to get a drink?"

Smiling, you turn on your heel, you loop your arm through his and lead the way. "So have you been?"

___TIME SKIP___

4 hours later and the two of you are still stewing at a 24-Hour-Diner you frequent - seeing as you don't really sleep that much, - and are onto your 9th drinks at this point. You two may not see each other too often since the 1400's and went your separate ways in the world, but you never go longer then a hundred years - preferably 80 maximum, - without seeing each other and when you do- you have a lot to say. Filling each other in on what you've missed in each others lives is always a... disorientating experience, at times, but you must do it. You couldn't survive in a world where you didn't know what was happening in your best friends life. That would just be too lonely.

See, Inkubus is the only one you know - still, to this day, - who knew you when you were human, aside from the man referred to very nearly exclusively as 'Dick for brains' - being your daughters father, - and while having human friends who can make you feel normal again, is wonderful... so is feeling normal, in what you actually are currently. And that's not human. That's thousands and thousands of years old and a mystery to scientists. And, seeing as he's a literal demon... that's a very easy service for him to provide.

A waitress walks by to pick up you empty glasses and looks oddly at your personal tumbler. You clearly weren't meant to notice, but you do of course, and unassumingly shrug. "Bloody Mary... don't tell." You give her a conspiratorial wink, and she chuckles, walking off.

When you look back to Inkubus, he looks ready to make a joke so you give him a timid shrug. "Well, there is vodka and Tobasco sauce in it!... " He smirks, but lets it go- seeing as your words were funny enough.

"And how is Bethany? Has she seen her father lately...?" Your eyebrows arch, hearing Inkubus ask about him; Dick for Brains, Beth's father and the bane of your long, long existence. Obviously, seeing as the bastard impregnated you with his literal spawn of hell causing you to die during childbirth at age 26 so he could then turn you into a vampire, made you raise your daughter alone- and then returned 20 years later just to turn Beth into a vampire as well and claim that you can all be a 'proper family now'... you aren't a huge fan of the guy. And talking about him you don't do often, as it causes a horrible clenching feeling in your stomach and heart. Luckily, Inkubus is one of the few people who is allowed to make you feel that way. Him, and Beth.

You sigh, taking a slow sip of your drink through the matching metal straw and metal tumbler set Beth got your last mothers day (So as to hide the fact that its blood inside), you wonder what to say... "Beth's great, as always... she's fallen in love with a human, though. That can only end brilliantly." Shaking your head, you look to Inkubus to see his reaction and catch him rolling his eyes, smirking. Yep. "Um, and... yes. There has been contact with Dick for Brains... He recently, like... 20 years ago? turned up at her place in Egypt, and wouldn't leave till I had to fly down there and shoo him away." You grit your teeth. There is so much wrong with that man- you do honestly with you had never met him sometimes. That's horrible, you know, as if you hadn't met him you wouldn't have had Beth and she's the light of your life, but... at times like that instance? When he troubles her?

Its hard to not wish his existence away.

"Do you want me to speak with him?... Again... ?" Your gaze returns to Inkubus again, feeling at ease the moment your minds back in the diner with him and not in your head with Dick for Brains; Eyes softening. The idea is tempting, unbelievably tempting... And it would keep your friend around awhile longer. "That always seems to win you a couple hundred years of reprieve."

Taking a deep, needless breath - an anxious habit, - you set down your tumbler and shake your head. "No, that's okay... thank you for the offer, though. He seems to be giving up, slowly, finally. But damn, its taken him long enough to get the hint, huh?"

"Far too long." Inkubus' voice is bitter and dark, talking about your ex- and his eyes are reading much different. You know if you let him, he would kill Derek... but you cant do that. If anyone's going to kill him, it would be you or Beth, and neither of you are there yet. Inkubus takes a deep breath, relaxing again like a chameleon changing its colours. "Anyway, love; Onto prettier business. How did that thing go, that you had with that Djinn half a century ago. You seemed quite optimistic about that one."

A fluttering of laughter immediately comes out of you and Inkubus' truly cheers up at the sight of it, and you just look at him and shake your head; An awkward toothless smile on your lips. Ha! No.

His brows arch, laughter in his eyes. "Didn't end well?"

"That ended up being the shortest affair I've ever had and that's saying something." Brushing hair back from your face, you chew on your bottom lip. "You'd think after nearly 10 centuries, I'd learn... Oh- wait- make that 10 and nearly a half, centuries... Boy, am I clueless."

"Clueless about what, love?" You're just breathing in to respond, when a cheeky look crosses Inkubus' familiar face. "I mean, you are quiet clueless- about plenty of things. But specifically, this time."

You scrunch up your nose at him in response, grinning, before once again chewing on your bottom lip. "... I'm just not the woman that gets proposed to." You shrug, as if its no big deal; Even though your heart bleeds saying it out loud for the first time, to someone that matters and not just your ex-therapist, Julie. Setting your drink on the table in front of you, you idlily twist it. "Obsessed over and stalked, yes." You grin, a tinge of sadness to it. "Fucked, yes. Dated even, yes. But married?... Ha, no... "

His eyebrows climb up his forehead even more, before he softly smiles and pats your hand. "I asked you to marry me, all those years ago, sweetheart. Remember?" He reminds you gently, and you cant help giving a soft smile back at your well-meaning friend.

"Oh, yes of course I do. That was very sweet, but... I mean for love, you know? Not because I'm pregnant and alone."

Inkubus sighs, slightly frustrated, and leans back in his seat. "Mhmmm... " Rubbing a finger under his nose, he quickly clears his throat. Then he reaches his hand further up your arm to lay it on your forearm, running his thumb comfortingly across your skin. "Love, I'm sure that you'll find someone. Perhaps multiple someone's. Or, maybe, you don't need to find anyone new."

A little smile twitches at your lips as you pick up his hands and hold it on the table in both of yours. "... Maybe." For a split millisecond, your friend smiles. Sighing wistfully, you shrug. "Maybe I can learn to be happy alone. I mean, I like my life. I like my daughter, I like my job, I like my patterns... Maybe I don't need a man." Immediately his smile disappears and he rolls his eyes.

"You definitely don't need a man." He sighs, frowning. "But one can be good for a few things, no?"

"Hey." You set him with a stern look. "I thought we were making me feel better, about not having one?"

"Oh, you're right. I rescind my comment."

"You better." A cheeky grin crosses your face.

He looks back at it, the cheeky grin of yours, and the smile returns to his face.

The sun is warming up when you're on your way home, Inkubus beside you with his arms folded carefully behind his his back and your hands stuffed in your leather jacket pockets; One arm linked affectionately through his. You're an odd sight, you're sure, to any early morning commuters. You, and your barely-out-of-college looking self walking so close - and so domestically. A fact that is lost on you but not on the smug demon walking beside you, - to a man that currently looks to be in his 60's-70's age-wise.

Not that either of you care.

"Well, this is my place! Whatdaya think?" You ask, letting him go in order to unlock the door or the townhouse apartment and push open the door. He walks on in past you, looking around and you watch a soft smile grace his handsome features. "You like it?"

"Much better then the hole in the wall you thought was a good idea to show me in Transylvania- took everything in me not to sweep you away somewhere safer... with fewer mould spores... " He turns to look at you over his shoulder, a mischievous smirk on his mouth as you scrunch up your nose at him, before smiling.

"Well then, Mr Judgmental... I guess you don't want to know, that I chose this wallpaper cuz of you."

That definitely catches his attention, more then anything else you've said. He turns around in a full 360, assessing the wallpaper before looking curiously at you. "You... you chose this wallpaper because of... me? How so?"

You shrug, still leaning back against the open front door- sunlight filtering through the doorway. "The colour is very you. Its got 'Inkubus' vibes. You know," Raising your brows at him, you smirk. "Eccentric, full of itself." At that cheeky remark, he says 'Ha ha', sarcastically. "And, I guess, I missed you. Sooo... yeah... wallpaper."

"Hm... " Looking really far too pleased about this, looking a lot more engrossed by the home then before- but mostly the wallpaper. "This place is looking better, suddenly... "

"Like I said- Full of itself." You roll your eyes, laughing. Then you push off the door, push it closed with your foot and then go to pass by Inkubus to hit the livingroom. "Oh! The book! The one we were talking about at the diner- I'll find it for you! Come on- "

"Y/N." A hand curls gently around your arm, at the perfect moment so that you don't get yanked back with the force of your travelling and instead you just coat to a careful halt at Inkubus' side.

Blinking up at him curiously, wondering what he needed you for so suddenly, you tilt your head to the side. "Yes?"

For a good moment, he just looks at you whilst you become worried. What is happening? Every second that passes by, more and more ridiculous ideas cross your mind.

Finally, the man tilts his head slightly in sincerity.

"Sweetheart, are you ever going to see how ridiculously in love with you I am?"

And... for all of the disastrous and ridiculous possibilities that came to mind when he was saying nothing, you had a response. To this, you just stand their dumbly, your shoulders dropping and just looking at him in total shock. "... wel- uh- um... a few more hundred years?" You feel like a ton of bricks has just been dropped on top of you. "Maybe?" You squeak. You actually squeak.

And of course, you squeaked. You'd be surprised if you had managed to keep your composure after a confession like that. Here's this beautiful man, who against all foreseeable odds understands you, and cares about your kid, and whom you love... and somehow he's telling you that he loves you? That, for some reason, he wants you?

Is there something wrong with him?

There must be. Something terribly, horrible, irreversibly offensive that you aren't already aware of.

But you rack your brain and theirs nothing. Nothing, at all, that you can figure that would make you turn away from him right now.

He smiles a little bit at your awkward reaction, and lets go of your wrist in favour of tucking some hair back behind your ear. "Do you quite mind if I kiss you now?"

Your breath hitches, it actually hitches, like a tiny shy anime girl who's giant crush just got down on his knees in front of her for whatever reason, and you have to fight to pull yourself together; Rolling your shoulders back, hands on your hips. Totally, and translucently fake confident. "Um- you know? I don't?"

God, you are a centuries old vampire; Your vernacular should be yards better then this.

And then kisses you.

Oh god- And then he kisses you.

Because you're suddenly struck hard in the face with a million words and phrases, from current to boomer-speak to old fashioned to forgotten, to describe it but mostly you're just wondering why in the world you hadn't been doing this the whole damn time. Your hands find the sides of his coat in order to steady yourself, and pull him closer as you carefully tilt your head into the kiss. It comes so naturally, the kissing does. Between you and him. Its like, despite the bounds of your relationship never having reached this level before, you know exactly how to kiss each other. There's no awkwardness or searching. You just fit.

When finally, you slowly end the kiss, you fail to open your eyes for a good moment, before cracking them open slightly, half lidded and flickering up to his eyes.

And you take a deep, unnecessary breath and step away, torturously out of Inkubus' personal space. "... holy shit." You have so many questions... None of which touch on how exactly you're feeling because you get that much, at least.

But you cant help but wonder why- and for how long this has been brewing and how long exactly that you missed it- and how the hell this is going to work-

He follows you, thank god, a roguish yet soft look on his face. "Maybe we should take this to the livingroom, love. I promise, I can explain everything to you."

#Inkubus x Reader Oneshot #Inkubus x Reader #Fem Reader #Fem!Reader #Vampire Reader #Vampire!Reader #Inkubus x Vampire!Fem!Reader #Inkubus #Horror Villains #Horror Villains x Reader

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danddymaro · 3 years

Text

Playing with fire | Loki x Reader

Includes Enhanced Reader W/ fire manipulation, and a temper.

Basically Loki Being an Ass

Word Count : 2393

Playing with Fire

She smiled with satisfaction as she continued to clean the counter in small circles, the little powder blue rag leaving the surface with a nice shine that filled her with pride.

All the while, sweet, soft hums of happiness left her as she saw the lovely surface slowly bouncing the sight of what seemed like her reflection.

“You’ve certainly outdone yourself this time (f/n),” she said lowly, grinning at her work with fulfillment, executing joy-filled little claps as a mild cheer that lasted only a few seconds before she went back to work.

Tony walked past the doorway but whirled around as he caught sight of her, tisking at the sight, because,

how many times has he told her now?

“- I told you, you don't have to do that,” He said with exasperation, pouting down at her as he coolly walked over to her, “ You don't have to pick up a finger here.” He continued, making himself comfortable by leaning his elbows onto the counter, looking at her with tired dark eyes throughout the entire time,

“In fact, even the toile-”

She stopped him by lifting up her hand in a halt sign, the other maintaining the same circular motion,

“I want to,” she said simply, looking over to him with a soft smile that was filled with peace. “It makes me happy,” she added with pleading (e/c) eyes, hoping he’d drop the argument.

“It brings me peace, so please... drop it?” she asked him, giving him the same sweet, begging eyes.

Rolling own his eyes, Stark shrugged, a heavy sigh accompanying the action, “I guess,” He mumbled, displeased nonetheless.

“If you continued to do it after the first few times, I don't know why I keep trying to convince you otherwise,” he added, a halfhearted glare directed at her, “Just don’t overwork yourself,” he pleaded her.

“ - I feel bad enough having you slaving around her,” he murmured with a sheepish upturn of his mouth.

Granted, he appreciated how tenderly she treated their home, but it was to the extent that he felt guilty, almost like he was taking advantage of her.

“Slaving?” she said with a quirked brow, “You have your drinking, and I have my cleaning… yet I’m the one in the wrong?” she said back to him, chuckling all while she shook her head, giggling even more as she saw his expression change at her words, a toothy grin etched onto his face as his eyes were squinted playfully,

“Really Red Hot?” He snickered, watching as she rolled her eyes at the address.

He opened his mouth to speak more when another voice cut through their merriment,

“Ah, Servant Girl,” Loki called out, beckoning the woman to go to him with a lift of his finger, causing her to instantly drop her happy, little expression down south,

“Servant...girl...?” she lowly, all while shooting the man a quick look that dared him to repeat the phrase.

“Yes. servant girl," The long-haired male said in a snobbish manner, “ Did I not just call you?” He questioned her, and by then the little rag in her hand combusted.

‘What is with this guy?’ She wondered while irked.

A seething hot glare was shot directly at the dark-haired prince as she destroyed her little rag, and it gave her all the more reason to be angry.

“Oh no, “ stark muttered, quickly placing a hand to her shoulder, directing her attention from Loki’s lasting gaze and turning her over to him instead,

“ he’s not worth blowing your cap off, just relax,” he advised feeling a cold sweat running down his forehead as his palms that had landed over her shoulders began to grow warmer, indicating that her temperature was rising.

He could feel her body begin to increase in heat, and he had to act fast, taking her mind off of the annoyance that triggered her,

“You don't want to ruin this pretty kitchen do you?” he asked anxiously, sweeping his arm to offer her the grand view of the luxury space.

“Besides...I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.” He further explained, hoping that it was the case, but not entirely too certain about it because after all, it was Loki.

-The same Loki that had in the past bated the Hulk out of Banner.

It was then that her ( e/c) eyes swept left and right to the little place she had dubbed her ‘safe space’ and after a good moment of reflection, she closed her eyes tightly, her harsh pants coming down to mellowing breathes that were both inhaled and exhaled through her nostrils.

“There we go, “ Tony said smiling with relief.

She gritted her teeth, “Okay...I’m fine..” She told him, soon releasing a low breath that seemed to make her deflate, her tense muscles with the blow of air.

“You sure?” he asked her, uncertain.

“Yeah,” She responded back with a lax voice, a slow smile beginning to pave way onto her face, “Sorry about that, “ She said sheepishly, her face glowing as she’d calmed to a state where she was easier to reason with.

‘Gotta be nice,’ She told herself. ‘Technically he’s a guest. One who’s not from here,’ She reasoned.

She then turned back to the prince, the same sweet expression present as she approached him, truly hoping he didn’t get the wrong impression of her.

‘I’m not a horrible person, you have to believe me,’ She thought to herself, ‘It’s just...sometimes...I’m too passionate.’ She went on.

‘I’m really sorry,’ She added while releasing a calmed breath, ‘You didn’t know any better,’ She mused, ‘I don’t know what got over me.’

“I’m so sorry about that,” She said with humility, nearly close to bowing her head in shame with how embarrassed she was.

“I’m (f/n) (l/n),” She introduced herself, her weary smile easing into a true, amiable grin.

She then extended her hand out to him, kindly offering it,

“ I’m a part of the A-”

“- Avengers,” He finished for her, “Yes, I know,” He said while grinning at her, the words falling onto her and causing her to freeze, numbness soon overwhelming her as he took her hand.

‘He knows…’ She thought to herself, ‘Which means,’ She then droned on,

‘Which means he PURPOSELY called me that,’ She went on, the gears of her brain working at max capacity, coming to the conclusion in a manner of seconds.

All while her face began to twitch with annoyance, she could see him slowly form a grin of amusement, one she took in with insult,

‘He thinks he’s so cute…’ She went on, soon glaring at him, ‘What’s his damn problem?!’ She added, hearing him chuckle, the sound of his velvety voice producing such an aggravating, yet warm sound that it frazzled her.

‘He’s doing this on purpose,’ She concluded, watching as every twitch of her face made his eyes glow furthermore, the gems married with amusement.

‘He’s trying to… to,’ stopping herself she bit her tongue, not knowing what his true aim was,

‘What the hell is he even trying to do, get on my damn nerves?!’ She wondered with dismay.

‘So, You think it’s that easy huh?

You think I’m just some hotheaded punk that can’t stay fucking...uuugggggghhhhhhhh!’ She inwardly shrieked, fighting against the nature she assumed he wanted to become a spectator of.

‘I want to just wipe that stupid grin off his face!’ She thought with malice, ‘But if I do, the pretty boy wins,‘ She contemplated, her mind viscously jumbled, and throughout it all, much to her pleasure, she managed to hold herself steady, not letting the fiery strength take over.

“I hope I get to see more of you!” She chirped back, shoving out the words, subconsciously squeezing his hand.

‘- No I don’t,’ She inwardly added, wanting to wring his neck instead.

“I just know we’ll get along,” She then added with the same glee.

‘- I want you acres from me,’ She maundered darkly.

At the first elated peep, Loki’s brows rose, a chuckle escaping him as he eyed the saccharine smile that was in stark contrast to her vicious (e/c) colored eyes that clearly showed disdain, and it only gave him more reason to fuel her flame.

“(f/n) (l/n),” He then said, taking her warm hand in his before laying a little kiss to her first knuckle,

“A pleasure,“ He told her, enjoying the way her face morphed into complete, and utter shock that left her doe-eyed.

She was then left blubbering, her brain nearly fried by the simple action, not knowing how to take it,

‘Wh-who does he… think he is?’ she asked herself, unsure of just how to feel.

‘No one’s ever done that before,’ She thought to herself, ‘But that doesn’t mean i enjoyed it,’ She then added.

‘I just got caught off guard!’ She reasoned.

Tony chuckled lowly, having only seen the other man’s face throughout the entire exchange in greetings, completely missing her annoyed tick as well as her withheld aggression, only catching sight of the glowing enjoyment in the other man's eyes.

“I hope to see more of you,” Loki then added, withdrawing, and leaving her stunned.

‘Why...Why did he even want me in the first place?’ She asked herself, unsure of what had even transpired between them.

“- Looks like Reindeer Games likes you,” Tony then mused aloud, and it did nothing to help her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The man alternated between bitter and sweet.

He was charming even when he was a nuisance, and she detested the way he easily tweaked her.

Anything he did was sure to make heat rise within her, from his annoying pestering that brought her close to combustion, to the sweet, charming second nature that made her face glow.

He pushed her on edge in more ways than one, and it made it all the more frustrating when he went out of his way to bother her, because sometimes she wanted to choke him, and other times,

‘Other times… I just want to...to do things with you that I don't even understand,’ She thought helplessly, having never felt so bothered by another being.

She was grateful to have learned how to properly control her powers to the degree that most of what he threw at her was shot back with sweetness,

‘Kill ‘em with kindness,’ That was the motto that, and until then, she’d followed to a T.

But, everything had its breaking point, and as the second month rolled by she found hers,

“ Call me servant girl again you little shit,” She sneered, holding up a tightened fist before him, the little ball shaking with the furiousness she felt.

“ Oh? and what will you do, if I do ... little, servant girl?” he said snickering, nearing her with a confident strut, “Are you going to strike me?” He said while grinning, his two hands held behind his back as he leaned towards her, extending his jaw out subtly, all in a manner that dared her to do so,

“ Because I’d just love to see you try,” he said lowly, challenging her, his emerald eyes glowing as he looked down at her.

Her already accelerated heart jumped at the glance, forcing a gasp out of her, one she was aware he found amusement in by the sly way he continued to tease her.

Her lips then twitched upwards, not in a show of amusement, but instead a nagging annoyance before she swung at him, which, of course, went straight through him.

“My...You're quite hot-headed,” he said while observing her, making her whip around to him with eyes that glowed just as fiercely as his did,

‘ Hot-headed…

Hot-head…’

She repeated the name over and over, detesting it.

The little nickname made her insides bubble, and as she dwelled in the nickname her body erupted into a heap of flames,

“I AM NOT HOTI-HEADED, IM CALM AND SERENE AND A FRUCKING DELIGHT!”

She screeched, launching herself towards him.

“- All of that foul language.." he muttered, his left hand capturing her wrist in a strong grip, soon pulling her to him before he spun her, forcing her back to his chest.

His right hand then gripped her lower jaw, holding it in a manner that made her lips pucker,

“Such a pretty mouth, and yet such ugly words,” he said amused, releasing the same sweet chuckle that made her insides bubble.

“- I hate you so much,” she said lowly, squirming all the while.

It was rare to be captured, much more, held down by someone else while in her current state, and while it scathed her, it touched her in a way that was indescribable,

‘Do you know how many people have run from me?’ She silently asked him, wondering just why he played with her so much, when she could lose control at any moment.

‘Do you know how many people I’ve hurt?’ She then added, shrinking with a touch of sadness at the remembrance, because she never forgot.

‘Because I’m this way…

Because no matter what I do… I always end up burning…’

“I hate you… so much,” She said in a weaker voice, wearing a small smile that held just a touch of fondness,

‘I hate you for being able to handle me...even at my worst.

I hate you for making me feel so small and weak next to you.

I hate always thinking about you.’

A low, sweet chuckle left him, and during then he wore a teasing little smirk she couldn't see, but could vividly imagine, because she had it ingrained in her mind.

“Ah…” He breathed, “ A shame…,” He murmured, “I love to play with your flame.” He admitted.

“Your heat...” he then uttered, before falling into silence. His hold and presence disappeared all at once, leaving her wide-eyed and surprised, her face burning with embarrassment.

She whipped around, spinning like a curious dog chasing its tail, her eyes searching for the man with wide-eyed innocence.

“I just can’t stand him, “ She murmured, fuming, by then having been subdued into a less agitated state.

‘Because I can’t think of anything but him.

I want him to play with me as much as he wants, shape me in every way I can be molded.

Loki...why are you so unbearable....so unforgettable?’

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greensword101 · 3 years

Text

This is for @barely-nok. I’m sorry it took so long to get some Obake content out for you to consume. I hope you find it tasty lol.

Obake never drank on principle. He needed to keep a clear head and heads were meant for thinking. And thinking meant he could create what he wanted to the limit or even beyond that.

But even sober, his brain would...fizzle if Kei ever so much as blinked at him prettily. Or pouted. Or cheerily threatened to sing “I’m Henry the Eighth , I Am” if he didn’t agree to take a break and - urgh! Just acknowledging the phrase made him feel filthy - spend some “quality time” with a coworker.

Personally speaking, Obake would have preferred the term “expendable” or “replaceable” or “unpaid intern that wasn’t getting extra credit or the merits of knowledge.” Oh, but he would pay anything to get DeciBull out of his sight! And hearing range.

Then again, hearing range would be preferable. Wild cards like Kei were acceptable. DeciBull - or Wil as Kei had casually greeted him by to the former’s chargain - was more of a Jack; weaker than Obake, but still a threat nonetheless.

If Kei hadn’t taken the car and driven off to God knew where, he would have stormed out of the bar and left that arsehole behind. Maybe steal his glasses and see if the chubby man with a guitar gimmack could find his way back home without falling off the pier.

Wil had barely touched his first bottle and was glowering at his phone for the past half hour. This suited Obake swimmingly, if not for the fact that Kei would know that they hadn’t made any attempt at all and would be tormenting him with that song again! And she would enlist Noodle Burger Boy this time, he was certain. And possibly Trina, though he was certain she would be directed towards Wil instead.

Obake collected himself and recited the longest formulas in the Periodic Table before he rigidly glanced over to Wil.

“I’m surprised you aren’t taking advantage of the karaoke here.”

Wil yelped and fumbled with his phone - mumbling apologies to the bartender as he passed - before gaping at Obake.

“Interesting...” Obake murmured.

“What?” Wil asked bemused.

“You almost looked like an intelligent being for a moment.”

Wil scowled, “Funny.”

Then a smile crept onto his face. Obake stiffened. He knew he could take the man, he was slimmer and certainly wasn’t sluggish, but bars were always tricky to maneuver around in. Inebriation, sympathizers, or anyone looking for an excuse to be aggressive would make Obake beating Wil up...troublesome.

“Something amusing to you?” Obake took a sip from his own glass to appear ignorant and casual.

“Just thinking how whipped you must be if Kei could make you spend time with me,” Wil leaned in conspiratorially, “Tell me, does she make you sleep on the couch when you misbehave?”

Obake sputtered and and gave Wil a hard stare. Wil stared back undaunted.

“Shut your mouth and have your bloody drink, why don’t you?” Obake snarled and took another, deeper sip from his glass. He was used to dealing with the aggressive and almost territorial behavior Wil demonstrated back at the base. He did not want to be sober to process that Wil was capable of having bloody cheek.

“How can I have my ‘bloody drink’ if my mouth’s shut?” Wil asked innocently.

“Test my patience and we’ll find out soon enough,” Obake growled under his breath. He could do it. One stab between the ribs and he could slip out in the noise and confusion. He just didn’t want to put up with Kei pestering him when he got back and possibly annoying her with a potential murder.

Wil sniggered and had another swig of his beer. He went back to his phone, but he barely seemed to be reading what was on the screen.

That was...unexpected. But it was a better alternative to dealing with a feral monkey by himself. Obake found himself enjoying the Manhattan more than he expected and finished it off. He was beginning to fish the cherry out when Wil spoke up again.

“Was it good?”

Obake groaned and glowered at Wil, who was starting at his empty glass curiously. What didn’t that fool understand about having a little peace and quiet?

“I don’t typically drink myself,” Wil mumbled into his bottle and drank. He sputtered for a few moments and continued, “I just stick to a beer once in a while.”

“Thank Heaven for small miracles, then,” Obake narrowed his eyes and waved the bartender over, “Another one, if you would be so kind.”

“Me too,” Wil smiled at the bartender and held up his empty bottle. Amazingly, the bartender smiled back and came back moments later with their second drinks. Wil called after him as he walked off, “Thanks, Jim!”

“You frequent this place often?” Obake ventured and helped himself to his second Manhattan. Screw sobriety, it had been so long since he had anything that tasted so good touch his lips.

“I used to,” Wil admitted, “Just for a bite and maybe a bottle. That’s kind of how me and Kei met, actually.”

“A little nip before beddybye?” Obake cooed mockingly at him.

“Crime and I have something in common,” Wil smirked, “We rarely sleep.”

“Tragic,” Obake chuckled and raised his glass in mock salute, “To your insomnia, I suppose.”

Wil raised his beer in kind, “And to good company if I ever get any.”

Now, they both laughed for real. Obake noticed for the first time how pleasantly red Wil’s face had become. Was it the alcohol or the first genuine spark of life he was expressing? If it was the latter, that would mean Kei was behind it somehow.

Suddenly, the good feeling popped like a soap bubble and Obake hid his displeasure by finishing off his second Manhattan. Wil gawked at him.

“You should slow down, Kei is gonna freak if she has to pick us up from the ER because you got alcohol poisoning or something.”

“Kei this, Kei that, you haunt her like a lapdog!” Obake spat out. Damn that woman and her silly, childish notions of fun and damn that boulder she decided would make good company!

Wil blinked and leaned back a little. A moment later, he was glowering back with that familiar hostility, “At least I don’t treat her like a nuisance like you do! Do you have any idea how much she cares about you?!”

“Cares?” Obake snapped his fingers at Jim for another glass and leaned closer to Wil’s face. His nostrils flared and he could feel Wil tense inches away from him. “Why would she have to care about me? If that’s what you call pity, then I’ve no need for it! She can pretend all she wants that we’re all supposed to be some family, but in the end, that’s all it’s going to be. A stupid dream! Why would she care about making me ‘socialize’ with the others or spending ‘quality time’ with her silly boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?!”

Obake jabbed a finger into Wil’s chest, “Don’t play coy! I know you think I’m a prat to her! And I know you won’t believe that she can almost make me feel human! But you don’t have to worry about me getting in the way, Prince Charming! She’s all yours, so you don’t have to worry about me -”

“I’m gay.”

“And I’m Bob, the pleasure’s all...what.” Obake had to take a moment to process Wil’s flat retort.

“Gay. I like guys. I love them. I love kissing them. And I’m already taken.”

Obake opened his mouth and closed it again. He noticed that his third Manhattan had arrived and wasted no time downing it. Wil didn’t repeat how it wasn’t safe to do this time, and he was thankful for that.

Suddenly, he felt someone standing right behind him and stilled.

“Is he giving you problems, Wil?”

“No worries, Eugene,” Wil smiled at the person behind him, “Just clearing up a misunderstanding over here.”

Obake felt a little dizzy and pinched his nose, “Let me understand this correctly. You have never had feelings for Kei?”

“Platonically, yes. Romantically or otherwise? No.”

“And this whole time, yo - you’ve...” Why couldn’t he find the right words? “You’ve...acted harshly because...?”

“Because she’s one of my best friends and I don’t want her to get hurt,” Wil said firmly. He pointed at Obake with a fiercely protective look, “I can’t help who she wants to connect with, but I won’t stand by and let her get hurt. She’s gone through too much to deserve that.”

“Alright, I’m just going to butt in for a moment here,” Eugene moved from behind Obake and stood to Wil’s left, wrapping an arm across him protectively. He was pleasant to the eyes; tall, broad, dark brown hair and a scruffy goatee. He looked at Wil, bemused, “You weren’t here scooping for another cutie, babe?”

“Wh...why...why would he...?” Obake’s tongue felt like lead. Dear Lord, he could barely speak, he was so embarrassed.

“Because this is a gay bar?” Eugene supplemented as if it weren’t obvious. Obake blinked. Come to think of it, it was rather odd no one had come to bother them when they came in. Did...did that mean...?

Somewhere in San Fransokyo, Kei was laughing herself silly. Obake was certain of it.

“Everything alright over here?” Another voice, deeper than Eugene’s mischievous and light tone asked.

“Hey ‘Nan! This is an acquaintance of mine,” Wil helped himself to his beer, “and apparently he thought I was stealing his girlfriend until a few moments ago. Bob, this is Kanan. My other boyfriend.”

“Other...” Obake’s head was swimming. This was too much to process...

“Yeah,” Wil said shyly, “We’re...we’re kind of a poly sort of thing.”

As if to prove his point, Eugene promptly gave Wil a deep kiss on the lips that was eagerly returned. Kanan came into view and Obake noticed how dark skinned he was and the ponytail before he decided he was too sober to handle this all right now.

He made to stand and tripped over his stool. And a moment later, his Manhattans returned and splashed all over the floor.

In hindsight, he should have checked how much alcohol was in each glass...

It was about a half hour later when Kei found all four of them outside the bar with Obake being supported by an irksome Wil and amused Eugene. Kanan looked torn between disapproval and laughter.

“Was it fun?” Kei asked hesitantly. Obake took one look at her and sighed. It was his own fault for drinking too much.

“It was something,” Wil supplemented as he helped buckle Obake into the backseat, “And educational, apparently, so that’s a plus.”

“We were there at the tail-end,” Eugene added helpfully, “It was kind of entertaining.”

“You sure you can take care of this?” Kanan asked Wil.

Wil looked at Obake and sighed, “We’ll be alright. Thanks, anyways.”

“See you at the next heist meet, babe!” Eugene blew a kiss.

“Tell Raps and Hera I said hi!” Wil called back as they drove off.

“And here I thought I’d be picking you up at the police station for a bar brawl,” Kei half joked.

“Stay with me, Bob!” Wil shook Obake gently, “Don’t go to sleep. First rule in treating alcohol poisoning.”

“Piss off...” Obake slurred.

Wil sighed and let his head sink against the headrest for a few moments. Why didn’t he just become an accountant like his parents wanted?

“Wil...” Obake said sluggishly, “In..in the...event...I survive this with my memory intact. Would you...do it again?”

Wil blinked in surprise and chuckled weakly, “Only if you watch what you drink next time, lightweight.”

“Momma’s boy.”

“Evil Brit.”

“Four Eyes.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnneeeee~rrrrrrrrrds!” Kei cackled as her passengers bickered with each other without any former hostility from before.

#big hero 6 #bh6 #Big Hero Six the series #obake #kei tanaka #dj parasite #wil welsh #decibull #Eugene Fitzherbert #kanan jarrus #oc #self insert #lbgt #gay #drinking #enemies to besties

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stonecoldjerseyfox · 3 years

Text

Jersey on my mind (part 44)

They move in a hurry through the forest. Not even when a sharp branch scratches her across the cheek Mila flinches. Her gaze is locked on the target and desperately clings to whatever little mental strength and sanity she has left. Three meters behind her Daryl walks, acting as eyes and ears to both of them, because Mila’s mind is all focused on one thing.

“Ey, wait up!”

It’s not the first time he’s been asking her to slow down. And it won’t be the last time she’ll ignore him. There’s no time to waste.

She saw the drugstore when they drove past it by car a few days ago. A taunting reminder that sooner or later she had to stop running from what’s been taunting her for the last couple of weeks. At first she could brush it off, but then the dreams started and quickly turned into nightmares that made her wake up with a racing heart. Desperately she continued to deny it, even despite dizziness, nausea and vomiting. It was the constant nightmares about an entity eating her from the inside that made her surrender and ask Daryl to come with her.

“There’s something I have to do.”

Even though she had given him so little information, he was still ready to go with her a moment later. Wherever she went, he went, no matter how little or how much she told. But an annoyance over the fact that she does not say anything has built up inside Daryl for every step they’ve taken away from Alexandria. He has asked and she has not answered. Each time he sounds more and more irritated; why does she not want to tell him?

“Where are we going?”

Her facial muscles refuse to cooperate and the mouth feels dehydrated. No, she just has to keep going. What would she really say? And how? The biggest reason Mila keeps her mouth shut is because she’s scared.

“Jersey!”

“WHAT?” Mila brakes and turns around on the spot. Daryl brakes too and they look at each other under silence.

“Ya gonna tell me what’s this is all about?”

In response, he gets further silence. Mila breathes through her nostrils, says nothing and turns and starts walking again. Just as before, Daryl follows. The irritation lies thick in the air, but she’s incapable of telling him the reason for their quest; what if she’s wrong? What if it’s something completely different? It might be some serious disease, like cancer, and she might just as well be in the process of withering away. Maybe she only has a few weeks left to live? If I compare with the alternative, death is almost preferable, Mila thinks in an attempt to be ironic as she struggles through the vegetation. Anxiety rises all the way up her throat and she struggles to stay calm. It’s going badly. A blind person could have seen that something was out of phase. Daryl notices it, Mila feels it all over her body and she feels the irritation creeping out of his pores over not knowing what it is about.

Mila stops abruptly as her feet touch the edge of the scarred, cracked asphalt that means the end of the forest. Her heart begins to beat faster as her gaze lands on the beige square lump of cement, whose broken sign announces to her that she is now here. The goal has been reached. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The brain wants to turn around and make the body run in the opposite direction, back to Alexandria and the ignorance. But the boots refuse to lift from the pavement. She can not move; well, she can move forward. Her feet begin to move purposefully across the ruined road, towards the drugstore across the road.

“What are we doing here?” Daryl asks somewhere behind her. When he doesn’t get an answer, he continues: “Ya’ sick or something?”

What should she answer? Well, nothing really. She can’t even open her mouth.

“Is it the kid?” Daryl continues. She can hear his steps behind her as he strides up next to her. “Goddamnit, Jersey!”

“Shut up.”

The first words that she uttered in at least half an hour seemed to shock him. He doesn’t object, he doesn’t question her. Under silence he follows her towards the entrance. It’s always the same thing; barricaded doors, a total mess outside, attempts of scavenging that for some reason was interrupted. This time it seems to be because of the seemingly alone walker trapped inside the drugstore’s entrance, like a fish in its tank. A heavy chain with a padlock keeps the doors shut from the outside.

“That’s a bummer.” Daryl says and looks at the large padlock.

Mila pulls off her backpack, unzips it and pulls out a large pair of bolt cutters. She suspected that it could be useful.

“Here.” She hands it to Daryl.

He looks at it, gives her an unfathomable gaze, before placing the scissors against the thick chain, makes sure that it is firmly in the gap and presses. It cracks on the second attempt. He pulls the chain away from the bent handles, hands Mila the bolt cutters and takes out the large knife. He quickly opens the door and the walker, who has been pressing itself up against the glass and smearing God knows what all over the glass, stumbles against them. Daryl quickly puts an end to it, pulls the knife out of its ripe skull bone and tosses it aside. With a thud it lands on the asphalt. Mila walks past it, into the entrance and looks at the next pair of doors, this time locked from the other side. Automatic electric doors. She looks at the bolt cutters she is holding in her hand. Can it be used as a crowbar? There’s only one way to find out. She puts the end of the scissors in the small gap on the compressed doors and uses all her strength, plus one foot, to make the locking mechanism in the doors give way.

“I’ll help ya’.”

Daryl signs for her to move, but at the same moment a crack is heard and Mila feels how the lock is twisted out of its bracket. She makes one last tug and pulls up a half-meter wide gap. With her breath in her throat, Mila jerks her head at her significant other and sweeps past him into the dull store. The brain frantically begins to rattle off things she should look for and her eyes automatically search for a shopping cart to fill up. Focus, she thinks! With her heart pounding in her chest, Mila looks upwards to the ceiling and the signs that proclaim the structure of the store; oral care and mouthwash, vitamins, laxatives, painkillers. She stops on ‘Maternity’. Again, she hears Daryl talk to her somewhere in her periphery, but she doesn’t hear a word; in slow motion she moves to the left, passes two aisles before turning into the aisle with milk replacers and formula, baby powder, ointments and pacifiers. She stops when she stands in front of a shelf loaded with lots of different boxes in white, blue and pink. She feels sick and nauseous and her left eye twitches. Great, I’m having a stroke, she thinks to herself, just as Daryl stops next to her.

“-for fuck sake, Jersey!” He scoffs. “Ya’ tell me what this is all about or I swear-”

Without a word, flushed with emotions, Mila tears one of the boxes from its shelf and presses it into Daryl’s chest. With clenched jaws, she then stares at him.

“What’s this?” He looks at it, turns and twists. The eyebrows and forehead are wrinkled, he moves his mouth as he reads what is on the packaging. “Wha-” He pauses mid sentence. Frowns at her. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“You kiddin’ me?” Mila rips the box out of his hands and waves it in the air. Her patience and calm is about to go over in panic and the eye twitching increases; great, she’ll drop dead of a seizure in a drugstore.

“What- ya sayin’ ya pregnant?”

“Well that’s what I’m about to find out!”

She’s never seen him like this before. Baffled beyond anything. He opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again but is unable to create full sentences.

“But- how-”

“Well unless you know something that I don’t know about your reproductive ability-” Mila exclaims and clenches the glossy ClearBlue-box. “-because then, bozhe moy, it’s a fucking miracle and I’m mother fucking virgin Mary and can reproduce on my goddamn own!” She inhales deeply and looks down at the box in her shaking hands. “We haven’t been using protection, well- ever! And trust me, I’ve been through this before. It’s either this-” She waves the box around. “Or I’ve got like ‘this is bad’-stage cancer or something. There’s only one way to find out.”

“Why the fuck haven’t ya’ said something!” He swears. “I’ve worried my fucking ass off for ya’ running around throwing up and all that shit.”

“Because I’m scared!” Mila cries. “There! I said it. I’m terrified. And I’ve never done this thing with someone before, because the last time, I was alone. I’m scared, Daryl, ‘cause you can walk away from it and I can’t.” She pauses and meets Daryl’s gaze with a pulse running around her body like a freight train. For the first time ever, she can’t figure out what he thinks, or feels. It scares her. “You’re either with me or not on this one, Dixon.” Mila says in an as collected voice as she can possibly upkeep.

The silence that follows is painful. They look at each other. She’s about to cave in when Daryl clasps her hand, squeezes it and pulls her into a hug.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Jersey.” Daryl says huskily into her hair, pressing her against his body in a tight, protecting hug. “I kinda’ married ya’, remember?” He asks and Mila can’t avoid letting out a faint laugh. “I’m in it for the long run. As long as ya’ stop being such a bull-head and tell me shit.”

As soon as her breathing has calmed down, the search for a toilet begins. In the back, they find a customer toilet with two booths. Mila walks into the right one, closes the door and unbuttons her jeans. She pulls them down to her knees, turns around and looks disgustingly at the toilet seat. Thank goodness there is some toilet paper left in the holder. Carefully she wraps paper in a neat frame around the seat before pulling her panties down to her knees and sits down.

“How does this stuff work?” Daryl says from the other side of the door.

Mila can see his boots from underneath the door. She opens the box and takes out the testing stick and the folded instructions.

“I’ll pee on the stick-” She throws the instructions over the door for him to read; he’ll have more use for it than her. “Then we’ll wait.”

“How long?”

“A few minutes. Maybe two. It depends on the test.” Mila removes the plastic lid from the testing stick and sighs. It’s now or never. “Back off a little, will you? I need some privacy.”

On the other side Daryl takes a few steps back. A creaking noise tells her that he’s leaning up against the wall mounted sink. With the handle of the stick in a firm grip, she opens her legs and places it in what she thinks is the line of fire. To calm herself even further she closes her eyes, inhales and exhales. This time she succeeds better than last; when she found out she was pregnant with Juri she managed to pee down her whole hand in the process. Carefully she shakes off the stick, soaked in pee, and places it on the box on top of the holder for the toilet paper. Her legs feel like jelly and she can not bring herself to get up and pull up her jeans. She remains seated.

“Now, we’ll wait.” She states.

Daryl walks up to the booth again and leans up against the door.

“The instructions said two minutes.” He says huskily. “Should be 99% accurate.”

“Yeah.” Mila replies.

“Is it legit? I mean-”

“It’s legit.” Mila confirms. “I’ve done this a few times. I took six tests when I found out about Juri. They all came out positive.” She’s done a few others since, with Jim, but she leaves them out. All of those were negative.

She swallows and closes her eyes again. Tries her best to stay calm and not panic about what will come; there’s only two options. Positive or negative, one or two lines. She tries to calm herself with the fact that she’s not alone this time. Not that she ever was with Juri either, but having the father in the picture, alive and well, would under the prevailing circumstances be equally calming. At the same time, the thoughts of disaster swirl around her head; of all times having children, this is the dumbest, most inconvenient time there could possibly be. Abortion would have been a very reasonable option considering the current state of the world; Mila shudders at the thought that the possibly only method for an abortion this these days would be a coat-hanger or chugging bleach. The chance of dying is huge no matter what. The reasonable, sensible part of her brain sincerely hopes that it will only be one line on the test. The other, significantly smaller part, is downright foolish; what if there’s two lines?

“How long has it been?”

Mila opens her eyes and looks into the worn door. Beads of sweat run down her temples.

“One and a half, maybe.”

Silence again. He must be as nervous as she is. Jesus christ, what if something happened to her? If something were to go straight to hell? All she can think of is Juri. Her whole life revolves around keeping him safe and to make sure he’s not harmed. It also means that nothing must happen to her. The thoughts that swirl around are enough for her to want to vomit again. Mila tries to breathe calmly, to fill her lungs with air, but they’ve shrunk to the size of acorns. She swallows. She hates to admit it, but she’s terrified.

“I think it’s been two now.” Mila hears herself say out loud.

She could just as easily have shouted it out. It cuts through the air. On the other side of the door, Daryl turns around, the toes of his boots becoming visible from below the door. It is an out-of-body, surreal feeling. She had completely forgotten how it felt, but she recognizes it well. With trembling hands she takes the test from on top of the box and turns it upwards. Her vision is cloudy and she has to blink twice to clear her field of vision.

“What does it say?”

“Two. Two lines.”

“Ya’ pregnant?”

“Yeah- Yes I am.”

It could not be more definitive. Two lines. Holy fucking shit. Vodka; that’s all that she can think of. She need a fucking drink. Or two. Maybe twenty. The door opens and she’s awakened from her trance-like, thirsty for booze-state; Daryl bursts into the booth, pulls her up from the toilet seat and hugs her tightly, buries his nose into her neck and digs his fingers into the back of her hair as if he’d never let her go. And she clings to him, still with her jeans and panties around her ankles. A drop of pee runs down the inner side of her leg and she squeezes the plastic stick that smells faintly of urine. The toes on her boots barely touch the ground, but if he’d let go of her Mila swears she’d drop down into an emotional puddle on the dirty floor.

“Ya’ sayin’-” Daryl’s voice breaks. The husky voice has been replaced with a soft, almost appealing tone, that jumps between being raspy and frail. “Ya’ mean- ya’ really is-” Once again his voice cracks and he doesn’t manage to speak further; instead he hugs her even tighter.

“Yes.” Mila manages to whisper. “Yeah.”

Daryl loosen his grip to look down at her. The greenish blue eyes glistening and his hair is completely on edge from having dragged his fingers through it at least a dozen times; he’s shocked, overwhelmed beyond comparison. His heartbeat beats twice as fast underneath the clothes, she can feel it.

“Ya’ pregnant.” It’s as if he can’t believe what he’s saying out loud. “I’m gonna-” The voice cracks yet again and he pulls her closer again. “This is crazy.” To say the least. Mila rests her head at his chest, inhales his scent deep down her lungs while listening to his heartbeat; her first full intake of air since they left Alexandria. “We’re havin’ a kid!”

“Yeah, we are.” Mila says. “This is bad. It’s bad, it’s-”

“Nah.” He hushes into her hair. “Nah it ain’t.” Daryl hooks his hand under her chin and aims her face up and frowns. “Fuck, Jersey, I ain’t father’s material.”

Mila wrinkles her eyebrows.

“Do you think I was when I found out I was pregnant with Juri? I was a- phew, I don’t even know the word for what I was. I was a wild child while in university; I went to parties, drank a lot. I tried to kill myself after I’d found out I was pregnant for christ sake!” She lowers her head; she hasn't told Daryl about that episode before. No one knows and those who do are probably dead by now. “It was too late for an abortion and I didn’t see another way out, so I tried to- I don’t know what I was trying to do. An abortion or just… die. I was alone, I had no idea who the father was and I was scared. But somehow I pulled through. I might drink way too much, but I pulled through. And Juri is-” She sighs. “I’m just as shitty parent material as you are, Dixon. And you’re doing amazing. Juri adores you.” She softly caresses his cheek, the stubble brushes against her palm. “You’ve been a dad longer than these- what, five minutes.”

It’s barely noticeable, but Mila notices a faint smirk on the archer’s face. They’re rare, but not non-existent. Daryl lowers his gaze; it lands at the ClearBlue-stick in her hand and he takes it. The fact that it’s drenched in her urine doesn’t bother him the slightest. He looks at it in awe and disbelief, as if he’s sceptical of the fact that such a simple piece of plastic could give him such life-changing news in merely two minutes.

“What are you thinking about?” Mila asks.

“This-” He nods at the stick with the two bright red lines. “This is fuckin’ art. Not like that brown crap painting at the house. This is the real deal.”

“I’ve peed on it, you know that right.”

A wide grin spreads upon Daryl’s face. His posture has changed completely; it’s proud and tall. He hooks his big arm around her neck and pulls her into a kiss. The moment would be almost cinematic, if it wasn’t for the scenery; a dirty, frankly nasty bathroom booth in a run down drugstore. Fortunately, she’s a simple soul.

“Hell I love ya’ Jersey.” A strong declaration of love if anything. “Holy fucking hell!” Daryl chuckles. “It’s fucking crazy, but it’s- it’s good.”

“And terrifying.” Mila admits. “It’s not crowded with doctors around here.”

“They had a doc at that colony, Hilltop.”

“Eh, will that doctor be alive in nine months?” Mila asks and frowns. “That can’t be guaranteed these days. And will you still love me like hell when I’ve been off booze for like nine months and look like I’ve swallowed a melon?”

Daryl’s eyes, that were recently so soft and full of tenderness, become soft in that other, suggestive way; Mila’s thoughts wander directly to the night before, or was it the night before that? Those eyes being all dark and soft, his hands all over her body and the soft moaning. A shiver of pleasure finds its way down her spine, out into her legs. She might have a clue where this is going.

“Let’s get outta ‘ere.” Daryl puts the pregnancy test in the pocket inside his vest; for safekeeping. He then wraps his arm around her waist and steers both of them out from the cramped booth, out of the stinky bathroom. “Gotta get back so we can celebrate, Jersey.”

“You nuts? We’re gonna tell the others already?”

“Christ sake- they won’t die by waiting an hour until we’re done.”

“Oh...”

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