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shig-a-shig-ah · 2 years

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ONE, TWO, WRECKED.

You talk Shigaraki into giving you a show with a double of himself, and he winds up testing his limits in tantalizing new ways.

» pairing: Shigaraki Tomura² x afab!reader » word count: 4.5k » notes: This fic is my entry for @dabisqueen‘s Holy Trinity collab. Hope y’all enjoy--I put my whole pussy into this. » contains: gn!pronouns, switch!Shigaraki, threesome, selfcest, fingering, cunnilingus, blowjobs, pegging, double penetration (Shigaraki receiving), simultaneous orgasms. 18+, minors DNI. » ao3 mirror

"Wait."

"What?"

"Is this really how you start?"

"How am I—how are we supposed to start?"

"I don't know. I guess I expected some buildup or something before you jumped right into it."

You probably shouldn't have expected that—shouldn't be at all surprised that Tomura had gone straight to stripping. You know he's done this before—more frequently and thoroughly than he's let on, you suspect—but he still seems eager to get it over with, is clearly embarrassed by the position you've talked him into, kneeling on your bed with another version of himself only two feet away. They're both shirtless, hands paused halfway through the motions of undoing their pants. The only difference between them is that Tomura—the real one—huffs at your comment.

"It's jerking off, not making love or some shit. It doesn't need foreplay."

"Is that why we used to catch you limping around?"

"Shut up," he grumbles, but the way his cheeks heat up make you think there's more truth to your statement than he wants to admit. He glares resignedly between you and his double. "What were you thinking?"

You'd been intent on just watching them to start—that's half the point, after all, is what you'd spent weeks and weeks talking Tomura into after learning just how he used to abuse Twice's Quirk before you came along. In this case, though, it seems easier to show than tell. So, you scoot forward from where you've been sitting. Lean in to kiss him, soft and slow, teasing at his lower lip with your tongue before you pull away and turn to his clone, repeating that motion as Tomura watches on.

Then you sit back on your heels, gesturing between the two of them. Tomura's eyes widen when he gets what you're suggesting, and you pout at him before he can argue.

"C'mon, you promised me a good show."

"Fine," he mutters, shifting a little closer to his other self. It's wearing the same unenthusiastic expression, has the same pink flush to its cheek, but the half-formed bulges in their pants make it clear they're not quite as averse to this as they're acting.

Still, neither of them see to know where to start. They pause with a few inches of space between them, hands hovering uncertainly as twin pairs of red eyes scan their respective shirtless forms, Adam's apples bobbing as they both swallow hard.

Then Tomura is letting out an impatient breath and leaning in, stiffly pressing his mouth to his double's.

They're hesitant movements at first, Tomura's eyes falling closed—largely, you suspect because he simply doesn't want to stare at himself as cracked lips explore cracked lips in entirely perfunctory fashion. You don't complain about that lack of enthusiasm, though; there's something tantalizing about the sight despite the reluctance, or maybe even because of it. Your skin is already starting to grow warm as you watch on.

That heat only worsens when Tomura's lids finally blink open so he can peer at you from the corner of his eye. Crimson irises scan over you, his brow knitting just the slightest, obviously not missing the way you've already grown flustered by the act before you.

For all his reservations, that must be enough encouragement for him. A second later his lips are curving into a devious smirk and he's reaching one hand up to yank at his double's hair, kissing it harder. His teeth nip at its lip as its eyes widen momentarily, and then it's returning that treatment, mirroring Tomura's self-satisfied expression as it tips its head to watch your reaction.

Your breath catches when their tongues lap out, escalating to sloppy, open-mouthed kisses, grunts and groans periodically punctuating the sounds of panting as their hands start to wander, yanking at tufts of white hair one moment and reaching to grope at their now-prominent arousals the next. When the double's hand finally slips beneath the waistband of Tomura's pants, Tomura's hand fists at its hair, guiding its lips roughly to his neck and turning his head to look at you, letting out a hiss when the clone sinks its teeth into his sensitive throat.

"This what you wanted?" he asks you, tone entirely self-satisfied despite his heavy breathing. He keeps his eyes locked on yours when he shoves his pants down a little, revealing the erection gripped tight in his double's hand. Then he's working the double's pants down too. Its own arousal hangs heavy, flushed at the tip and twitching slightly every time Tomura's fingers tighten in its hair.

You nod in response to his question. There's an ache growing between your legs now, your thighs clenching and wetness pooling, your hand lifting to tease at your breast through the fabric of Tomura's shirt, the only thing covering you besides the thin cotton of your underwear. You whimper quietly as you pinch and tug at one nipple.

Tomura's smug expression only worsens at that sight, and more still when his free hand works between his respective bodies. He shifts a little closer to the other version of himself, maneuvering until he manages to trade his double's grip for his own, taking them both in hand. The sound of dual groans fills the room when he starts to stroke them together. It's followed by his double's head lolling back, hips bucking into that grip, a hiss of breath slipping past its lips every time Tomura swipes his thumb over their glistening tips.

Your tongue traces over your bottom lip as your hand slips between your thighs, teasing yourself through the fabric of your underwear. For a moment, that's all there is—the heady sight before you and the faint sounds of the Tomuras grunting and whining as they continue their ministrations, teeth nipping at identical patches of pale skin as they rut into a single large fist, both sets of crimson eyes constantly surveying your response.

It's not long before Tomura grows impatient with the performance, though, until he obviously wants something more than this display that's largely for your benefit. Then he's releasing his grip and fisting at his double's hair instead, unceremoniously shoving its head down towards his flushed erection.

His double doesn't complain. Only shoots you another one of those cocky looks before obediently extending its pink tongue to drag along the underside of Tomura's length, hand tugging at its own cock. It swallows Tomura down, and he swears under his breath.

Tomura tangles both hands in his double's hair. Hunches his shoulders as he starts to piston his hips, spit-slicked cock working in and out from between scarred lips as the clone sputters and gags but never stops accepting that length without complaint. When a tiny whimper slips from you as you watch, Tomura's eyes gleam, mouth splitting into a grin as he eyes your hand still toying with your clit through your underwear.

"Tired of just watching yet?" he taunts breathily.

You nod. Scramble onto your knees and forward to kiss him again, more heatedly than you had before. His tongue laps at your own, his groans filling your mouth as his double continues its efforts, and then Tomura is swearing.

"Fuck," he hisses, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips when he pulls away. One of his arms wraps around your waist, his other hand still holding tight to his double's hair as he falls back against the mattress, repositioning you all so quickly it's hard to follow. One moment he's kneeling, his chest pressed to yours, and the next he's on his back, tugging you to straddle his face.

You're sure it's no accident how he's positioned you, either, facing his feet, where you can see the other version of him settling again between his thighs, its mouth still working over his cock with practiced expertise. Your clothes are gone before you know it, too, flushed skin and damp cunt fully exposed as dust falls against the sheets.

Tomura wastes no time availing himself of your heated sex. His tongue parts your slick folds and works its way greedily inside you, probing at your walls until you're gasping and grinding against his face, desperate for more. When he finally pulls back, tongue lapping forward to lap at your clit, you moan at the gentle pulse of that wet muscle against your most sensitive spot.

The double's eyes settle on you at that sound, one of its hands reaching up to grope at your bare chest, rough fingers kneading at that soft flesh before circling your nipple, pinching at that tender bud. The sharp pang of pleasure that brings only worsens the growing ache in your core.

"Tomura," you mewl, and you feel his throaty laugh between your thighs. See the double grin before it pulls its lips from Tomura's cock, dragging its tongue over that length.

"Fuck, like it when you say our name," it pants. It lifts one hand to your mouth, two fingers extended, and you waste no time parting your lips to suck at those digits, tongue laving over its knuckles and fingertips as its other hand strokes at Tomura's swollen length, drawing the occasional grunt from where the real version of him is still face-deep in your cunt. Each stroke of his tongue has that pressure building deep inside, your thighs starting to tremble.

The double pulls its hand away once its fingers are good and slicked with spit. Nudges Tomura's legs a little farther apart and drops its fingers to probe between those spread thighs. You feel it more than see it when one of those long fingers breaches Tomura's tight hole—feel the way he tenses beneath you and gasps hotly against your sex. His double's lips wrap around his cock once more, licking and sucking as he pumps his finger in and out, adding a second one after only a moment.

Tomura whimpers when those fingers press just right inside him, the movements of his mouth against your cunt growing more feverish, and then he's shoving two of his own fingers into your cunt, matching the rhythm of his double's movements as he laps at your clit. Each drag of his tongue and curl of his fingers sends you closer to the edge, your whole body going taut as you strain to reach that peak. You're not the only one, either—Tomura is whining and groaning now, his hips bucking up into his double's dual touches.

You get there first. The sight and feel of it all—the clone in front of you, lips slick with spit as it swallows Tomura down again and again, and Tomura's mouth and fingers working headily in tandem against your own cunt—has heat blooming under your skin and that pressure building deep within. You rock your hips, grinding harder against Tomura's face, and that pressure spills over, throbs of pleasure sending you keening as you come hard.

Tomura groans in bliss, lapping at your juices, his own hips rocking faster as he clearly teeters on the edge of his own release. You rake your nails over his chest in encouragement, earning a choked sound, his body tensing beneath you, and then—

And then he's letting out a frustrated grunt as his double pulls away, letting Tomura's cock slap wetly against his tense stomach. The double's fingers withdraw, too, earning another pained noise from the man beneath you.

The double ignores him. Only looks to you and says, with a wicked grin and a sharp gleam in its crimson eyes, "I have an idea.”

"Fuck."

Shigaraki can't help the swear that slips out as he moves to straddle you, though his face burns at the indignity of it. It's not just the position he's in that has him so uncharacteristically self-conscious; it's his own eagerness, too, and how badly he's hiding it. Because he's fantasized about this more than once, or parts of it anyway—you beneath him with that glossy silicone strap-on jutting out from the apex of your thighs.

Of course, his fantasies weren't quite like this—never featured this particular desire being outed by another version of himself, or said alternate looming behind Tomura as he readied himself to ride you.

Still, he's not complaining. Wouldn't even think to, not when his thighs are shaking in anticipation and his cock is achingly hard, desperate for the relief that was abruptly denied when his double decided there were better ideas than Shigaraki coming down its throat.

And, Shigaraki has to admit, he really is curious to see how much he can take.

He pauses when his knees settle beside your hips. Shifts to rut his turgid cock against your fake length once, twice, and then shifts again to let the tip of it tease at his asshole, swearing under his breath as it brushes cooly against all those sensitive nerves.

From behind him, there's an impatient click of a tongue. "Get on with it already," the other him grumbles.

"Shut up," Shigaraki hisses, but he gets on with it anyway, propping himself up on one careful fist as he starts the work of lowering himself down onto your waiting strap. You'd expressed concern, at first—about whether he could really take its thickness with so little preparation. The truth though is that this is far more control than he usually has; it's a stark departure from being bent over, some glorified onahole for a clone of himself who'd be treated the same way when it was through.

It takes little effort for the tip of your strap to breach his entrance, and Shigaraki can't help the throaty gasp that slips from his throat when he does; even when he's getting fucked by himself, that first stretch is pleasantly painful in a way nothing else quite compares to, and it's all the better now, when it's you working your way inside him, fake dick or not.

He's clearly not the only one enjoying it, either; you're watching him with bright eyes, lower lip caught between your teeth. That lustful look only worsens the heat spreading through Shigaraki's abdomen, and whatever patience he'd had left expires then. Not taking his eyes off yours, he drives himself down, accepting the full length of your strap in one fluid movement, letting out a sharp hiss at the way it thrills and aches in equal measure.

"Fuck, you weren't kidding," you murmur, hands settling at his waist. Your thumbs stroke soothingly over the points of his hips bones, holding him lightly in place, encouraging him to adjust despite your faint praise. Shigaraki only manages to tolerate that stillness for a moment before grinding impatiently against you, and then you finally start to rock your hips with soft, shallow movements. "Should've done this sooner," you breathe, still staring raptly up at him. "Feel good?"

Good is an understatement. Even your small movements are enough to have him whimpering, his straining cock twitching with every small stroke against his insides. It's not enough—is barely brushing against that sensitive spot within, and Shigaraki works himself a little faster against you, finally nodding in response to your question. "Yeah, fuck. More."

As if on cue, a hand fists roughly in Shigaraki's hair, jerking at the roots of his crown so roughly that his head snaps back, bolts of white heat stinging across his scalp. He feels his clone shifting from where it's been waiting behind him, one of its arms wrapping around to grope between his legs. A rough hand cups at his balls, and from the corner of his eye, Shigaraki sees his double smirking at you. Then it's using its grip to lift Shigaraki abruptly off your strap.

"You don't have to be so gentle with me," it tells you as it aligns itself with Shigaraki's achingly empty hole. "I can take it." It punctuates that statement with the snap of its hips, burying itself deep in one rough thrust.

It's forceful enough to draw a choked noise from Shigaraki, the girth of his own cock more substantial than the strap you'd had nestled deep only a moment ago; it knocks the breath from his lungs as he's split open in a way he'd never thought would appeal before this uncanny debauchery with the double had all started.

Some faint embarrassment rises at that thought, and at the unblinking stare you've fixed him with as you watch his double take him. He's being louder now—can't help it, not when his other self is so relentless. It doesn't ease into anything, only starts pounding away roughly the moment it's sheathed inside him, movements so harsh that all Shigaraki can do is fist tightly at the sheets and listen to the sounds of his own ragged gasps echoing in stereo, the pitch of those noises rising every time his double angles to hit just the right spot inside.

Shigaraki finds himself empty again a moment later, his walls clenching around nothing with humiliating need, but it doesn't go unfulfilled for long. His double guides him immediately back to your waiting strap, and you waste no time lifting your hips to fill that void. Your strokes keep to that gentle, steady rhythm, teasing him with what must be an intentional contrast to his double's rough treatment.

Again it's not enough, and Shigaraki lifts a hand to wrap around his cock, only to find himself denied; calloused fingers wrap tight around his wrist and twist, pinning his arm roughly behind his back.

Shigaraki sees your eyes widen when his double restrains him, and feels the heat in his face worsening under your enraptured stare. It's undignified, he knows—the way he's squirming atop you with obvious need, his cock flushed and leaking as he strives for a release that's nowhere near close enough. You don't give him what he needs, either, offering nothing but another few slow strokes against his insides before the double tightens its grip, torquing Shigarkai's arm harder as it once again maneuvers him off your strap, the feel of smooth silicone replaced by warm skin and harsh movements.

You prop yourself up, just enough for your lips to find the flushed skin of SHigaraki's chest, your tongue dragging over the sheen of sweat starting to form before you sink your teeth into his pec. That spark of hurt only worsens the near-unbearable ache in his neglected cock.

"Quit teasing and—ngh—and make me come already," he grits through clenched teeth.

"Be patient," you murmur, a teasing edge to your voice before your teeth find the hollow of his throat.

His double, though, comes closer to indulging that request. It once again withdraws, guiding Shigaraki to settle back on your strap, and then it releases its grip on Shigaraki's arm. A second later there's the faint click of a cap and the squelch of lube, and its fingers drop to probe at Shigaraki's stretched out hole even as you start to fuck up into him.

Shigaraki can't help the guttural sound he makes when the first finger slips its way inside, working in and out in tandem with your strap, searching until it brushes against his prostate. It's quickly joined by a second digit, then a third, the combined stretch more than Shigaraki has experienced before. Even warmed up as he is it borders on painful, has his body tensing at the invasion even as the throbbing in his cock worsens.

One of your hands reaches up to stroke at his hair, fingers combing soothingly through it. "Good?"

"I can take it," Shigaraki pants, echoing his clone's words from earlier. To prove it, he starts to push his hips back to meet your combined movements, leaning into that heady mixture of hurt and delicious fullness. His cock bounces with each thrust, pre dripping from his tip onto the exposed expanse of your stomach, sticky threads of it delicately connecting your flushed bodies.

That leaking arousal only worsens when the double plants one hand firmly between Shigaraki's shoulder blades and shoves, forcing him down until his chest is flush against yours and lifting his hips until only the tip of your strap is still nestled inside him.

Every muscle in Shigaraki's body goes taut in anticipation, no doubt in his mind about what's coming next, and an undignified whine slips past his lips as his other self settles into position, the firm head of its cock nudging at Shigaraki's asshole still stretched around your silicone length.

Shigaraki can feel his rim giving way with each press, stretching wider until all he can do is squirm in response, his teeth finding the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Four fingers dig roughly into your waist and his other hand fists tightly at the sheets above your head as he braces himself.

And then his clone is surging forward, finally breaching Shigaraki's hole with one last insistent thrust, and Shigaraki's teeth are biting more firmly into the skin of your neck, a choked groan clawing up from his throat as he's stretched impossibly wide. He can feel his cock twitching between your bodies, hard as it's ever been, that substantial invasion enough to have his balls tightening, hovering on the edge of release even before you or the clone really start to move.

A moment later you do start to move, both of you, and whatever faint composure Shigaraki had maintained evaporates entirely, lost to the motion of you and the double rocking your hips in sync, working deep to hit that sensitive spot inside with unprecedented thoroughness. Each thrust sends Shigaraki's cock rutting sharply against the soft skin of your stomach, already slick with sweat and precum, and that added friction along with the agonizing fullness is all that it takes; the knot that's been clinched in Shigaraki's gut for ages finally snaps and then he's coming, finally coming as a string of half-incoherent swears spills past his lips.

"A-ah—fuck, fuck—ngh—FUCK." His skin goes hot, his whole body shuddering as he's wracked with that release.

The two of you aren't even halfway inside him, but neither of you relent as he quivers and comes—you only seem encouraged by his poorly stifled moans the way he's arching into the impossible thickness of your assailment. The two of you only push forward, another long groan rising from Shigaraki's throat when the two of you finally bottom out, staying buried there just long enough for Shigaraki's double to reach one hand down to toy with your cunt beneath the base of the strap.

Your hips buck in response to that touch, Shigaraki shuddering again, hyperaware of each tiny movement of your strap snug inside him. When another choked grunt slips out, the double laughs a little, rolling its hips.

"You're both greedy," it taunts, fingers working roughly in and out of you, its hips matching those movements. "I haven't even come once."

Shigaraki feels you writhing under him, your thrusts sloppy as you clearly try to focus on him and your own pleasure at the same time, even as your eyes flick to the double behind him. "Whose—hng—whose fault is that?"

The double gives an amused snort in response, and picks up its pace. You match that rhythm, both working harder and faster than before as you pound away in tandem. Your hand slips beneath Shigaraki, slipping between your bodies to wrap around his cum-slick cock, pumping at that length as you lick and suck at his neck, those sloppy, whimper-punctuated attentions only adding to his mounting overstimulation.

Shigaraki grunts. Tips his head to permit you better access to the sensitive skin of his throat, and almost regrets it when he catches sight of your reflections in the dark glassy screen of the television nearby, granting him what must be some approximation of your own view from beneath him: he can see his reddened face and wrecked expression, his eyes heavy-lidded and his jaw gone slack, the only response he can manage to being so thoroughly fucked. Behind him is the other version of himself, similarly flushed but wearing an entirely different look—strands of pale hair hanging in its face, crimson eyes bright and intent, scarred upper lip curling in satisfaction every time it buries itself to the hilt.

His double is close to coming, too; Shigaraki can tell from the sounds it's making, stuttering grunts and growls accompanied by ragged exhales whenever it drives itself especially deep. It's paired with your own throaty moans, and the occasional faltering of your hips, that slight discordance between dual movements only making him all the more of aware of the stretch of his walls around your lengths, and of the tight grip of your hand around his own cock, sensitive and swollen and already dangerously close to spilling over again.

Shigaraki rocks himself back against those motions. Manages to lift one hand to grope at your chest again, pinching and twisting at one stiff nipple in his own small effort to help you along—all he can manage when he can barely move, can barely think. He's hardly aware of anything except the heat of your body pressed against him and the constant, near-painful stretch of his abused hole, all of it too much and not nearly enough.

"Fuck, Tomura," you whine, your hand tangling more tightly in his hair. Your mouth finds his in a heated, messy kiss, your teeth tugging at his tongue and your grip tightening around his cock. He ruts erratically into your fist only to be countered by his clone jerking roughly at his hips, pulling Shigaraki back against its thrusts.

"Hold��hng—hold still," it rasps. Its voice has gone pitched and breathy, a clear indication of what Shigaraki already knows, though the double says it anyway, "Gonna—fuck—gonna come."

Its fingers fuck harder into your cunt, clearly trying to get you there too, and its efforts are rewarded. Your body goes tense beneath Shigaraki, your cries growing louder against his lips, and then you're mimicking those urgent movements, each stroke of your wrist and thrust of your hips growing more feverish.

Those coordinated efforts work, somehow. You press yourself more tightly against Shigaraki, body shuddering as you come, and at the same time Shigaraki feels his double forcing its way as deep as it can, that final stroke and the grip of your hand around his length enough to have him seeing white as his cock jerks and pulses, each twitch matched by warm spurts of cum spilling from the cock still buried inside him.

Shigaraki slumps against you, wincing slightly as his clone does the same, pulling out and sending leaking wetness running down his thighs as it collapses beside you. Shigaraki watches it reach one hand up to tip your chin, just enough to kiss you for a long moment. Then its eyes are flicking from you to Shigaraki and back again.

"So," it asks dryly, mouth curving up into a haughty smirk, "think you got a good enough show?"

Taglist: @kiwiimochi @simultaneously-sick-and-calm @nonobadcat @httptamaki @toughbook @xxjesshuxx @lawfulrhi @doomsthotstash @arozaur @sukiirei @evilmortytrapremix @sunasb3tch @tomurastrashpanda @decaydaddy @handvillain @nao-cchi @pestlaege

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #x reader #shigaraki smut #shigaraki fanfic #bnha smut #bnha reader insert #tw: pegging #tw: selfcest

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nihils-trolls · 7 months

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A Step into Motion

Tutell Impett | Black Pearl Lounge | Present Night

A week had passed since Tutell had left Adelen’s place. Most of the time had been spent recovering, and now she was just restless- especially now that she’d been left with an opportunity. Something to pursue, and actually appealed to her interests. Though, it would mean leaving behind what she has now. The decision weighed on her mind, unable to make a choice yet.

Returning to her usual life seemed to be the only option for the time being. Tonight, a special singer would be performing at the Black Pearl- the boss lady herself. It was a given that Tutell had to be in attendance, should anything go awry.

She wasn’t one for mingling much, so Tutell finds a spot along the second floor balcony to watch the show below. This area was reserved for Excelsa Luxe business only, so normal patrons would be few and far in between.

Though, that doesn’t stop anyone else from actually bothering her. A voice calls out from behind. “Did someone decide to show up finally?”

A long-haired olive leans on the railing right next to Tutell. Her colleague and partner, Vizzya. She ignores him, and he takes it as an opportunity to keep talking. “You know, you had a couple of us worried for a bit, there. Disappearing like that.”

“Disappearing?” Tutell scoffs. “Wasn’t even gone for that long. Doesn’t seem like anything terrible happened without me, anyway.”

Vizzya glances over at her for a moment. “No, work’s been slow, even. But no one knows where you went- it was like you dropped off the face of the planet. What happened? You look rough, and… taller?”

“None of your business.” Tutell states bluntly. “Thanks for letting me know I look like shit.”

“I wasn’t insulting you,” Vizzya sighs. “You maybe want to just talk to me instead of getting offended at everything I say?”

The blueblood stares at the stage down below, refusing to look her partner in the eye. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but eventually comes to speak as the band begins playing a new number. “Can I ask you to keep this between us?”

Vizzya turns to look at Tutell, mildly surprised, while she continues avoiding his gaze. “Consider my mouth shut.”

Another long and awkward silence falls between the two, as Tutell considers what she’s going to say very carefully. “Do you ever regret being stuck with me as a partner?”

“... No, if I’m being honest.” Vizzya states. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. But I feel that there’s a good sync between us. Why?”

“Just curious. Sorry for bein’ a jerk all the time.” Tutell folds her arms on the railing, leaning on it some as well.

“Where’s all this coming from?” Vizz asks. He raises an eyebrow at the sudden apology.

“There’s just been a lot on my mind lately.” Tutell turns her head to look over at him. “Ever since… I don’t even know what to call it, I’ve been thinking about an offer that was handed to me.

Found out an old bat I know is still kicking, and that apparently he’s actually really cool. If a bit uptight. Said I could work alongside him if I wanted.”

“Okay…?” Vizzya says. “What’s the deal then?”

Tutell looks away again. “Full time gig. The kind where you won’t see me again, more than likely-”

“-So you’re leaving?” he interjects.

“I haven’t decided that yet. I don’t know what I want to do.” Tutell huffs, seemingly annoyed at Vizzya’s remark.

“Seems like you haven’t known for a while, Tutell.” Vizzya speaks very plainly. “Since I first met you, it seems like you were only here because Nacre asked you to be. What were you doing before this again? Fighting in some ‘nobody’ underground ring because you couldn’t get anything professional?”

Tutell glares daggers at Vizzya, as if to tell him to shut his mouth. However, he is right about where she came from. Fleet academy dropout, disgrace to her caste, supposedly. Professional anything was pretty much off the table for someone like her. Even her stipend got reduced dramatically in the hopes that she’d come crawling back.

But she refused to be restricted like that. She’d rather be doing someone else’s dirty work, so here she is.

“So my question is,” Vizzya continues, “What are you still doing here? Why did you even come back? If it’s something that’s making you think this hard about it, it must be good. Or, something you actually want to be doing.”

The blueblood sighs again, frustrated. “You don’t quite get it, Vizz. It’s not just leaving here, it’s leaving everything. Believe it or not, I did have a life outside of working here.”

“I know that much. You believe it or not, I notice you don’t spend all of your time here.” Vizzya pushes his glasses up before continuing. “Your personal life is none of my business, really. But it’s not like I thought you didn’t have one. … Either way, I guess that does make the decision a little more difficult.”

“You think?” Tutell remarks sarcastically. She scratches her head, turning to look back at her partner after thinking for a moment. “I don’t know. It just seems like a lot. To suddenly get up and go do.”

The olive hums thoughtfully in response. “It does. Though, I think you’d be better off somewhere other than here- whatever it is you’re doing.”

“What makes you say that?” Tutell asks.

“You don’t really want to know.” Vizz says. He doesn’t elaborate, and Tutell knows better than to question it.

Silence again. It seems like despite their usual and consistent bickering, this happens a lot. Especially so when being genuine.

“So,” Vizzya starts. “... Is this the last I’ll be seeing of you?”

Tutell stares off into the blank space between the balcony and the ground. “It might be. I think you helped me make up my mind.”

“Glad to be of service then.” Vizz gives her a smirk, then turns to look in the same direction. “Do you want me to give Nacre your regards?”

“You might have to. Don’t think she’ll be too upset hearing it from you instead of me.” Tutell focuses on the stage again, noticing the woman in question shuffling off of the stage. Seems the performance is over.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening then. Don’t do anything stupid out there.”

With that final remark, Vizzya stands up straight and heads back from the direction he came- disappearing behind an unremarkable door. Tutell heads downstairs to exit the lounge without so much as another word.

#nihil writes #tutell impett

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andypantsx3 · 3 years

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vested interest | 5 | todoroki x reader

pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Reader

summary: You’d just thought Shouto was absent minded, accidentally leaving behind a jacket or a sweater or his vest. You didn’t realize this was a thing. (In which Todoroki Shouto—despite his quirk—has zero chill, and uses his clothes to ward off other men.)

length: 19,500 words | 5 chapters

tags: romance, pro hero au, misunderstandings, shouto is a little shit

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, slightly possessive behavior

Halfway through the premiere, you still hadn’t detached yourself from Shouto.

You barely registered the movie playing in front of you, too aware of Shouto pressed all along your side. You were still a little shaken up by the interaction with Hiroji, though Shouto was unwittingly helping you to forget—he’d begun to absently rub small circles into your knee with his thumb, light and comforting. You sat completely unmoving, afraid that any movement might jerk him back into reality and make him realize what he was doing.

Eventually, though, someone behind you gave a loud sneeze, and the motion of Shouto’s thumb on your knee stilled. You mourned its loss immediately.

But then Shouto was leaning towards you, his mouth right at your ear.

“I have an idea,” he said quietly. “Come with me.”

He tugged you up out of your chair, pulling you through the crowds to an empty aisle, keeping low to avoid disturbing the other movie-goers. He pulled you to the back and out through a side entrance, out onto a side street where only two heroes were stationed with a plain-clothes officer, the press still lined up along the red carpet out front. Shouto gave them a nod as you passed, guiding you out onto the street in the opposite direction of the agency car.

“Where are we going?” you wondered, as Shouto led you down the street. His hand was warm where it still circled your wrist.

“Somewhere with considerably less Kitamura,” he said. “I gave an interview, so you shouldn’t have any reservations about skipping the rest.”

“Well, no,” you said honestly. “But Shouto, we don’t have to bail. I promise I’m fine—I told you I’m pretty over Hiroji.”

Shouto hummed low in his throat. “I don’t doubt it. But I do not like how he spoke with you, and I did not care to be in the same room with him any longer.”

You squirmed, embarrassed that Shouto had apparently heard everything. It had been obvious by how he’d swooped in that he’d heard at least some of it, but you didn’t like to think of him hearing Hiroji’s accusations that you were also a worthless manager, in addition to a loveless little wretch. You knew you weren’t, and you knew Shouto wasn’t the type to keep people around if they weren’t working out, but it still smarted to have heard it put so plainly.

Shouto led you down a couple of winding blocks at a sedate pace. It was late, and the sky had darkened to a starless black, underscored by the rosy haze of city light pollution. The air was cool and still, and you were glad for the thick fabric of your dress, and Shouto’s jacket still pulled over you. Eventually, Shouto tugged you around one last corner, and you suddenly recognized where you were.

A tiny, cramped looking kushikatsu stall stood at the end of a row of other street food vendors. Across the sidewalk, a bright alleyway was lined with all manner of vending machines, and the light illuminated one tiny grandmother who was serving up two golden-brown skewers to a pair of drunken college boys, her face deeply lined in wrinkles.

You knew her immediately. This was the stall that Shouto met Deku at weekly, and that grandmother was the woman, the legend, the Kushikatsu Lady—scourge of the press, and the star of some of the most terrifying youtube footage you had ever witnessed. Her face was hard, and she looked more like a prison warden than a street food vendor, but her visage brightened when she saw Shouto. She gestured him over with a big wave.

“Well don’t you look handsome tonight,” she said, reaching out a hand to scrub through his hair. “Where’s the other one?”

Shouto inclined his head. “I’m afraid Midoriya is otherwise occupied this evening,” he said politely. “I’ve brought a back up.”

The old lady looked over at you, her sharp eyes assessing you with all the severity of a military tactician. Her words were soft when she addressed you, however. “Traded up for a prettier model, eh? You must be Shouto’s Y/N.”

You startled, surprised that she knew your name. You carefully ignored the implications of the phrase Shouto’s Y/N. “I’m happy to meet you—Shouto says you’ve got the best kushikatsu in all of Japan.”

She made a clucking noise in the back of her throat. It was impossible to tell if she was scoffing or embarrassed.

“We’re going to need a lot of kushikatsu,” Shouto informed her seriously, and she chuckled.

“I don’t know where you put it all, boy,” she said, then gestured him away to one of the cramped, oily little tables pushed up along the side of the stall. “Go on, get. I’ll bring it over when it’s done.”

Thoroughly dismissed, Shouto gave you a wry look, and led you over to a table, pulling out the stool for you like it was a chair at a royal banquet, and not a seat of questionable integrity in some random back alley of Tokyo. You grinned, pleased at how well Shouto knew you.

Dressed up like a princess but all you really wanted was hot food and a friend.

“I’ll be right back,” Shouto said over your shoulder as he pushed you in. You heard the tap of his dress shoes on the pavement as he walked off briskly. You closed your eyes, taking in the feeling of the cool night air on your face, the greasy scent of frying street food, and the quiet chatter of the few people out on the street as they passed. You hadn’t thought you’d needed to leave the premiere, but it was nice to be away from things, out here on your own with just Shouto. A sigh of relief slipped out of you, and you realized you’d been holding yourself tight without knowing it.

You didn’t know how, but Shouto had caught it, even when you had not.

The hero in question was back in barely a few minutes, setting down two paper cups and a green glass bottle that you recognized as sake. It made a dull thunk where it met the table.

You laughed. “Drinking away my sorrows?”

Shouto hummed. “Celebrating a victory, I should think.” His leg brushed yours as he settled himself into the tiny table. “Natsuo says this is...procedure after running into an ex.”

Natsuo may have had very questionable ideas about what constituted an appropriate interaction with the media, but he was fairly on the money here. You grinned, already reaching for the cups and the sake. You handed Shouto his before taking your own.

“To victory then,” you laughed.

Shouto’s eyes were bright where they watched you from over the rim of his cup.

You’d poured a little too much sake into the cups to start with, and it was dry in your mouth as you swallowed it down, but it quickly did its job. You felt it loosening you up almost instantly, and you found yourself easing back into your chair, sipping carefully.

Shouto kept up a stream of conversation you could tell was meant to distract you, detailing some of his and Deku’s escapades here, and several close encounters between the kushikatsu grandma and the press. After your second cup, you were feeling relaxed enough that you wiped your lipstick off on a napkin, and stashed all your jewelry away in your bag, happy to be rid of all your trappings. You even kicked off your heels under the table, and didn’t even jump all that much when Shouto wedged a foot under yours—to stop your toes from touching the cold pavement, he explained.

God, he was so good.

Not long after that, the old lady came over bearing a small mountain of golden-brown skewers, with steam curling off of them. The kushikatsu smelled hot and fatty and exactly like the kind of thing you needed right now, though you had serious concerns about the enormous portion. It was just as good as it looked, though, soft diced pork with thick slices of vegetables, and you could see why customers took their lives into their hands to come to this grandma's stall in particular.

Once he’d judged you had enough hot food and sake in you, Shouto seemed to decide it was safe to circle back to the topic of Hiroji, and leaned forward to catch your eye.

As if you had been able to look anywhere else the whole night.

“I do not like the way he spoke with you, earlier,” Shouto said. “I had not realized you’d parted on such terms.”

You sighed, scratched a resigned fingernail across the table. “It didn’t seem like the kind of thing that I should talk to you about.”

Shouto’s foot shifted under yours. “I would like to hear the whole story, if you don’t mind.”

You looked back up at him, to see he was watching you as intently as always. With his hair swept back off his face, he looked even more handsome than ever, and his gaze almost seemed sharper, more focused without his fringe in the way.

“It’s....embarrassing,” you said slowly.

You would not have even considered telling it, normally, but the combination of sake and the way Shouto was looking at you was doing weird things to you, making you want to tell him things you might never usually say.

Shouto said nothing, just waited patiently for you to continue.

Eventually you sighed again. “Hiroji broke up with me...because of you,” you said. “Kind of.”

A red eyebrow went up.

“He started to get really insecure about my successes compared to his,” you explained. “You were approaching the top five, and Monoma was not. We spent a lot of time digging into my management methodology versus his and he got frustrated with it all. It got to the point where any time I would tell him about something you achieved, he would stalk out of the room. When you finally hit the top five, I made the mistake of mentioning it, and he freaked.”

Across the table, Shouto’s features shifted into something indecipherable. You watched him curiously but he said nothing.

“Anyway, he told me, ‘If you’re so in love with Shouto then he can have you,’ and that was basically the end of things,” you said. “He moved out the next week.”

Shouto seemed like he was having a hard time keeping his features still, and you slowly began to recognize that he was trying not to look too smug about something. You raised your eyebrows at him, disbelievingly.

“Are you happy about this?” you asked.

Shouto’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “‘If you’re so in love with Shouto then he can have you,’” he echoed, slowly, like he was tasting the words in his mouth. There was something definitely smug in his tone, though you didn’t know why it pleased him so much.

Your face went hot, realizing how Hiroji’s accusation must have sounded. Nowadays it was hitting a little too close to home, and hearing Shouto say it made it a million times worse. Especially when he was looking at you the way he was, looking as dashing as he did right now.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, eager to move on from that admission. “It was an awful thing to say, and he’s awful for begrudging me my success, but I understand him on some level. He’s hardworking, and our management methodologies aren’t really that different. You were already on your way up the ranks before I started working with you, so I really did get lucky more than anything—”

Shouto made a noise of disagreement, and a cool hand seized your wrist, startling you.

“Kitamura is wrong,” he said. “As are you.”

You blinked at him.

Shouto’s eyes roved over your face. “I owe much to my schooling and to my father. I was already somewhat publicly visible because of them. But I would not have made it to the top five nearly as quickly if you had not been there to push me.”

Your fingers curled and you squirmed a little, already embarrassed, but Shouto continued.

“I do not always see the value in things,” he said quietly. “But you do. I would never have put in appearances at events, as you have me do, and so I would not have been as well-known. I would not have agreed to ad shoots, or the fan events, or anything like it. And then I would not have the budget needed to grow the agency and continue hiring other heroes.”

He looked a little angry, then, and his fingers flashed cold on your wrist. “Maybe Kitamura is as good as you say, and maybe it is bad luck he works with Monoma. But you are the one I chose to hire, and all my successes since I owe to you. He has no right to make you believe otherwise.”

Another hot swell of helpless affection for him churned in your gut, and you looked down at the table, cheeks warm. He was always so, so good. So thoughtful, so straightforward, and so inherently good. No wonder everyone in the universe was basically in love with him, most especially you.

You had it bad, now more than ever, and it was all you could do not to lean across the table and drag him into a kiss.

“Thanks, Shouto,” you said gratefully, shooting him a grin. “Maybe for that, I’ll even consider avoiding shoots with Magma Girl in the future.”

Shouto gave you a flat look. “She won’t be a problem again.”

That was not the tune he’d been singing at the photoshoot, but then again, she had walked away like they had settled something between them. Whatever Shouto had done with the temperature had seemed to act like a deterrent.

“Why is that?” you asked.

And it was then that he dropped the bomb.

“Because,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, “She is aware I am interested in someone else now.”

Your heart slammed to a halt in your chest.

A bright spot of pain lanced through your ribs, like a javelin to your heart. Shouto was interested in someone. Shouto was interested in someone, enough to make it clear to Magma Girl, of all people, and here you had been, so wrapped up in your own shit that you hadn’t even noticed.

So wrapped up in your stupid fucking crush on him, that it came as a horrible shock to hear he wanted someone else.

Of course he had someone he was interested in, and it was stupid of you to have not considered that. That explained why he wasn’t into Magma Girl, why he wasn’t into any of the people you pushed at him. He probably had found someone just as beautiful and kind and interesting as he was, and you hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t even been mentally prepared for what that was actually going to feel like.

God, some manager you were. Some friend.

Frantically attempting to school your features into a mask of disaffect, you garbled out, “O-oh? Wow. Oh my gosh congrats, Shouto! What a lucky girl. Who is she?”

Shouto watched you for a long minute, his fingers shifting on your wrist. You jumped, remembering you still had your hand shoved at him like some kind of clingy barnacle, and pulled it back out of his hold, face burning.

Shouto’s grip tightened before you could, however, and his eyebrows went up again.

“You don’t know,” he said, somewhere between a statement and a question.

Okay so it was kind of bad of you to not have noticed. You hoped he would forgive you. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I do? I, um, would love to meet her though, whenever you’re ready…”

Shouto leaned in closer across the table and your breath stilled in your lungs. You reached down to pinch your thigh under the table, trying to get a grip on yourself. He was about to tell you he was in love with somebody else, and here you were getting all shy and wide eyed like an enamored school girl.

Cool, you could be cool.

“‘If you’re so in love with Shouto then he can have you,’” Shouto repeated, his mouth curling into that pleased little upturn again. “I hope that, for once, Kitamura got at least one thing right. As I would indeed very much like to have you.”

You froze, staring at him.

Had you...had you literally just hallucinated?

You didn’t think the thought of him owning up to his love for someone else would really be enough to push you over the edge and into hallucinations. But you had to make sure. He could not have just said what you thought you’d heard him say.

“Uh, what?” you asked stupidly, hardly daring to breathe.

Shouto was watching you with an intensity that you’d never really seen on him before.

“I did not think until recently that you were ready. Forgive me if I am misreading,” he said. “But I have been...interested in you since the moment you joined the agency. I am given to understand that you may now feel the same way.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

And yet it all felt like it was suddenly lining up.

Suddenly, all of Shouto’s strange behavior over the past few months seemed like it was snapping into focus. All of the food and the coffee left at your desk, the thing with Hiroji’s jacket, and the weird interaction with Magma Girl. Shouto’s strange defensiveness when Hana was talking about hooking you up, and the stupid posturing he’d been doing in the middle of Benjiro’s interview.

And all of the clothes he’d been flinging about—like he’d been trying to leave his mark on you in the most circumspect, little shit way possible.

It all, impossibly, seemed clearer than day.

Your mouth, however, was slower than your brain in catching up.

“Oh my god, you thought I was interested in Benjiro?” you accused Shouto, sidebarring hard. “You were threatening him?”

Shouto adopted that bland-faced look. “You said he was handsome.”

A wild laugh escaped you. Shouto Todoroki, the Shouto Todoroki, the most thoughtful, kind, and possibly most insensibly handsome man on earth, was jealous over a sidekick five years his junior? Over you?

“Shouto, how could you possibly think that I could ever think of anyone else when you are right there?” you demanded. It was like your shock was disabling your brain-to-mouth filter, and suddenly you were blurting out everything you’d been hiding from him the past few months.

“I have thought of literally no one else since Hiroji broke things off with me. Actually, as we just discussed, Hiroji broke things off with me because I thought of you so much!”

You stopped, face heating at your own nerve, the force and forwardness of your assertion.

Shouto’s eyes darkened, and his grip tightened on your wrist again. He leaned forward again. “Then I believe I would like to finish this conversation elsewhere,” he said quietly.

You stared at him, thrown. It took you a couple of moments to realize what he meant, but when you did, you leapt up from the table faster than you had ever moved in your life.

“My place is closest,” you said quickly.

Then Shouto was throwing bills down on the table and scooping up your shoes, pulling you along with him quickly. You’d never moved so fast in your life. You might have had a latent teleportation quirk, for all you knew, because the two of you arrived at your building in record time.

The second you made it through the door to your apartment, Shouto was on you. He stepped inside and pressed you back against the door in one fluid motion—and then he was kissing you absolutely stupid.

His mouth was hot and soft and perfect, just as perfect as he was, and he kissed with the same careful attentiveness with which he did everything else. He cupped your face in one large hand, opening your mouth for him, and then you really did think you could have been hallucinating.

“I can’t believe,” you panted between kisses, “that this is happening. I have been trying to get rid of my crush on you for months.”

“Try years,” Shouto murmured, before pulling you back into a kiss that left you shivering against the door, boneless.

Your shoulder brushed something, and you turned to see the dark grey of Shouto’s coat, the one he had left the night where it all started. It hung heavy from your coat rack, like a flag at full mast, loudly announcing Shouto’s presence in your life.

Honestly, you should have known when Shouto had switched out his coat for Hiroji’s.

Shouto caught you looking and smirked, gently pulling his suit jacket from your shoulders and adding it to the rack.

“Who the hell did you think I was having over that you needed to leave that here?” you wondered, watching him place the suit jacket there like another marker of his claim on you.

In retrospect, he really was so transparent, and you could not believe you hadn’t caught on sooner.

Shouto looked back down at you innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

You rolled your eyes and prodded him in the side, trying to get him to own up to his antics. But he just caught both of your hands in his, gathering them together against the door above your head. And then his mouth was on yours again and you quite forgot any complaints you had against him.

Shouto kissed you slowly, leisurely, like he had all the time in the world now to savor it.

“Maybe I wanted you to see it and think of me,” he said, when he finally let you up for air.

You said something, but it came out more like garbled nonsense than a word, and Shouto laughed, pressing a hard kiss to your mouth.

“And—what did you—do with—Hiroji’s jacket?” you asked between kisses.

Shouto looked annoyed, kissing you harder, like he was exacting a fine for saying Hiroji’s name in front of him. “Something he should be glad my hero license does not permit me to do to him.”

You rolled your eyes, though privately you kind of loved it, the stupid possessiveness you hadn’t realized he was capable of.

“And what does your hero license not permit you to do?”

Shouto watched you for a long moment, mouth curling. “Certainly not what I would like to do to you, either.”

Your bare toes curled on your floor and you shivered. Shouto smiled at that, and then there were hands under your thighs, boosting you up against him. You let out a strangled noise, grasping at his shoulders for balance as he carried you through your apartment into your bedroom.

He laid you out among your sheets, then spent a long time just looking down at you and running his hands over the waistline of your dress, like he couldn’t believe this was really happening to him.

You couldn’t really believe it either.

You pulled him down to you and kissed him again. He spent a long while trailing warm kisses over your neck and shoulders, mouth dipping dangerously low towards the neckline of your dress. You tried to return the favor in kind, pulling aside the collar of his shirt to get your mouth on that strong throat, those broad shoulders you liked so much. You couldn’t believe this was happening, that Shouto was letting you kiss him, that he was in your bed, very enthusiastically kissing you.

You let out a surprised oof when Shouto abruptly rolled you onto your stomach under him, pressing himself against you in a long line of warm muscle. He spent another few moments just working his way down your back, leaving a burning trail of kisses wherever he went.

“May I?” he asked finally, when he finally made it to the zipper of your dress.

“Oh my god, please,” you whined. Anything he wanted, anything to get that mouth back on you.

He pulled your zipper down so slowly you thought you would turn eighty before he was done with it. You complained, but he just pressed you back down to your bed and whispered something about savoring it, as though you were a present he’d waited to unwrap for a very long time.

Finally, just when you thought you might literally explode if he didn’t get his hands back on you, he pulled it off over your hips, taking your panties with it, and settled himself back behind you. Calloused hands came up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples.

“You’re just as lovely as I’d imagined,” he said.

You made the most embarrassing sound of all time, but Shouto seemed to like it. He flattened himself against you harder and put his mouth behind your ear. One of his legs pressed down between yours, and you couldn’t help but shove your hips back against him, chasing the pressure you wanted. His thumbs brushed over your nipples again, slowly, like he was drawing it out purpose this time.

You shivered, whining.

“Shouto, this is incredible but I swear to god if you’re not inside me in the next minute, I’m throwing you and your coat out into the hallway. I can and will do things myself,” you complained.

You felt Shouto huff a laugh into your hair. He pressed a kiss under your ear, and his thumbs brushed over your nipples once more, slowly, but then he obliged. He shifted, and you heard the clink of his belt, the unzip of his pants, before he settled back between your thighs. His weight felt so good over you, anchoring you firmly to your bed as he slipped between your folds, and it was all you could do not to snap your hips back impatiently.

Shouto pressed into you slowly, gently. It had been a couple months, and the slide of him inside of you felt almost like a new sensation. The stretch of him was deeper than you had remembered, and so overwhelmingly good when he rolled you onto your side so he could press up even deeper inside.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped out when his fingers dug into your thigh, pulling you back against him.

You felt Shouto smile against your shoulder, before his hips snapped up again, and you let out a shivery little moan. His hands found their way to your breasts again, cupping gently and rolling a nipple between deft fingers.

You turned your head and caught his mouth with yours as his pace gradually worked up into something hard and fast. A particularly talented twist of his hips had you whining into his mouth, and he pressed a hand to your core, finally giving you the pressure exactly where you had wanted it for months.

You didn’t last much longer than a few minutes. That steady pressure, a couple of expert thrusts and the gentle teasing of a nipple had you gasping out his name, hands fisting in your sheets. Shouto’s voice, low in your ear, sent you right over the edge, murmuring, “Come for me, good girl. That’s it—good.”

You hadn’t thought it was possible for him to get any hotter than he already was, but that low voice in your ear amped things up to a million degrees. You felt like you were burning up inside, and another murmured word of praise from him finally did it. You bit your lip to keep from shouting, and Shouto followed you right off the edge, muffling his own groan in your shoulder.

When you finally came down from your high, you slumped against him, feeling more like a puddle of pudding than a human. Shouto shifted you in his arms, turning you towards him so he could catch your face in his palms.

“Well? Am I to be thrown out into the hallway with all my things?” he asked.

You laughed, clinging onto a bicep as though to hold him there. “Just you try leaving now and see what happens.”

He had that smug energy about him again, like the cat who’d got the cream, but you couldn’t bring yourself to mind now. You let your fingers trace over his arm, his chest, still in disbelief that this was happening.

He could have the cream, he could have it all, so long as you got to have him back.

Shouto pulled you up against him, hooking an arm around your back. You curled up against him, feeling more content than you ever remembered feeling before. And then you let yourself drift off, held in the arms of the hero you had loved for months.

You supposed that for a little shit, he had really had the right idea.

In the morning, soft shuffling in your kitchen woke you.

It was still early, the light streaming through your windows tinged gold with the sunrise, painting your walls in warm tones. Through the door, you could hear the creak of your cabinets opening and closing, and the click of your fridge door opening. It had to be Shouto, puttering around in your kitchen, though what he thought he was doing in there you had no idea.

You heard the shift of an egg carton, the plastic rustle of some bag of produce or another, and then the crinkle of a coffee bag as they were placed on your counter. A smile wormed its way onto your face when you realized Shouto was attempting to cook you breakfast, though cooking was decidedly not one of his strongest skills.

You rolled to the side of your bed, noting the pile of clothes you and Shouto had abandoned on the floor. Your dress pooled across the floor in a puddle of dark fabric, Shouto’s shoes and belt shucked on top of it. He’d apparently stepped back into his pants, but his black button up still laid fanned out across the floorboards, like the dark wings of a bat.

You reached out and scooped it up, pulling it on. You buttoned it haphazardly across your chest and then rolled out of bed, padding into the kitchen to go help Shouto, lest he poison you both.

You figured he wouldn’t mind, as he’d apparently been using his clothes to lay claim to you for months.

And now you were his, and things were all buttoned up—in more ways than one.

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto #bnha x reader #todoroki x you

763 notes · View notes

steviespanties · 3 years

Note

I have a whore knee thought but I’m afraid to write it myself so I thought I’d send it here, if it catches your fancy. Love your work!

Omega!Steve always had a hard time getting turned on when he was with other alphas. His body just wasn’t into it, but with Billy he’s always ridiculously wet and ready. Everything about his alpha—Billy’s scent, his command, his fervor—keeps Steve loose and pliant.

sdfGHJ I LOVEE it!!!!!!!😍💗💗💗😳 Thank you for sharing this with me, it’s *chefs kiss* amazing!! (1,5k words. omegaverse smut, obviously. vague descriptions of unsatisfying drunk - but consensual- sex. pants being ruined. something something fated pairs. sorry for the lack of editing!!)

So, Steve’s a horny guy, okay? Always has been and has never made a secret of it. His friends know. Most of the school knows. Sure, he’ll pretend for his parents that he’s a good ol’ Christian boy who goes to church every Sunday and totally doesn’t sneak out to parties to get dicked down by eager alphas any other day of the week. It’s just also always been frustrating.

His selection in Hawkins leaves much to be desired, with smug alphas who think just having a knot makes them God’s gift to humanity and simply whipping their dicks out will get Steve gushing wet immediately. They’re lucky his libido overrules his endless disappointment. No time spent on working him up, alcohol dulling his senses to make the ache he feels less uncomfortable. It’s not bad. It’s not really good, either.

There’s an itch underneath his skin, a formless desire for more that never takes shape no matter how often he tries. He’s a spring coiled tight and no matter who he lets between his legs, he can’t bring himself to unwind. He lets fucking Brody from the baseball team plow him into the guest bed at a post-game party and even the tiny sparks of pleasure brushing his insides can’t make his back muscles unclench or his hole more wet. There’s just pathetic grunts coming from above him. The sting of a hand slapping against his asscheek and a huffed “make some noise, will ya?”

Yeah, no. He gets up instead. Ignores Brody’s halfhearted protests as he tugs up his pants and throws him an icy glare that makes the guy sputter and shut up. Pathetic.

It takes time, he thinks. Time to get him loose and trusting. Effort, too, to make him want to bow his back and present himself. Steve hates to sound like his mom, but when he jerks off later that night with a hand around his dick and three fingers in his wet hole, imagining a formless someone to sweep in and fill him up, he thinks ‘there’s just no quality alphas in this town’.

And then Billy Hargrove rolls into Hawkins, stinking of cigarette smoke, fucking Aqua Net and perfume and underneath it all? Jesus fucking Christ. A cloud of pheromones so strong and fragrant, it makes Steve drool a little just from catching a whiff of it in the hallways. They haven’t even talked yet and he already feels a hook in him. Right next to that itch. Closer than ever before to scratching it. He wants, more than he has ever wanted before, to get this guy’s scent on his skin. Wants to drip with the guy’s come. And, to his massive surprise, underneath that raging storm of pure instinctual lust, there’s simply interest. He feels like a dog with his ears perked up and his snout in the wind. He’s on the chase.

If Steve has learned one thing, though, is that if he really, desperately wants something, he has to pursue it carefully. And nothing is more of a siren-song to alphas than an interested, yet reserved omega. So he’s not among the welcoming committee of fawning followers at Billy’s heels. He counts on them to fill the guy in on all the gossip. Walks by close enough in the hallway to get a whiff of Steve walking by. Feels those ocean blue eyes burning holes into the back of his head by the end of the day, just like he anticipated. Of course, it blows in his face within hours.

He’s not even properly buzzed at Tina’s Halloween party, too busy to keep Nancy away from getting shitfaced while they wait for Jonathan to pick her up. He swallows his frustration. This was supposed to be his opportunity to leave a lasting impression and instead he’s stuck babysitting his ex because she can’t hold her liquor.

And then he sees him. He takes one look at Billy Hargrove and even from across the room, clearly stalking towards him through a crowd of dancing people Steve can tell: The guy is trouble.

In his periphery, he registers Jonathan swooping in and dragging Nancy off. Registers the cheers of people around them. Hears through the pulsing music “Harrington, right?” and his mouth says “Steve, actually.”

Hargrove leans forward. Close. Closer. Right into his space, stinking of beer and smoke and that irresistible hook underneath that pulls Steve’s body over a precipice he knows he’s crossed when he watches Billy’s pupils blow up and his chest move in the most unsubtle scenting he’s ever seen.

A heavy arm wraps around Steve’s shoulder and with a decisive pull, he’s flush against the warm, firm side of- “Billy,” is purred into his ear. Breath on his sensitive skin that makes him shudder and warmth pool in his belly. His arm winds around Billy’s waist and he realizes in that moment that any resemblance of a plan has flown out of the window. He’s putty.

“I’ve already heard so much about you,” Billy grins. There’s a wild edge to his smile. A mischievous spark in his voice and eyes that sinks the hook even deeper. Steve can’t help but smile back.

“Of course you have.” As they talk, Billy steers him through a room filled with eyes glued to their every move. It’s a familiar feeling- being the center of attention, even when people desperately try to play it cool. Letting the curiosity and jealousy pearl off his skin like drops of water, an entire audience to Steve being felt up and led around and held close throughout the evening with no resistance from him.

He’s just hungry. Watches Billy drink beer from a can and lick his lips with a pink tongue. Feels Billy’s hands firmly grip his hips as they dance and his eyes on Steve’s as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It’s impossible to escape Billy’s scent, growing stronger the more he sweats. Becoming overwhelming when he tucks that strand of hair behind Steve’s ear for him and brushes his scent gland in such a deliberately soft motion it makes that pool of warmth in Steve’s belly transform into molten heat and a shocking pulse of slick. Right in his pants.

Billy’s eyes are wide, expression stunned. This isn’t how it normally goes, Steve wants to tell him through his embarrassment. Breathes more of Billy in and hears “Let’s get out of here” instead of a leer or an insult.

Steve knows he’s easy, okay? He’s been searching for someone in this town to make it worth his while and it’s been a disappointing search so far. So even when Billy pushes him into the backseat of his car, tugs his pants down and peels Steve’s soaked briefs off his legs, he still wonders if this will be a fluke. Right up until Billy’s heavy body covers him and their lips and tongues meet in a slick, delicious glide and his hole pulses slick right onto the car seat.

Before he can even settle into pure mortification, there’s that purr again. “Holy shit,” Billy says. Wondering. Delighted. A gloved hand glides over Steve’s skin. Up the inside of his thigh, to his hole where he’s more sensitive and swollen and wet than he’s ever been before for an alpha. Steve gasps. “Open your legs,” he’s told. And he does. Gets an appreciative “Just like that” in return that makes his arms break out into goosebumps.

Maybe it doesn’t take time at all, he thinks dazedly as he watches Billy pull off his gloves and glide a finger into his pulsing hole with such confidence and ease, it makes Steve moan immediately. Maybe all it takes is an alpha with a California tan and a wicked laugh that makes Steve want to smile along. The kinda guy who drags him around a party and never lets him go, who can’t stop petting Steve’s side and his hair.

And maybe, he thinks deliriously as sweat rolls down his back and the slick glide of Billy’s cock has turned into loud squelching on every powerful thrust that makes Steve gush onto the seats, maybe it does take trust. Because Billy looks at him. He scents Steve like he can’t help it, leans down to steal breathless kisses between moans like he needs every bit of contact just as desperately as Steve does.

‘He has freckles,’ Steve thinks incoherently as his dick twitches in Billy’s grip. Once, twice. Another time, right as Billy’s knot catches, locks them together in perfect pressure and everything falls apart in white-hot pleasure that spills over Steve’s body and out of him in ropes of come over his belly. Billy bends forward when he comes. Like he can’t get close enough even when they’re locked together, a twitching, moaning weight on top of Steve’s fucked out body.

They bask in the afterglow for a long time. Steve pets Billy’s head, curls turned soft from a night of constant movement and sweat. There’s no need to get off this ride. Not when that itch has finally been scratched and one look at Billy’s blissed out face tells him that the hook he’s felt under his own skin has worked itself under Billy’s as well.

#omegaverse #omega!Steve #alpha!Billy #passivenovember #asks #harringrove #this got longer than expected?? and is also a lot more build up to the sex than expected??#look. look. i really love the whole fated pairs kinda stuff in omegaverse!!#it's like soulmates adjacent!! it's sexy AND romantic!!!!#they're gonna fuck it out and then they'll wake up in bed ten years later in their shared apartment and realize they're so fucking happy

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loveislattes · 3 years

Text

Good Morning (Darkiplier/Reader) Fluffy Smut Drabble

Request: As a drabble, waking up sleepy and content next to your choice of either Dark or Infelix. Can just stay fluffy and adorable or they can be a little more, dirty ;)

Important: Reader is gender-neutral but is a vagina owner!

Warnings: Smut (obvi), pet names, light choking, power play, shadow tendril/tentacles, and no use of protection.

A/N: This was written quickly on my phone while at work so please excuse any errors. I was just excited to get something down on paper!

As always, if you would like to support me, I have a Ko-Fi (here) for donations and I usually have a few slots open for commissions (unless life gets in the way)!

Ever so slowly, the awake world began to invade your sleepy space as you rolled onto your side with a throaty groan. The alarm hadn't gone off yet so you knew it wasn't time to wake up, but you weren't brave enough to crack your eyelids and check those blaring red numbers to see just how long you had left.

As you were starting to fall back into a light slumber, your bed partner curled up around you with a deep groan. Goosebumps ran down your arms as the prickles of his short beard dragged across your bare shoulder.

"What time is it?"

Desire shot through your body at the sleepy rasp whispered right into your ear and you couldn't resist wiggling back against him in turn, whimpering as his straining cock pushed against your bare thighs.

"I haven't checked," you admitted softly, "Early though."

"Good."

The burn of his beard slowly gave way to soft lips and easy nibbles that trailed up your shoulder to the lobe of your ear. Sharp teeth pulled a heady gasp from your lips while his fingers drew your top thigh back over his, his dick slotting perfectly against your cunt.

"That means I have time to ravish you before the fools are demanding my attention," Dark purred huskily, "That is, if you're up to it, darling."

Wordlessly, you reached back and sunk your fingers into his shaggy locks, gently directing his mouth to your throat as you stretched your leg back further to offer him room.

"Always, my love," you murmured.

"Hmmm, that's my good pet," he rumbled lowly against your throat.

You were thankful for the late-night romp that left you both nude because it meant there was no barrier to impede his fingers from slipping between your thighs.

"Fuck!"

Every swirl of his fingertips pulled weak tremors from your form, clit still hypersensitive from the blessed tongue lashing he'd treated you to hours ago. When a rather rough convulsion made you yelp, he slowed his motions and brought his hand to your hip instead.

Before you could even question him, he said, "If this is going to be too much-"

"No! It's not that. I'm just really sensitive still. I want this. Maybe just avoid my clit for a while?"

He didn't respond other than a warm hum and immediately you knew he was reconsidering the whole ordeal. He did that a lot, got overprotective over silly things- even over himself. To help sway him back to the dark side, you hastily lifted your hips and wiggled so his head was pushing ever so slightly against your entrance.

His nails dug sharply into your skin as he unleashed a demonic growl.

"I want you, please," you begged softly.

"You're playing with danger, darling, but I suppose I shall humor you this once."

He snapped his hips forward without hesitation and buried his cock as far as possible with that first thrust, and in that same motion, his idle hand came to encircle your throat.

At that moment, it felt like you had shattered into a million delicious pieces. Your mind instantly shifted into that carefully crafted space that was reserved for Dark, and Dark only, as he invaded every inch of your body. Having had him again after many loving, arduous rounds a few hours ago... it was like you'd never stopped in the first place.

"Look at you," he grunted softly, "My perfect little pet, still so wet and ready for me, taking me so perfectly."

"A-Always, Dark, always ready!" You gasped out between breaths.

Your blood pumped heavily in your head as he tightened his fingers and quickened his thrusts. The slap of skin on skin synchronized almost perfectly with every thump of your heart and momentarily you wondered if he could hear your heart race to time it so perfectly.

Aching to touch him, you snagged his wrist tight and ran your thumb back and forth over the top of his hand, mumbling frantic "I love you"s as he hastily pushed you toward the end.

"And I you, my love."

He suddenly withdrew his hold on your throat, fingers dancing down your curves until they came to rest just below your navel.

"May I touch you now?" He purred sweetly.

"Fuck, Dark, yes!"

His nails left a stinging trail down your stomach and over your mound, making you clench hard down on him before gracing you with a sweet burst of pleasure.

"Fu-uh-ck," he hissed sharply.

Before you knew what was happening, you were facedown. Dark manhandled you onto your knees, hips high in the arm and back arched low, giving him the perfect leverage to thrust back in without pause.

As if planned by the universe, there was a knock at the door the moment he started to speak.

"Hey-"

"If you do not disappear within the next two seconds, I will spend the next millennia eviscerating you from the inside out, over and over until I tire of seeing your entrails at my feet. Am I clear?!"

Your cheeks reddened in mortification as your body reacted undeniably to power and rage in his voice, hips pushing back into his, needing more of his touch.

You felt as if bruises would form instantly as his hands took place harshly on your hips, jerking you back again as he thrust in with a snarl.

"You like that, do you?" He sneered darkly, "Is it knowing that I would kill to remain in you for just a second longer, hmm? Or maybe… just maybe, it's the knowledge that if I didn't love you so, I could easily do the same to you?"

An uncontrollable whine escaped as you buried your face in the pillows, but suddenly his hand was around the back of your neck, jerking your head up almost painfully.

"Tell me, darling, am I right?" He asked, voice shaking with the strength of each thrust of his hips.

You found words to be nearly impossible as he fucked you rough and frantic, the taste of your orgasm teasing at the edges of fruition.

"Yes, yes, oh fuck- yesss!"

He released his hold only to shove your face back into the pillows, head aside to allow you just enough room to breathe, with a death grip on the nape of your neck to pin you in place.

"Come for me then. Let me feel what my power does to you."

The sound of the headboard slamming into the wall thundered through the room, rivaled only by the tortured cries and moans pouring from your lips. And then you felt that familiar coil of cool energy between your thighs. If you could look, you knew you'd find one of those dangerous black shadows wrapped around your hip, dipping just below your belly, and the thought alone made you tighten. You knew he would never hurt you, but you'd also seen the pain and horror his powers could amass.

His name became a jumbled prayer on your lips as you shuddered under him. Every thrust of his cock, every brush of that life-stealing tendril, it coalesced into a mighty and fierce wave that stole your breath.

Tears smeared messily between your face and the pillow as your pleasure erupted with finality. You couldn't help but release a sob of utter devastation at the bliss wrecking your nerves, core clenching painfully tight around him as if trying to keep him in and never let him go.

"Oh fuck- that's it, pet," he snarled brokenly, "Like a fucking vice- agh!"

The sensation of his cock throbbing and emptying hot into your cunt sent you over another little wave, tearing a distraught moan from deep in your chest.

It was overwhelming in the best of ways.

As if knowing your turmoil, Dark released all holds on your body and gently brought you both onto your sides- oh so similar to the way you had started.

Despite panting for breath like you'd just run a marathon, you couldn't help the goofy smile that curved up your lips.

"If there weren't so much to be done, I'd cancel it all just to lay here and see that beautiful expression on your face, darling. You are absolute perfection," he murmured, planting a great kiss on your cheek, "But alas, I have some… unfortunates to lead."

#dark/reader #fanfiction #smut #fluff #morning loving #power play #pet names #light choking #no beta we die like the plebs we are

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skellebonez · 3 years

Note

14. With a possessed monkie kid? (Doesn't have to be my au, i just crave possession stuff rn fbsbfb)

Oh you gave me so much power. I have too much power. I had to write this ASAP before Friday, I did not want the idea I had to be tempered by what happens in the finale. Since this is supposed to be set a couple weeks after what could possibly happen. Spoilers if you haven’t read the summary for S2E10.

This may not be in your Possession AU, but it takes a little inspiration from it because I love it!

Warning: vaguely described injuries, blood. Reminder that I think Macaque can be severely hurt but is immortal to the point he can heal any injury.

Am I scaring you?

“Hey- don’t scream it’s just me- You guys seen MK around?”

Despite Macaque’s request, Pigsy and Tang continued to scream. It wasn’t surprising, really. It wasn’t every day that an enemy your friend/person you see as a son just revealed to you a couple weeks earlier had attacked him twice in ways that had left him pretty messed up and questioning his choices and abilities just pops their body from the shoulders up out of the shadows on your wall without warning. Doubly so when very shortly after learning all this that person does a heel face turn and joins your side without technically joining it against everyone’s will and is still kind of an asshole.

The immortal monkey needed to work on that last bit. Maybe he could upgrade from “asshole” to “jerk face” in the eyes of Team MK if he brought drinks. He didn’t really care though, he just wanted to make his own life easier. At least Wukong had been... somewhat open to letting him stick around, given MK convinced them to talk when they were too exhausted after the giant mech battle to actually fight each other, and that made their joint training sessions with MK much easier. That still took getting used to.

"Has MK been acting... off to you lately?" Macaque asked after Tang and Pigsy stopped screaming and levied him with unhappy glowers at the intrusion. One more note to add on the ‘things he should probably stop doing if people want to not hate him’ list, announcing himself better. "I know I'm kinda knew to this whole ‘technically not being a bad guy and caring a bit about other people’ thing and all but he seems..."

‘Not being a bad guy’. Nailed it.

"Dead inside?" Tang deadpanned. "Yeah, we kinda noticed."

“A little more blunt than I was gonna put it but yeah,” Macaque stepped out of the shadows fully, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly as Pigsy grabbed a wooden spoon and held it. A warning that he would not hesitate to chuck it at him at the first excuse he needed. “He’s been acting odd around both me and Wukong. Which, you know, given everything that happened I get it, but he hasn’t come to his last three training sessions at all.”

This, unlike everything else he had said, seemed to make the two men pause.

“What do you mean?” Tang asked, pushing his glasses up and looking at him oddly. “He’s been leaving for those on time like normal.”

“Ah, well, you see,” Macaque chose his next few words carefully. Being honest, truly honest without theatrics or planning in advance to help him, was a new undertaking for him so he stumbled through it. “The first time it happened Wukong astral projected to him and they talked and he seemed ok enough, like he just needed a break. The next time it happened I kinda... followed him? Just to make sure he was ok, no evil shadow business! He just kinda wandered downtown the entire time, looking like he was lost without being lost. If that makes sense. But yesterday he did the same thing so I did the same thing and I found him just kinda... sitting in front of the entrance to DBK’s old hideout?”

Instead of making the two men more concerned, this seemed to make them both deflate.

“Yeah...” Pigsy said softly, lowering the spoon just a bit. “He’s been doing that. We, uh... we had Mei follow him a couple times on deliveries because he was acting off. He did the sitting thing a few days ago too, just while he was on break or if he finished his deliveries early. He’s been doing that a lot lately, like he wants to get things done fast so he can do whatever he’s doing.”

“But he isn’t even doing anything!” Tang said, gripping his hair with one hand. “It’s like he’s just... sitting? Like he just wants to be alone maybe? Sandy’s been talking to him, trying to help him with the cats and everything, but he thinks he needs to see his therapist instead... I think he’s right.”

Macaque frowned for a second before forcing a wide smile on his face. “I thought so. I think Sandy may have the right idea too, you should talk to him. OK BYE-E!”

Before the two men could react he fell backward into the shadows and dissipated. He had somewhere to be.

Just sitting... no. Macaque was sure of it now as he watched MK sitting in front of the hole that still had not been filled since DBK had left the Flaming Foundry, cloaked in shadow behind littered debris. His conversation with the Monkie Kid’s elders confirmed the immortal’s suspicions.

MK was waiting for something.

And that meant something was deeply wrong.

He hadn’t lied to the duo in the noodle shop, but he hadn’t told them the full truth either. Macaque had been following MK for the last week, already knew about Mei himself, partly out of curiosity at first but also out of Wukong’s own insistence. He was worried for his successor and knew that Macaque could keep a quieter eye on him than he ever could, and Wukong... Wukong and MK, despite their renewed training, were not on the best of terms right then. Not after he learned what the vacation really was, not after he learned that his mentor knew about the White Bone Spirit the entire time. They were still close! Closer than MK was to Macaque when he trained him at least, just. Strained.

Watching his two teachers finally talk for once and work out what actually happened all those centuries ago, showing that Wukong wasn’t just an unflappable hero but a person who made mistakes and had worked to better himself and would continue to do so because he was a person, probably softened that a bit. He was still upset but much less so in the week after the defeat... but this last week it was like all that had been undone too quickly. It started slowly, but after four days it was like they were back to the day he learned the truth but so much worse.

For the last three days MK was so quiet, reserved, completely unlike the loud and excited guy Macaque knew and like he just wanted to be left alone to sit and not interact with anyone. Tang said he was acting like he was “dead inside”.

That... wasn’t an entirely incorrect descriptor. It was like he was hollow and just going about the motions. Or like he had closed off everything inside of himself for some reason.

Wukong was terrified. He’d been talking to MK every day he didn’t come to the island to train via astral projection, and Macaque had just watched another conversation between the two end half an hour earlier. Macaque tried the same thing but didn’t get nearly as far as Wukong had been, and talking to him like this seemed to make him less likely to just up and leave (the few times Wukong had just come to MK instead made it clear how uncomfortable he had been, ending the conversations with a quick jump from the staff before Wukong could convince him to stay, so they decided to go with what made him more comfortable to find out what was happening).

So that was how they operated. Macaque watched MK. Made sure he was at least physically ok. Wukong talked to MK, didn’t force him to come to the island and wouldn’t show up unannounced. But despite them communicating more than they ever had it was like he was telling Wukong less than he ever had before. The one thing they didn’t tell him was what Macaque was doing.

“Am I scaring you?” MK suddenly said, loud enough for only Macaque to hear. His tone was... wrong. “You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, Six-Ear.”

“What?” Macaque shot up and out of the shadows, eyes wide. MK had never called him that before.

The man before him stood, back to him and headband and coat oddly still in the blowing wind.

And then he jumped.

“MK!” Macaque reacted without thinking, diving down the hole after his Wukong’s student. He knew that he would be just fine, he could handle being thrown into a mountain so he could handle jumping down a giant hole, but the sight was too sudden and horrific for him to remember that at the moment.

Except he wasn’t there. When Macaque landed, the crash of his boots hitting the rocky ground echoing through the artificial cavern, he was alone.

Something was even more deeply wrong than he could have ever imagined.

“MK! Kid! Kiddo!?” He called out, all six of his ears out to catch any hint of movement. “Come on, you told me off for calling you Kiddo just last week, get angry at me so I know you’re ok! Tell me you’re a Monkey Man or something!” Macaque tried to keep his tone light, words lighter with an awkward laugh at the end of his sentences, but it only served to make the sinking feeling in his stomach worse. The opposite effect he wanted to accomplish. “Say something damn it!”

Silence. Everything was... silent. The only thing Macaque could hear was his own breathing, his own heartbeat, the rushing of blood in his ears... but nothing else.

Then a laugh. Low and soft and wrong and Macaque’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake.

He knew that laugh.

He also knew the feeling of the staff. He felt it during their first battle, when MK pulled every ounce of lingering power to defeat him. He felt it during that climactic encounter with Wukong, when his eye was damaged beyond repair.

He felt it now, as it jutted through his stomach without warning. Covered in blood.

Huh... that was kind of new, actually. He hadn’t felt a new sensation like that in so long.

The staff was pulled back and out of him quickly, driving him to his feet as he held the new wound and listened and nearly imperceptible footsteps made their way around him. How had he not heard... no. No he knew now. Now it was obvious what had happened.

Why did his wound burn like that? Why couldn’t he stand? He should be able to move, he wasn’t this weak!

“He beat you,” He groaned out, coughing as he tried to stay upright on his knees. “You should be-”

“Dead?” MK asked, voice his own but tone completely different. The black on his shoes were blue. As Macaque looked up he could see most of the color on his outfit had faded to white with blue accents. His eyes, the only think about him physically to be different, a brilliant blue to match. His headband was gone from around his head, instead used to help slick his hair back and out of his face. “How can you kill what already isn’t alive? No, I just waited in this body until I was able to influence him enough to make him... compliant. Much easier that way, actually.”

Either his vision went fuzzy or the world around them did, MK moving closer at a speed that shouldn’t be possible. His hands were grasping Macaque’s scarf tightly... this felt far too familiar.

“If you had been the dragon girl or anyone else I might have just killed you, you know,” MK’s voice said as he tilted his head to the side, an almost playful smile on his face. “But this is much more fun, and preferable. You can relay the message for me, once the poison I coated the staff in wears off and you heal anyway.”

Macaque was dropped unceremoniously onto his back, letting out an agonized yelp as he hit the ground. MK stomped on his wound, earning another scream.

“By then myself and this body will be long gone,” MK chuckled, stepping over Macaque completely to walk further into the foundry. “I must thank you, you played into my hands so much better than I ever planned on. Getting you all to work together to ‘beat me’ was just far too easy.” He stopped, turning to smirk at the immortal shuddering on the ground.

“I haven’t had a body this powerful in centuries,” the White Bone Spirit said with a laugh before vanishing in a fuzz of his vision and a wisp of cold air.

#monkie kid #lego monkie kid #gen fic #hurt no comfort #warning: described injuries #mk #qi xiaotian #six eared macaque #Pigsy #tang #white bone spirit #lady bone demon #FILLER TAG FILLER TAG FILLER TAG #macaque will live but fuck he is going to be feeling that for a while #warning: impalement

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justmaybee · 3 years

Text

Feather Sensitive

Summary: Oh, Yamaguchi’s really done it this time. He should just keep his mouth shut from now on. Unfortunately, that’s the exact opposite of what Hinata wants.

A/N: Y’ello! Another off-brand one, but hopefully a fandom peeps recognize. I haven’t seen Haikyuu in a lil, but I love Yamigoops and this has been 90% done for forever so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Based entirely off the second headcanon here, by @ticklishnonsense — absolutely loved it and you can tell cuz I wrote this ages ago for no other reason than having it written down for myself~

A big thank you to OP for letting me use her work as inspiration!!

———

This was a mistake. This was a mistake. This was a mistake.

Yamaguchi can’t will his mind into more elaborate thought, because it’s all just suddenly sunken in.

Hinata’s weight, heavy but not uncomfortable, resting snug on his hips. The loose tank top, just slightly too big on him, stolen out of Kageyama’s stuff at some point during one sleepover or another. And that ridiculously giant feather Hinata’s got poised between his fingers, like it’s a quill and Yamaguchi is a trembling, twitchy sheet of parchment about to be marked up.

When had he told Hinata? Why had he told Hinata?

Tsukki had figured it out, years and years ago; during one of their many one-sided tickle fights, Yamaguchi thinks. It’s been used against him for as long as he can remember, stray fluff from down pillows and blankets brushed over his neck or feet to pull a sudden and squeaky laugh. He’s never, ever told Tsukki just how much it really tickled though, and Tsukki never asked.

So why did he have to go and mention this to a person just as skilled and merciless in tickling people—often Yamaguchi people—into boneless puddles of teary, hysterical laughter?

It’s got to be Hinata’s charm. If Tsukishima has his cold, borderline apathetic, poise to lay base for his killer teasing method, then Hinata’s strength comes in his natural curiosity. Wide eyes, a light voice, and an openness that makes Yamaguchi feel like he can talk to him.

This, apparently, is not the case in a topic involving feathers. Because Yamaguchi will apparently lose all sense of self-preservation and voice his thoughts on how unbearably sensitive he is to a thing most people will flinch at and brush away like nothing.

But of course, it’s too late for him to realize his mistake now. It wasn’t until Hinata came barreling down the hall, shopping bag in hand, to tackle Yamaguchi to the living room carpet that things started rolling into motion.

Now Hinata’s got Yamaguchi pinned, arms under his knees and a big, big smile stretched over his face. It’s so genuine and excited that Yamaguchi finds himself getting a little lost in it, at least until the feather comes back into focus.

“I mean come on, Yamaguchi.” Hinata holds the quill of the feather and traces the soft end up his own arm, dusting it over his collarbone and getting just a hint of a twitch out of his lips before twirling it between his fingers. “I almost think that you’re lying to me.”

But his face must convince Hinata otherwise, because he doesn’t look like he thinks it’s a lie. The tracing of the feather, even along Hinata’s skin has Yamaguchi twitching, breathing funny. Goosebumps rise along his arms, and Hinata is so riled up with energy—so ready to take Yamaguchi apart—that it’s practically impossible for the brunette to even try and stop the wobbly smile making its way onto his face.

Hinata is the one to burst the bubble of anticipation building slowly in Yamaguchi’s gut. He laughs, a delighted little sound, commenting on the cute pink of Yamaguchi’s blush before he goes in for the kill. And Yamaguchi has never been that great at holding back his reactions, especially when he’s already a tense and flustered mess untouched, so the result is pretty immediate.

The first giggle slips hesitantly out of his throat but clears the way for many more as Hinata gently traces the base of his neck, skimming over his collarbones like even a feather could break them if used too harshly.

It’s a little timid, a little reserved, which is a major change of pace from Hinata’s usual quick and dirty way of fighting. He’s always had a ‘take no prisoners’ sort of approach to a tickle fight; either win outright or die trying, but the new method seems to slow him down a bit.

He’s thinking, watching. And luckily, for him and most certainly not Yamaguchi, the change seems to work really well with the soft touch of the feather. Pulling giggle after giggle from his victim and making him sputter at the attention when he realizes how closely he’s being observed.

The plume travels slowly up Yamaguchi’s neck, high enough that he’s able to jerk his head to block out either side as it passes. Unfortunately, that just causes Hinata to speed up the back and forth strokes, attempting to dodge Yamaguchi’s blocks. And it’s effective and so much more ticklish, Yamaguchi chokes on his sudden snort and tosses his head back on impulse, laughter getting louder and more desperate as Hinata takes advantage of the newly exposed skin.

He keeps at it until Yamaguchi feels light-headed, a little delirious with his laughter completely unchecked. The feather strays to flick up over his ear, and the whimpering laugh that comes out keeps Hinata there until Yamaguchi’s shoulder is twitching spastically of its own accord, desperately trying to stop the light, constant brush over his sensitive skin.

He gets a break—thank God—after a few minutes of this. Being dubbed most ticklish in the house (after many, many tests) has left him with pretty high stamina. But somehow a few minutes of Hinata and a feather has him panting for breath like he’d just finished a hundred laps around the gym.

Yamaguchi is so caught up in catching his breath (and trying to calm that tic in his shoulder) that he doesn’t really think about how breaks aren’t much of Hinata’s style either.

His floaty mind comes to bite him when he feels two soft points of contact touch down on his wrists.

His arms jolt on instinct. His elbows move a smidge in either direction but stick firm to the ground. Hinata’s smile takes on a wicked gleam and...oh boy.

If Yamaguchi gets out of this alive, the others will have some real competition for scariest tickler.

The feathers sweep back and forth, back and forth over his arms. They start at the wrist, and would almost feel nice if not for the impending sense of doom that has blood rushing through Yamaguchi’s ears right now.

The swaying movement drifts up, painfully slow. He doesn’t even think it tickles that much right now, but that doesn’t stop him from physically biting his lip to stop the snickers from making their way out.

It’s when the pair reach his inner elbow that first crack appears. Yamaguchi gasps and Hinata perks up, keeping the feathers there a moment longer, letting them sweep side to side a little faster.

From there the cracks spiderweb exponentially.

The gasp ends up turning into a snort. As Himata continues his path upward, it becomes a whine. And when he’s at the faint line where his skin darkens with a tan, from long summer days spent out in a t-shirt, he decides to flick the feathers in an alternating pattern over either arm.

It has Yamaguchi rocking back and forth in a way that he guesses might look kind of funny. Hinata starts laughing anyways. And of course, it’s enough to get Yamaguchi’s lips to loosen and let out the stream of bubbling giggles he’s been suppressing for far too long already.

His arms feel warm, almost as hot as his face, even though their air conditioning has been working pretty decently lately. There’s a faint tingly feeling still left where the feathers had once brushed his skin.

Everything already feels so sensitive, and Hinata isn’t even there yet.

There are butterflies having a—a mosh pit in his stomach right now. He can’t remember the last time he felt so wound up getting tickled. Then again, he can’t remember the last time Hinata put this much...care? Is that the right word for this situation? —into destroying him.

It makes Yamaguchi a little happy, for some reason.

And sometime about that moment seems to be the limit for Hinata’s concentration, because the change from gentle, teasing touches to his usual form of attack is both quick and excruciating.

The moment after, when Yamaguchi suddenly has two feathers sweeping fast little strokes under his arms, his brain completely short circuits.

What leaves his mouth can only be called a shriek and it’s quickly drowned out by the squeaky, panicked laughter that floods the room immediately.

His chest is jerking side to side in vain. There’s hair in his eyes and a little in his mouth from how violently he’s tossing his head around, but he can’t register a thing beyond the millions of wispy, light strands fluttering a fast track over and over and over the soft and sensitive skin beneath his restrained arms.

Hinata gets the bright idea to not try and jam the delicate things towards the floor anymore. He instead tries twirling them in a circular motion in the spaces underneath Yamaguchi’s arms.

Yamaguchi didn’t think his voice was high enough to screech like he used to, but ‘Hey, you learn something new everyday,’ he thinks, entirely delirious.

His back arches off the ground, head tossing back then pressing into his shoulder as if it’ll somehow smother his hysterical laughter.

It’s bright and desperate and so, so loud. Yamaguchi would typically only reach this point when someone’s feeling particularly ruthless with plenty of time to spare, but it could be hours since Hinata first got him pinned down; it sure feels like it.

There are weird little squeaks that pierce the air when he’s got the breath. His limbs are doing this constant squirm that’s got him feeling hot all over. His lashes feel wet and he knows it’s a matter of seconds before the tears start to fall.

But nothing is more prominent than the feeling of soft, soft, so very soft; and it tickles, it tickles, it really tickles.

———

When Yamaguchi’s brain finally starts rebuilding from the mush, hiccuping giggles making their way through his gasps for breath, he feels Hinata still sitting on top of him. Thankfully—mercifully—though, the feathers are nowhere to be seen, and his hands have been let free.

Seeing Hinata’s hand in his peripheral makes him flinch, but he just wipes at Yamaguchi’s cheek, brushing away the leftover moisture.

“I had to stop because you were starting to look like a strawberry,” Hinata grins. His skin is cool against Yamaguchi’s. He leans into the touch.

“So...was that awesome or what?” Hinata continues, voice energetic though he still rubs a soothing motion over Yamaguchi’s cheek.

Yamaguchi takes a second to reflect. On the dreamy tiredness seeping into his bones, the floaty high that fills up his head.

He nods, once or twice. Though from where Hinata’s sitting, it could just be Yamaguchi nuzzling into his hand. That’s fine. Yamaguchi could use the plausible deniability.

Once he’s been declared as officially ‘not a strawberry anymore,’ Hinata helps him up. He only stumbles a little bit, but of course Hinata has to poke fun.

“You know what that means?” Hinata throws out, arm linked with Yamaguchi’s as they make their way to a well-deserved seat on the couch.

Yamaguchi hums in response.

“We’ve gotta start building up your tolerance.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes widen, but he’s pushed onto the couch with a lap full of Hinata before he can say anything. He looks up at Yamaguchi all big eyes and a bigger smile. Yamaguchi swallows.

“We’re doing that again, soon.“

#bee stuffs #tickling #tickle fic #Hinata #Yamaguchi #based off the og post #there’s some college poly first year vibes #but it’s up for interpretation idk #ticklish!Yamaguchi #as he de-serves #Haikyuu

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thosewickedlovelies · 3 years

Text

An Ode To Marcus Moreno’s Arms

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x GN!Reader

Rating: Mature

Summary: You’re a training specialist in swordsmanship at Heroics Headquarters, so you see a lot of Marcus Moreno.

Tags: Reader has a vivid (sexual) imagination, but there’s only a few brief sections.

Word Count: 2,272

A/N: This started out as an ode to his arms, but his arms are connected to the rest of him, so. Alternative title: In Appreciation of Marcus Moreno

My assumption/headcanon of his powers are telekinesis, plus general exceptional physical prowess and weapons skills? Idk, we weren’t given much, but those feel like solid abilities for someone implied to be the super among super heroes. Idk what this is but I regret nothing.

More content/worldbuilding set in this universe 💗

Marcus Moreno’s arms were capable of many things.

You knew this because you saw them on an almost-daily basis. You were one of the training specialists at Heroics Headquarters, one of a large, ever-expanding staff of instructors who were experts in their respective fields of combat or weapons. Your job, essentially, was to be a superhero minus the powers- and use your abilities to keep the Heroics in top form.

Your expertise was swordsmanship, which meant you spent more time with Marcus than any of the other heroes. All of the physical trainers and specialists sparred with the Heroics in mock villain showdowns, but you also helped them hone specific skills. You were here because your skillset and abilities matched Marcus’s.

So you’ve had plenty of opportunity to behold his arms at work.

One would think that they’d be most enticing mid-action, but it was a cosmically ironic fact that there was never really a wrong moment to ogle. How that man could make merely unsheathing his swords so erotic was beyond you.

But by now you’d seen it from every angle. You were as familiar with Marcus’s technique as you were with your own, and knew well the cycle of muscle contractions which rippled up his whole body. It started with his legs: setting his stance, primed and poised on the balls of his feet. Then every muscle in his torso, his clinging t-shirts sliding over taut flesh as they rode up with the lifting of his arms- his arms. Biceps suddenly incredibly present and visibly straining past barely-existent sleeves, tendons flexing rigid and obvious, a tangle of pathways you wanted to map with your tongue.

This show was best when he had started his day with tactical theory sessions, because then his expressive face got involved. Oh yes, it wasn’t enough for him just to be built the way he was, his face had to go and be attractive as well.

Tedious strategy debates with Miracle Guy during these sessions never failed to get under his skin- you could always tell how much steam Marcus had to let off based on the clench of his jaw. Or the way he’d drag his bottom lip over his teeth, nostrils flaring in an almost-snarl. When that happened you knew he gripped the hilts of his swords a little tighter, because you’d see the ridges in his wrist dip and pull like piano strings perpendicular to the line of his gloves. The blades would sing little sharper on those days, his arms freeing them in a jerk rather than their usual smooth, deliberate slide.

It was amazing you ever made it beyond unsheathing your weapons.

But oh, were you glad you did, because watching Marcus Moreno fight was truly a treat. The control he had over his body was remarkable; even when his limbs flung and stretched, they were to ready to contract again at a second’s notice. “Fight” was really too limited of a term for it- Marcus manipulated his body in an incredible harmony of mind and muscle, using his weapons- including his telekinesis- as extensions of himself.

You wondered sometimes how fine his control over his telekinesis was- if he could use it on himself. If he did use it somehow to give his blows that devastating extra speed and strength.

It was easy to understand, after witnessing him, why battle is often described as a dance.

On particularly ruthless training days, his tan skin would gleam with sweat. It would bead and trickle along the pulsing veins in his arms, drawing your attention even more, and salacious scenes would flash behind your eyelids: those same glistening forearms visible in your peripherals as they box you against a wall, that same intent glitter in his dark eyes as they come closer and closer, breathless, his chest heaving into yours-

You never let on to any of this though. You were a master of the blade, and had trained too thoroughly to let the appearance of an opponent get to you. Besides that fact, you would never do anything to risk your place with the Heroics. Although you were an authority figure, they were still superheroes, and thus unlike anyone else you’d worked with- it made for a challenging, stimulating dynamic in which you were constantly both instructor and student.

Even outside of the training arena, Marcus’s arms were a sight.

Holding data pads or writing utensils as he led the Heroics in discussions of group tactics, deftly manipulating characters onscreen or scribbling things on a whiteboard. Sometimes he would go to these sessions straight from physical training, and the cooling sweat on his skin would raise goosebumps all along the smooth flesh.

You observed how gently his arms could move in yet other circumstances.

Training specialists often joined in when the Heroics were given new gadgets to play with. And although these days tended to be slower, they still made you sweat. Watching the caution with which Marcus handled the gear at first, the slow care he reserved for things with which he was still becoming familiar. The precision and that control he always kept- even when his frustration slipped out in the form of snarky remarks, he was always conscious of his movements. As he gained confidence, the surety would return to his motions, his shoulders squaring in quiet triumph- his broad, broad shoulders, which you had imagined far too many times propping up your thighs while his hands and mouth were otherwise engaged between them.

You wondered if Marcus would treat your body like something new he had to master. If his hands would probe and caress with the same thoroughness. If the same wicked delight would steal over his features as he learned how best to coax you toward his desired goals; if his fascinated smirk would change after the thousandth time he had taken you apart.

It didn’t help that these sessions highlighted that he was a kind, competent teacher. His teammates exasperated him sometimes, but Marcus was the first to step in when one of them was struggling. A light touch to rearrange their stance, an encouraging word or smile. If you hadn’t personally felt the power thrumming under his skin, you would have never guessed that such a soft man was capable of his immense abilities.

Occasionally you had to remind yourself not to get all dopey-eyed when he was instructing the kids. If you thought he was patient with the adult Heroics, it was nothing compared to how he interacted with their younger counterparts. Equally firm and joking in turn, he taught them every trick he knew while desperately hoping they would never have to use the knowledge.

Some days were easier for him than others- the times they practiced with weapons could have unexpectedly diverting consequences. Marcus let Guppy hold his katanas, once- she was fully capable with her shark strength, but the vision of the diminutive girl brandishing swords that were taller than she was, her face aglow with a ferocious grin, had all the others in fits.

You swore he was suppressing laughter himself as he carefully took them away from her. His hands, already distracting enough, looked comically vast compared to hers as he delicately maneuvered them to pluck the swords from her grasp. Something about the sight of his thick fingers, resettling themselves around the hilts with reflexive ease, made your mouth dry.

His fingers squeezed other things, too, and it made flames leap low in your belly every time.

Lime wedges, on the rare occasions he indulged in drinks stronger than wine at the Headquarters bar. His friends’s shoulders, in affection and farewell, after relaxing with them at said bar following hard days. You longed to be one of those who Marcus slung an arm around in jest, a laugh shaking his shoulders and sparkling in his eyes. Would his skin be as warm as it was while swinging a weapon? What would his body feel like softened in mirth, instead of vibrating with focus?

You didn’t blame him for his more formal attitude during work hours. His days were busy, and you rarely saw him off the training mats. You had shared a few evenings with him on nights when the bar was quieter, though. He was perfectly friendly, treating you just like anyone else he was getting to know.

Tonight was one of those quieter nights, but you didn’t do more than cast a quick glance at the small group sitting in the corner before slumping to the bar. You were worn out today, and just wanted something strong and solitary before going home.

You sighed into the numbing wash of your drink, your eyes drifting shut. Nobody would bother you this evening; it wasn’t that kind of atmosphere.

Except- the barstool next to yours scraped against the floor.

You inhaled deeply, preparing to politely rip into whatever idiot was assuming you needed company- only to have the words struck off your lips by the apprehensive brown eyes of Marcus Moreno.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you. You can tell me to march right back to my table if you like, but uh, I just wanted to see if you were all right. After today.”

You could see that he genuinely meant it- he was perched only partially on the barstool, ready to take off again if you said the word. But his gaze was curious, concerned.

You brow furrowed. “After today?” you echoed, too caught off-guard to think of anything else. What could he mean? Nothing special had happened today. He’d disarmed you, sure, but it wasn’t the first time that had occurred in the eight months you’d been working with him.

Marcus shifted uncertainly. “You just seemed...tired. Reflexes slower than usual,” he noted wryly. “And, well. We have matching bags.” He pointed to his face, where dark shadows were visible beneath his eyes. He offered a self-deprecating, tentative smile, conscious that he was treading in new territory.

It takes you a minute to process. In all the time you’ve spent observing his fighting techniques to perfection, you’d never considered that he could have been using those same opportunities to observe you. It provokes a funny feeling in your chest, twisting your breath up in your lungs like tangled ribbon.

“Oh,” you murmur, surprised but unoffended by his mention of the bags under your eyes. “Well...I am tired today, I guess.” You took a sip of your drink, gauging his interest, hesitating before continuing. “My sister broke her hip, so she just moved in with me for while she heals. It’s been...a stressful transition,” you admitted.

He angles himself toward you, attention fully committed and eyes widening in sympathy. “Oh gosh, that’s terrible. Do you need some time off? I can clear it with the boss for you, work with Santino for however long you need.” He seemed to straighten up, as if ready to spring away and take care of it the moment you answered.

“No, please,” you chuckled in appreciation of his earnestness. “I might need a few shorter days, but neither of us need me fussing over her 24/7.” Both you and your sister were strongly independent. It meant that you had often been at odds when you were younger, but you were all each other had now, and had made efforts to improve your relationship.

Marcus nodded in understanding, settling again. He seemed at a loss for if he should leave or say something else, so you made the choice for him.

“Tired of getting your ass kicked in my lessons, Moreno? You know Santino doesn’t work you as hard.” Your fellow swordsmanship instructor was slightly younger, a newer hire who was still a little bit in awe of the Heroics.

You didn’t usually speak so flippantly to him, but his eyebrows arced high at the challenge, a smile tugging on his lips. “Sounds like somebody needs a reminder of who kicked whose ass today, ma’am.” Rolling right along with your apparent newfound playfulness.

You pinpointed, suddenly, what was different about him tonight, why this interaction felt different compared to your others. There’d always been an air of deference about him before, as if even outside of the arena he considered you a superior. But tonight he was just treating you like a peer, a regular person. Maybe it had taken your excessively dragging day for him to come to terms with the fact that you were a regular person, but the ice finally felt like it had broken between you and you just...talked, after that. For longer than both of you probably intended.

“Shoot, I have to go get Missy,” Marcus realized, catching sight of his watch. “But you- you’ll be here again? I mean, I see you here a lot.” He stumbled over his words.

Did he? It was true that you were often at the bar at the same time, but for him to acknowledge that meant that he actually noticed you. Remembered your presence.

“Yeah, I’m here pretty regularly,” you confirmed, cautiously hopeful.

“Good. I mean, I’ll see you, then- next time.” His voice rasped low, but there was a nervousness in his expression. He twisted his jacket between his large hands.

He wanted to see you again. “Yes.” You smiled at him, surprise and pleasure shining through. “I’ll see you next time,” you said with conviction.

His eyes crinkled in answer, and your breath caught. Your ordered yourself not to watch him leave the room.

You drove home with a quiet grin on your face.

#we can be heroes #wcbh #wcbh fic #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #NOBODY LOOK AT ME

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fullmetalscullyy · 3 years

Note

if you're still accepting prompts, could you do "shh, it’s okay. it was just a dream"?

always, anon <3 and it's funny u should suggest that prompt bc i just wrote something for it a few weeks ago! and you can find it here, already on ao3

so now, u have two for the price of one :') that fic was a young!riza pov, so how about a post-canon roy pov this time? tysm for the prompt and the ask!!!

rated: t | words: 1819 | tags: nightmares, angst, hurt/comfort, post-canon, royai, promised day memories

read on ao3

Roy’s body jerked violently in his bed. His legs kicked outwards, shifting the sheet off of his searing skin and knocking it onto the floor. The cool night air blanketed his body instantly, trying, but ultimately failing, to ease his distress. His dream continued to linger painfully, jolting him upright into a seated position, causing both hands to land flat by his sides to maintain some semblance of balance while his head swung from left to right, searching the inky black stretching out before him. Roy saw nothing, which only made him panic even more.

Am I blind again?

The thought appeared unbidden in his mind. A part of him knew he wasn’t, but he was so disorientated and startled by his nightmare that he seriously considered it. He couldn’t go through that again, though. The dream couldn’t have been real. No, he couldn’t be blind. This couldn’t be happening again –

A light flicked on inside the room, making him pause for a second. He blinked, seeing his legs and the rest of his bed stretched out before him, reaching towards the pale blue wall.

He was in his bedroom, not sitting on cold, brown bricks, devoid of any comfort or warmth.

A dream… It was just a dream.

Roy exhaled sharply and took another deep breath, gulping down the air as reality slowly started to trickle back to him. The second exhale left him at a slower pace, but it still rattled passed his lips as he tried to stop terror from constricting his heart painfully. Heat flashed across his brow and chest and that’s when Roy noticed the sweat. He was drenched in it, courtesy of the fear that still lingered inside of him.

“Roy?”

The voice was quiet and thick with sleep as she called to him. At first it was surprised, but then instantly alert. Not that Roy could focus on anything outside of the horrifying images – and also memories – still in his mind’s eye, but if he could, he’d have noticed the mattress shift next to him and dip as she sat up immediately, eyeing him with concern.

She had surely caught onto what had happened. To what had made him react so badly in the middle of the night. Roy knew he must have looked a state, and that was what had probably given him away, but he didn’t care, because she was okay. She hadn’t been hurt. She wasn’t dead. They were both safe in his apartment together, out of harm’s way and far away from any kind of danger.

Roy slumped back against his pillows and draped an arm across his eyes. His chest was still heaving with his breath while he struggled to get it under control and wetness seeped out from beneath his lids, dampening the skin of his forearm and wrist. The tears had followed him from his dream to a conscious state and Roy clamped his eyelids closed tightly, willing them to stop so he could try and get a handle on his emotions.

Shame flushed through him. Not because someone was there to witness his struggle, for he would lay himself bare for her without question. It was because he’d fallen for a trap. It had been a trick by the enemy. Even if it was a dream, it had cost him dearly, and his Lieutenant had paid the price for his failings. It had caused turmoil and upset to follow him to his waking sate, affecting him so deeply that when he awoke, he still couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. The vividness of it had left him completely stricken.

His Lieutenant had almost died on him before, all those years ago, and his mind had decided to make him relive it, out of the blue, exaggerating all that happened and making it so much worse.

Nightmares were like old friends to Roy, but they were still a struggle. They never really got any easier to deal with or experience. Especially when they were as intense as this one had been. Especially when they involved her dying, either in his arms because he was too late, or while he was restrained by the enemy, unable to comfort her, get help for her, or save her.

Those were the worst ones.

A palm was placed gently atop his head. He flinched at the unexpected contact and his body tensed. Then, fingers came to rest upon his scalp gently and a thumb stroked over his forehead, right between his eyebrows. It moved repeatedly in a calming motion, relaxing his tightly wound muscles, and causing his mind to falter and trip at its racing speed once or twice.

Her touch brought him back down to earth.

“Shh,” she soothed him, “it's okay. It was just a dream.”

Her comfort was incredibly welcoming as her hands combed through his damp hair without protest or complaint. He could feel it clinging uncomfortably to his face and the back of his neck, but Riza freed him from it. The wet strands were pushed away from his cheeks and ears, making him sigh quietly as he started to feel some relief. Her voice was heaven-sent in that moment of strife for him. A buoy in raging waves; something to cling on to so he could survive and get his bearings. It was like a light rain falling over embers of pain of sorrow, washing them away like a salve being applied atop the charred ground.

She was his rescuer from the darkest confines of his own mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her question was incredibly quiet, so she didn’t startle him.

Always so incredibly perceptive and considerate of others.

Roy shook his head and let out a shaky breath. If he opened his mouth his voice would break. He wasn’t ready to reveal all. He would happily tell Riza Hawkeye everything, but he couldn’t just yet. Not when he’d failed her. Again. Not when his mind was happily reminding him of that fact.

Shame flushed through him once more like an unforgiving storm surge.

“Take your time,” she announced emphatically. “I’m right here.”

And that’s all Roy ever needed.

He rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around her waist. Riza had sat up in bed and remained there, watching over him as he tried to calm himself. His face was buried into her stomach as desperate hands clung to the shirt on her back. Riza placed both hands atop his head and stilled, letting him get comfortable before she moved them again. They continued to comb through his hair soothingly, offering a comfort only she could ever give him.

“It was a nightmare,” he mumbled against her. “Promised Day.”

Riza’s hands stilled for a second after his reveal, then continued their ministrations.

“I see.”

Roy nodded against her. They were well aware of how each other had struggled while sleeping in the aftermath of that day.

“It was…” He took a deep breath. “You,” he exhaled, as if that would answer all of her questions at once. And Roy knew it would. “What happened to you that day. And I… I was stuck. I couldn’t do anything –” Roy snapped his mouth shut, remembering seeing the light leave her eyes so clearly inside his nightmare, like a safety beacon that had winked out, leaving only darkness, despair, and horror in its wake.

“It’s okay,” she reassured. Her tone said it all. She sounded pained, knowing exactly how he’d suffered because his poor, broken, explanation had been enough for her to conclude what he’d seen in his dream.

“I was too late,” he whispered. It sounded deafening in the quiet of his bedroom.

Riza was silent as she continued to run her hands through his hair. She didn’t comment, but in some way that was worse. Roy scrunched his eyes up tightly for a few seconds before relaxing, pulling away from her.

He’d failed her again.

He didn’t get to retreat far, though. Riza’s hands followed his movements to the letter, anticipating them perfectly, moving from being buried within his hair to cupping his cheeks. She gently guided his face upwards, so it was finally facing her. Finally looking her in the eye. Fear licked around his stomach, twisting it, suddenly afraid of judgement for his lack of support. It was irrational – Riza Hawkeye would never do such a thing – but he was still shaken and distraught.

What Roy found made his breath catch. Her smile was small and soft. It was so her – nothing too flashy, but reserved and fiercely loving, just like the look in her eyes. It was a smile she saved only for him.

His breath hitched again.

“You weren’t too late, remember?” Her head shook from side to side slowly as she attempted to dispel his anxiety. Her hands dropped and latched onto one of his, guiding it upwards so it now rested over her beating heart.

The feeling was strong beneath his scarred palms, thumping inside of her with such strength – the same attitude she embodied every day in everything she did. Steady, dependable, and courageous.

“Like always, I’m right here. I’m never going anywhere.”

Roy leaned forwards quickly, overcome with impulse, and claimed her lips with his own. A hand buried into her short hair, cupping the back of her neck tenderly as he kissed her with such reverence and adoration.

“Thank you,” he breathed. His hand shifted on her chest to become more comfortable when his fingers bumped into and grazed over something solid and misshapen underneath her shirt.

Roy blinked, then slowly smiled knowingly. Riza returned it, realising what he’d discovered, but she also looked pleased his heartache had been banished and eased for a brief second.

It was the wedding ring he’d given her years ago, attached to her dog tags. The one that was identical to his own.

It was a reminder that they were tied together completely, and always would be. They’d set themselves on a path they could not deviate from, it was absolute, and they must succeed, but they’d do it together. They would remain as one throughout it all.

Their foreheads tipped together, coming to rest quietly against one another and Roy focussed on the sound of her breathing and the feeling of the ring. He tethered himself to them both, slowing his own breaths to match hers.

She was right there by his side, like she always was and had promised she'd be, so long ago. The odds had almost pulled them apart once before but hadn’t succeeded. Roy wouldn’t let his dreams get the better of him either. There were always demons to fight, but Roy was thankful he had her watching over him, and vice versa. There was no one else in the world he’d trust to watch his back. And they’d fight them all together, side by side. Unyielding and relentless.

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #royai oneshot #fic request #emma writes #ask #anon

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tenspontaneite · 3 years

Text

Across Shared Skin (Chapter 2/?)

“This is the worst possible way this could have happened!”

(Chapter length: 3k. Ao3 link)

---

The back of his hand still ached from where she’d hit it. He couldn’t quite draw his mind away from that, couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t get away from it. The back of his hand hurt, because that was where his soulmark was, and she’d hit hers, and of course it had carried over, that was how soulbonds worked.

She was still standing there. Still with those swords in her hands, though she’d lowered them now. Still standing over him, though she’d backed away a little, as if someone had shoved her. Still wide-eyed, still aghast, still an elf, still his soulmate-

“Shit,” she said again, more emphatically, and staggered further backwards. For a moment it seemed like she was trying to lift her hands, to bury her face in them – but then she saw her swords and flinched, shuddering in a violent motion that terminated with her fingers so tight on the weapons’ hilts that they trembled.

She had white hair. All the books had said that Moonshadow elves had white hair, but it was one thing to read it, another to see it. And those horns, too, and the ears – she was – she wasn’t human, she really wasn’t, and for all that he’d spent years trying to imagine what that would look like, it still fell short of reality. It was her. It was really her. This was what his soulmate looked like. “Rayla,” He said again, testing the name, feeling his pulse race so fast that his head swam. She flinched again at the name, eyes jerking back towards him, so plainly distressed that it made his gut twist.

Her eyes were purple. He’d seen that before, of course, when she was standing over him with that sword, but – somehow it mattered more, now that he knew who she was.

“No,” she uttered, despairingly, like it was a reflex response to hearing her name from his lips. Her expression twisted as if to hold back some unbearable emotion.

Ezran was frozen at the portrait hole, and hadn’t moved. Callum was only peripherally aware of that. Mostly, he was aware of the thrum of his heartbeat, and the look on his soulmate’s face, and the part of him that was still tense and terrified in anticipation of death. In those moments, it was all confusion, a conflicting tangle of his shock and his fear. But then – he looked at her, and his mind began to catch up. She’d been this nameless, frightening elf mere minutes ago, but he’d seen her hesitate even then, seen her listen to him – and now she was Rayla, and he knew Rayla, and-

In a sudden, decisive moment, it was like something clicked into place. The elf who’d threatened him at swordpoint and the elf who was his soulmate were the same – and as that knowledge reconciled itself, he felt his shoulders slump with unthinking relief. All at once he understood, without reservation or doubt, that she wasn’t going to hurt them. He knew. He’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

“Rayla,” he repeated, steadier this time, secure in that knowledge, and slowly went to stand up.

She recoiled, flinching backwards as he rose. “No,” she said again, and then again, and again- “No, no, no, this isn’t – this wasn’t supposed to-“ She whirled around, pacing in broken and aborted steps around the office, like she wanted to flee but didn’t know where to go. Her shoulders were so tense it looked painful, and – she snapped towards him, suddenly, one of those swords suddenly up and pointing accusatively his way. “This is the worst possible way this could have happened!”

The way she’d said it, it was almost like she blamed him for that. Like he’d decided that these should be the circumstances of their pre-ordained meeting. “…I’m…sorry?” He offered, weakly, looking back at the bristling affront that had come over her in that moment. She seemed angry, right then, but – then she saw the blade she was pointing his way, and it all crumpled away at once.

“I was going to kill you.” She said, voice tight and haunted, and she looked up at him blankly. Her eyes slid to his brother, still frozen motionless in the mouth of the secret passage. Quiet, she added “…I’m supposed to kill you.”

He swallowed. “Yeah, you said.” He acknowledged, remembering his terror when she’d said she was here to kill his brother, his absolute certainty that he could not allow it to happen. That felt so long ago, now. “You’re…an assassin,” he tested the words, looking at her, looking at the swords, the armour, the wiry muscles tense along her arms. He remembered years and years and years of seeing her write about her training. “You’re an assassin, and you came here to kill Ezran.” He tilted his head at her, a little solemn. “I guess whoever sent you probably wouldn’t mind if you got another human prince, too.”

She barked a harsh laugh. “If you got in the way? No. No, they wouldn’t.” Again, her eyes flickered to Ezran. She exhaled. Again, she said “I’m supposed to kill you.” It was strangely bleak, this time. Defeated.

Ez flinched a little, but Callum didn’t falter at all. Not anymore. He took a step towards her, and she rocked back on her heels as if to lean away from him. He stepped again though, with a confidence that surprised him, and said “You won’t.”

She didn’t move back this time. Just watched him, rigidly still, expression twisting. Her fingers clenched on her weapons. “You sure about that?” Her voice was low.

He stepped again, and again, until he was directly in front of her. Close enough for her to run him through with either blade. Close enough for her to reach out and break his neck. But she wouldn’t. “Yeah. I’m sure.” She watched him, so wary, so conflicted. There was something in her expression that made her look startlingly vulnerable. With utter certainty, he said “You’re not going to hurt us.”

She closed her eyes, then. Exhaled. When she opened them, her hands flexed on the weapons. He didn’t even flinch as they moved, convinced beyond the possibility of doubt that she would never threaten him with them again. And, sure enough, the way that motion ended was with the blades flipping away, melding by some mechanism back into their handles. Sheathed. Safe. “No.” She agreed, finally. “I’m not.” There was an edge of self-recrimination in her eyes as she looked away. “I couldn’t.”

Finally, Ezran seemed to sense an opening in that tension. Cautiously, he stepped out of the portrait hole, creeping a few steps forward until her eyes fell on him. He looked up at her, wary but interested, Bait held tightly in his arms. “You’re Callum’s soulmate,” he spoke, like he just needed to say it, to get it out there. “Rayla. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her expression twisted, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “And you’re his brother. Prince Ezran.” Her hand went to one of the silvery ribbons she wore around her wrists. “I’ve heard plenty about you, too.” She exhaled, shakily. “I came here to kill you.”

Ezran crept a little closer, surprisingly confident, as if some of Callum’s certainty had bled into him. “Why?” He asked, curious and almost calm, as if this were some matter considerably lighter than one of life and death.

“You’re the son of a king who killed our king and his son.” She answered, bleakly. “We’re supposed to pay it back. Blood for blood. Justice for their deaths. Make it right.”

Callum hesitated, then reached out. His fingertips grazed her forearm; the first time he’d ever touched her. She flinched as though burned, eyes snapping to his. “Revenge isn’t the same thing as justice, Rayla.” He told her, quietly. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Her voice sounded almost tired.

“Killing Ez to make up for what happened to the Dragon Prince wouldn’t solve anything. Wouldn’t make anything better.” He looked at her, exhaling softly, and could finally speak a truth he had never been allowed to write: “Just like…King Harrow killing the Dragon King, to make up for what happened to my mom, didn’t solve anything.” He saw her recoil at that, and added quietly “Didn’t help me, and…didn’t help the world, either. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Your mother,” she whispered, like she was abruptly reconciling Callum the prince with Callum the soulmate. Like it had just occurred to her what that meant. “Queen Sarai. The – Dragon King killed her?”

A twist of pain gripped his chest. “Yeah.” He studied her eyes, her expression. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” With that awful understanding on her face, he couldn’t doubt her. She shuddered and looked away, hands clenching on her sheathed weapons. When finally she looked back, she seemed so horribly uncertain that it made his heart ache. “Callum…” she said, finally, the first time he’d ever heard her speak his name. “What am I supposed to do?”

He hesitated, then. He wanted to say don’t murder anyone, but she didn’t need telling that, and…that wasn’t an answer to that question. Not really. She was here in the heart of the kingdom, and could have killed him, and could have killed his brother, and – surely, she wasn’t alone. Surely they’d not have sent only her. There had to be others, and that wasn’t something he knew how to answer.

Ezran, though... “You should follow me,” he said, plainly, finally approaching enough to insinuate himself beside them. “If this is about the Dragon Prince…” he nodded towards the open portrait hole. “Then there’s something you need to see.”

She stared down at him with obvious consternation. She glanced at Callum, as if to check with him, and he shrugged helplessly. “You sure, Ez?” he asked his brother, dubious, and received a very firm nod in return. He sighed. In a situation like this…he had to trust that Ezran wouldn’t mess around. “Alright,” he accepted. “Lead the way.”

‘The way’, apparently, was into the secret passage connected to Lord Viren’s study. Ezran and Bait climbed back into it, but Rayla hesitated before following. She went off to the side, picked something up, and pushed it into his hands. “You dropped this.” She said, quiet. “When I knocked you over.”

It was Harrow’s letter. Callum swallowed past the lump in his throat, and held it close. “…Thanks.”

Ever-so-briefly, and so lightly he hardly felt it, she rested her hand on his arm. Her eyes met his. Then she turned away, and walked off into the dark.

Callum followed.

---

Ezran had been right. They had needed to see this.

“The Dragon Prince is alive,” Rayla breathed, eyes wide, fingers shaking. “This – this changes everything.”

After a little discussion, though, it transpired that some of that ‘everything’ might be a little harder to change than the rest. “So there are more of you.” Callum concluded, voice tight, as she finally admitted that the ‘others’ would be coming.

“Five.” She agreed, voice just as terse as his . “I – was supposed to stay behind. I didn’t. I came early, so they wouldn’t stop me, but-“ She glanced up at the stone ceiling, as if she could see the sky even through a castle’s worth of rock and air. “But they’ll be coming once the Moon rises. When we’re strongest.”

“…Can we stop them?” He asked, carefully controlled. He’d known he had a Moonshadow elf for a soulmate for years. He’d done research. He’d asked people. He knew how powerful they were supposed to be at Full Moon.

She looked at him, uncertainty plain on her face. “If we show the egg to Runaan-“ She started, falteringly. “He…might call the mission off?”

He could see how unconvinced she was of that. “You think?”

She exhaled. “No. But I think we have to try.” She stood. “I know where he’ll be. We should get there as soon as possible.”

Ezran picked up the egg, and the three of them prepared to set off.

Except that was when Claudia arrived.

---

Not much later, with a primal stone in his hands and the exhilaration of magic still fresh in his veins, Rayla turned to him for a moment and smiled. It was a tentative thing, but- “Preferred that to all your sword lessons, didn’t you,” she observed, and he stopped short, strangely breathless. There was something about the reference to their history, to the things she knew because she was his soulmate, that – that was just – kind of amazing.

“So much,” he agreed, heartfelt, and felt his face break into a grin at her. She went a little pink around the ears, but huffed at him with a friendly sort of humour. She patted him on the shoulder.

“Well, magic’s plenty good for defending yourself, so just keep that spell in mind and you’ll be fine.” Her lips twisted thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t suppose you know that lightning spell too? Looked proper useful, that one.”

“Er,” he said, eloquently, and thought. “I remember the rune. Is that enough?”

“No, you’d need the incantation too.” She frowned.

He tried to remember it, but…in the end, his memory was mostly only good for things he saw. “…Finalous?” He guessed, knowing it wasn’t right. “Culminus? No…”

She scowled at the wall for a second, holding up a finger to silence him. “Fulminis.” She concluded, decisively, after that moment. “I think.” She glanced back at him. “Try it.”

“Now?” He blinked, taken-aback. “Shouldn’t we be going to find your assassin leader?”

“It’s related.” Her teeth gritted a little. “Try it.”

He exchanged a glance with Ezran, then shrugged. “Alright.” He lifted the stone in one hand. Drawing the rune was easy; it lit up with sparks, magic surging at once, impatient for release. And then the incantation did turn out to be right, because saying “fulminis” unleashed a bolt of lightning from his fingertip that crackled loud and bright into the wall he’d aimed it at. He beamed.

Rayla noted this with a sort of grim satisfaction, and said “Good.” When he looked askance at her, she exhaled, and admitted “He’s probably going to try to kill you.”

It took him a second to think of who she meant. “…Your leader?” He questioned, confused. “Because…I’d get between him and Ezran?”

“That too.” She looked away. “Mostly, though, because you’re my soulmate. My human soulmate. And we’ve only just met, so…” She glanced back at him, troubled. “Well, you know.”

Oh. Right. He could imagine how ‘human soulmate’ and ‘only just met’ might be a recipe for violence from a murderous, concerned-for-Rayla elven assassin commander. He winced. “Yeah. He’d…what, want to kill me before it’s ‘too late’?”

She scowled, expression tightening, and inclined her head. “I wouldn’t put it past him to think I’d be better off that way.” Her shoulders straightened, and she reached out to tap the primal stone. “So keep this handy. And defend yourself, alright?”

He swallowed, and nodded. “What about you?” He asked. She looked confused. “He’s – you’re Moonshadow elves. The mission is supposed to be everything, right? You’re supposed to act like you’re already dead, even, so it doesn’t matter if you die to pull it off?”

Rayla stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“He’s been reading about you guys forever.” Ezran offered, and her eyes turned his way. “And talking to anyone who’s ever met Moonshadow elves or knows anything. Aunt Amaya, Lord Viren, everyone.”

At her expression, he shrugged self-consciously. “I knew you were a Moonshadow elf. I wanted to know what that meant. And – you weren’t allowed to talk to me about that. So I had to ask other people.” He shook his head. “That’s not important right now, though. What I mean is – you’re going against the mission, right? You’re trying to stop him. So…” Carefully, he looked at her. “Are you going to be safe?”

She was quiet for long enough that the silence was an answer of its own. Finally, she said “Probably not. I don’t think he’d actually kill me. But…” She shrugged.

Callum set his jaw, and clutched the primal stone close. “I’ll be ready.” He promised grimly.

Rayla looked almost startled at that response, though he didn’t know why. Wasn’t it obvious that he’d try to protect her, if he could?

“We should go.” Ezran said, nervous, looking between the egg in his hands and the ceiling. He glanced around at them. “We’re going to the roof, right? There’s a pretty quick way there. Follow me.”

“How much time have you spent in the castle secret passages?” Callum asked, exasperated, already following.

Ez smiled a little, smug. “A while,” he said nonchalantly, and opened a hidden staircase in the corridor beside them like it was nothing.

They were in a doorway opening out to the castle battlements when Rayla stopped them, suddenly tense. “He’s out there.” She said, terse. “Or he will be soon. I-“ She hesitated for a moment, then said “I’ll try to get him to call off the mission. I might call you out to show him the egg. But if he won’t stop…” She exhaled, hands drifting to where she’d hung her sheathed blades. “I’ll have to stop him myself.”

Callum, meanwhile, was very resolved that she absolutely wouldn’t be doing any assassin-stopping by herself. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He fixed the spell into his mind, gritted his teeth, and waited.

---

End chapter.

Notes: also a cliffhanger! I guess! But the story wanted it, so. Who am I to argue.

Canon is going to get drop-kicked off of a mountain next chapter, FYI.

Thank you everyone for the response. It’s been flattering to hear from those of you who read this in the zine first, who are looking forward to the story continuing. I hope it continues to do justice to the concept!

Worldbuilding stuff of note in this chapter: if you’re curious about what Callum and Rayla meant about the ‘only just met’ and ‘too late’ stuff, the answer is: soulmate mechanics! Gonna tease this for a bit, but you’ll see what it’s about in ch4.

#rayllum #tdp fic #soulmate AU #tdp callum #tdp rayla #tdp ezran

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morganaspendragonss · 3 years

Note

For Tarlos because I love one of them protecting the other:

94) “Get under the bed and don’t make a sound okay?” “But they’ll get you.” “Just get under the bed and no matter what you hear or what you see just stay completely quiet and completely still. Do that for me, alright?”

thank you so much for this prompt, karen, i’m so sorry that it took so long to write! i hope you enjoy it!

@911lonestarangstweek day 6: Off the job injury + “You’ve got to be more careful.”

ao3 | 1.3k | tw mentions of gun violence and home invasion

“Get under the bed and don’t make a sound, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“But they’ll get you.”

“Just get under the bed and, no matter what you hear or what you see, just stay completely quiet and completely still. Do that for me, alright?”

“No, wait, Carlos -”

It’s been a week since their home was broken into.

TK has spent that entire time going over the events of that night in his head, trying to work out what he could have done better. He knows it’s a stupid thing to be doing - he’s sure his therapist will have a field day with it when all this is cover - but he’s going stir crazy stuck in this room all day, waiting for a sign that his world isn’t about to collapse around him.

It’s all just so, so wrong. Carlos is the steady one, the one who doesn’t take unnecessary risks, who doesn’t end up in a hospital bed ten times a month. Yet, here they are, the heart monitor the only indication that he’s not yet gone.

TK squeezes Carlos’s hand again, praying that, this time, he’ll get one in return. But it doesn’t come, and TK still hasn’t learned to deal with the grief and disappointment he feels in that moment.

It’s his fault, he knows this. He should have held on tighter when Carlos snuck out of their room to see what was going on. He should have followed him, should have taken the bullet that might still end Carlos’s life. He should be the one lying in the hospital bed; he’s been shot before, after all, and what’s one more scar to add to the list?

Tears build in his eyes and TK does his best to blink them back, not willing to let go of Carlos to wipe them away. He’d thought he’d have run out by now; indeed, the first couple of days, he had been completely numb once the initial sobbing was over, just staring down at the love of his life and stupidly thinking about how they were going to miss their dinner reservation the next night.

How trivial all that seems now. TK’s not even sure a world exists outside this room anymore.

He clears his throat and leans forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed. “Hey, babe,” he whispers, kissing the back of Carlos’s limp hand. “So, it’s been a week, and I’m wondering if maybe you could think about waking up for me? Seven days is long enough to sleep, right? I just wanna see your eyes again, you know how much I love them.”

TK sighs, scanning Carlos’s face for non-existent movement. He swallows back the lump in his throat and sniffs loudly, shaking his head. “I’m really angry at you, you know?” he says, a little louder now. “I’m fucking furious. I’m sure you’d have a few choice words to say about hypocrisy and my own hospital stays if you were awake, but the point is that you aren’t, Carlos. You aren’t, and I’m so mad at you for doing this to me.” A small, almost hysterical, laugh rips out of him. “Isn’t that selfish? You’re the one in a coma, and I’m still thinking about myself. Not that there’s anything ground-breaking about that; I guess I’ve always been the selfish one in this relationship.

“I know you like to protect people, babe, but you’ve got to be more careful. And, yeah, I’m one to talk, yadda, yadda - but, seriously, Carlos, you weren’t even armed. You should have stayed with me - I told you to stay with me. You don’t know, maybe they wouldn’t have bothered us in the bedroom. You didn’t need to get shot, and I’m angry at you and at me and at the people who broke into our home because I can’t lose you.”

He heaves a sob, closing his eyes and folding in on himself, keeping Carlos’s hands in a death grip. He can’t - he won’t - lose him.

“You better open those eyes soon,” he chokes out, “because I’ll never forgive you if you leave. Never, you hear me? Please wake up, Carlos.”

It takes three more days.

TK is bent over the bed, head resting next to Carlos’s on the pillow as he desperately fights off sleep, when there’s a flicker. It’s brief, barely there at all, and TK would have missed it had it not been for the laser focus he’s had on Carlos ever since the incident.

But Carlos’s face twitches, TK is sure of it, and he shoots up instantly, heart in his mouth.

“Carlos?” he whispers, hardly daring to breathe.

There’s no movement for another agonising few seconds, then, all of a sudden, Carlos jerks, eyes flying open. He gasps, wildly looking around the room until his gaze lands on TK, who is still frozen in shock.

They just stare at each other for a while, TK drinking in the sight before him as he tries to get his brain to catch up on what just happened. He’s been hoping for this moment for well over a week, but he can hardly believe it now.

Then, “TK?” Carlos says, voice weak and confused, and TK snaps out of his fog.

He only barely manages to stop himself from falling on Carlos, instead taking his face in his hands and pressing kiss after kiss on every available inch of skin. He doesn’t even realise he’s crying until Carlos has a hand on his chest, gently pushing him away.

“TK,” he repeats, stronger this time. “You’re scaring me, what’s going on?”

TK slumps back into the seat next to the bed, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes to stem the flow of tears. Stars dance in his vision when he looks back to Carlos, but he blinks them away impatiently, not wanting to let his fiancé out of his sight again.

“Do you remember the night of the break-in?”

Carlos tilts his head in a so-so motion. “Some of it,” he says. “I remember hearing the noises, telling you to hide, leaving the bedroom. Nothing after that.”

TK nods, sighing through his nose. “They shot you,” he says quietly. “You’ve been asleep for over a week. I thought… I was told that you…” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re awake now, and that’s all that counts.”

Carlos is silent for a long time, and TK is startled to see tears on his cheeks when he opens his eyes again. He stands, hands flitting anxiously over his body. “Are you okay?” he demands. “Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor - fuck I should have already done that, hang on.”

He reaches for the call button, but he’s stopped by Carlos’s hand wrapped around his wrist, grip surprisingly strong. “Look at me, Ty,” Carlos asks gently. When TK does, he smiles sadly. “I’m sorry. I -”

“No.” TK pulls out of his grip, running a hand through his hair. “No, you don’t apologise. You don’t get to apologise, not when you almost died. This isn’t… No. No.”

He grits his teeth against the sudden wave of emotion, swiping his hands furiously under his eyes. He won’t cry again; he has to be strong now. He has to be the steady one, for once, and he’ll be damned if he lets Carlos down again.

“If you’d let me finish,” Carlos says after a while, “I was going to say that I know how it feels to see someone you love like this. I know how painful it is. And, though I know it wasn’t my fault - or yours, I know you’ve been blaming yourself - I am sorry. I hate that you had to go through this.”

TK wants to argue, but he doesn’t have any more words left in him. Tears slide down his cheeks as he keeps shaking his head, finding himself unable to stop.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry, Carlos. I was so scared that I would lose you; you’ve got to promise me something.”

Carlos frowns. “Anything.”

“Promise me that you’ll be more careful?”

There’s a beat, then, “Of course, but don’t you think that’s a little rich coming from you?”

And, for the first time in over a week, TK laughs.

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fluffy-lee-boa · 3 years

Text

Teaching Me How To Move On

(A SamBucky tickle fic :3)

@tickleebug requested some Sam and Bucky, so I went a little wild with it and made a short story to show how Bucky is adapting to his new life, and his new partner. Spoilers for Endgame/TFATWS btw!

“Buhucky! Cut it out!” Steve snorted, swatting at the younger’s arm as he lightly dug into his sides.

Before he’d taken the serum, it had been a well-known fact that Steve Rogers was probably one of the most ticklish guys in Brooklyn. Sure, he hated to admit it in public, and Bucky respected that, but when he and Bucky were hanging out at home? All bets were off.

So James Buchanan Barnes took every opportunity like this to tease the other about his sensitivity, sitting beside him and carefully scratching at all the spots he knew would make the other squeal. He never took it overboard, considering Steve’s fragile state, but he did tire the other out enough that he would be sure the smaller wouldn’t get revenge.

“Come on Stevie, there’s no way you’re gonna make the army if you can’t handle a little tickling,” he smirked at the other.

Steve gave an snort, slapping a hand to his face before shaking his head rapidly, “This is just tohorture!!”

“Mhm. And?” Bucky snickered as he trailed his hands up to Steve’s stomach, relishing in the deeper laughter that it gave him.

This certain brand of “torture” continued for a few minutes, interspersed with cruel teases and barely-masked flirting that the ever-oblivious Rogers seemed to let fly over his head. Though it was easy to tell Steve wasn’t trying very hard to escape the other’s grasp, especially considering how lightly Buck was holding him down in fear of injury. He could stop any time he wanted, really.

Bucky finally let up once the wheezing started, almost immediately leaving the room only to reappear with a cup of water. He couldn’t help the smug grin on his face as the other struggled to hide his deep blush. The moment was perfect.

Too perfect.

He would wait another day to tell him about his draft card. He didn’t want to ruin what they had just yet.

Years.

Years had gone by since that day- decades, even. He had gone for most of that time without Steve, without those affectionate touches and softness, and without love. He’d gone for even longer now that Steve was....

No, he didn’t like to think about the past few months. About how the very man he’d grown up with, who’d told him he’d be with him to the end of the line, got off early. -He couldn’t be angry with him, though. It was his life, after all. His choice. Steve would probably be better off with Peggy, anyways.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, and that he was absolutely starved for affection with no one in the world to fix it for him.

Well... almost no one.

Admittedly, he’d grown closer to Sam in the time since the new Cap was gifted the shield. Despite his reservations, and the rocky start to their partnership, they’d come to an understanding. Especially after all they’d been through in their mission to stop Karli, and then Walker thereafter.

And there was the boat, of course. Bucky hadn’t even known Sam had a boat before this week- never even been near one besides during war times. Yet he found himself spending hours and even days of his time on helping him fix it. Then the days after that teaching the new Captain to toss the shield.

Was this what having a friend was like?

He couldn’t tell. I mean, after Steve, nothing was going to feel just right. ...Or so he thought.

See, even if Bucky had tried to deny it, Sam felt safe. He felt like Steve did. They shared that same big heart Bucky had always admired, and honestly, the shield couldn’t have found a better wielder. But on the other hand, Sam was also more honest, and more direct. That was something he needed after all those years of manipulation and self-pity. Not exactly tough love, but the truth. A kinder, softer truth.

“Hey! Buck!” Sam had called from the other side of the open field, between a few lone trees that were wrapped in foam.

Bucky looked up, torn from his deep thoughts about friendship and Captains and shields. He didn’t give away any of it through his glance, much better at hiding behind an emotionless mask these days.

“Are you gonna throw it back or what? -The shield, I mean.” the figure laughed.

James rolled his eyes and walked over, trying to play it off, “Your stance is off. You’re gonna get someone killed if you don’t have enough balance.”

“Balance my ass,” Sam scoffed jokingly as he took the shield back from the other, looking him over suspiciously, “...You’re just deflecting again. You’ve been spacing out like crazy today... did something happen?”

Ah, there was that signature therapist-like concern that Wilson managed to worm into every conversation. It made Bucky’s heart beat faster and his stomach flip and he hated it. No one had been this worried about him since he came back from the icy abyss of HYDRA’s control. No one else had checked up on him so consistently for no other gain than his continued wellbeing.

“I’m fine.” He shot back despite himself, half of a glare on his face as he turned away to go back to his spot.

Sam rolled his eyes at the other’s dramatics, at this point being readily used to the cold demeanor Bucky used to push aside his own feelings. But he wasn’t ready to let it slide this time around. So he stepped towards him after setting aside the vibranium shield, reaching out to stop him from walking away again.

Quite a few things happened after that, one after the other.

For one, Sam had underestimated how quickly Bucky could power-walk away from him, and ended up grazing his side with a small grabbing motion rather than taking him by the wrist.

From there, Bucky had faltered in his pace with a quick giggle, before looking back at the other with a somewhat horrified expression. Oh no.

It was painfully obvious to Sam now, by Buck’s initial reaction and the way he seemed just about ready to jump out of his skin.

“There is no way in hell....”

“Sam, you don’t want to do this-”

“You’re ticklish?!”

Bucky cringed, almost immediately blushing just as Steve had whenever he’d done the same to him back in Brooklyn. Karma may have been delayed for almost a century, but it sure did come back to bite him. Figures as much, right?

Bucky had started walking backwards away from the now-very-menacing falcon, though with the woods around them, his ankle caught on a rock and sent him flying back onto his butt. Figures even more.

Before he could up and scramble away, probably going to rush to Sarah and beg for protection, Sam had pounced. The super soldier found himself being straddled, which didn’t help his confusing feelings from before at all. He hands ended up under Sam’s knees, and even if he knew he could probably escape, he was concerned he’d end up hurting the other if he lost control of his own strength.

“Sam! Get off!” He said in a shockingly squeaky shout, obviously flustered.

“Nu-uh. I need to see this for myself.” Sam snickered, making the other look away as his blush deepened.

“You su-AHAHUCK-“

Before Bucky could articulate what would have totally been a coherent and witty response, Sam had taken the initiative and dug straight into the dip of his sides. There was an explosion of sunny and bubbly laughter that didn’t suit the awkward Soldier at all, making Sam beam down at the other.

Bucky internally cursed as he looked up and caught glimpse of the smile. He was too perfect- it was unfair!

Sam chuckled as he lightened up, tracing circles around his hips and making Bucky jerk back and forth with a few left over giggles, “Wowwww... It’s worse than I thought.”

“Shut the hell uhuhup...” Bucky muttered in embarrassment, making Wilson roll his eyes.

Sam knew he could definitely find a worse spot, and ignoring Bucky’s continued insults and thinly-veiled threats, he scanned the other’s upper body as thought to himself.

His metal arm probably couldn’t feel anything, right? But what about the spot just where the two met...?

Bucky noticed where his partner’s gaze had fallen, suddenly looking alarmed as he turned to begging, “Hey, wait, hold on, that’s a bad idea, Wilson. -Agh- Please? Is that what you want? Fine! I’m saying please-“

Sam just shook his head with that stupid, handsome smirk on his face, “Saying please isn’t gonna save you this time around. Tell me what’s wrong.... and I won’t absolutely wreck you. And trust me, I have an older sister. I know exactly how to do it.”

Bucky went quite besides his quick breathes and squirmy giggles, looking off to the side as he tried to consider his options despite the continued teasing of his sides and hips. But no- he couldn’t say what was really on his mind. Stubborn is as stubborn does.

“Do your worst.”

There was only a moment of reprieve as Wilson took in the other’s bratty reply, before he wiggled his fingers into that horrible dip between Buck’s metal arm and his ribs, right in the hollow. His other hand went to the rest of his rib cage just as quickly, alternating between both sides and dipping in between the spaces for added torture.

Bucky was pretty much lost in a handful of seconds.

He cackled, kicking his legs and pulling at his arms with only a shred of resistance from the last part of him that was conscious, which was still bent on making sure he didn’t hurt Sam.

But, that part of him could only hold out for so long, and when Sam found an extra sensitive spot between his ribs, Bucky ended up arching so suddenly that Sam was sent a good five feet away by his super strength.

Whoops.

There was a long pause as the air around them stilled once more, Sam laying feet away and laughing hysterically at his friend’s reaction while Bucky himself calmed himself down to a frenzy of frantic giggling.

After he was able to regain control of himself, he sat up to look over at Sam, his arms wrapped around his own torso protectively so the falcon could no longer access his weak spot. His voice was hoarse as he asked sheepishly, “...Are you ok?”

Sam’s own laughter died down, and he waved his hand dismissively, “Fine, fine. I shoulda expected it. You’re a hyper-ticklish super soldier. I’m just lucky you didn’t break my arm.“

Bucky didn’t find much humor in that joke, but he got up and made his way over to the other anyway. He held out his hand to help him stand beside him, and Wilson smiled softly at the other’s still reddened face, “Maybe we should do that more often. You’re cute when you’re blushing like that.”

And he walked away.

Bucky, for better or worse, didn’t have the same luxury that his old partner did of obliviousness to such direct declarations of affection, so he simply stood in shock as he was left in the small field of grass.

...Maybe, just maybe, his new life wasn’t as empty and lonely as he’d previously thought. Maybe Sam... could be what he really needed, as a partner, and as a friend.

Or.... maybe something more.

Lots of maybes today. But then again, when is anything ever certain?

#lee!bucky #ler!sam #marvel tickle fic #tickle fic #mcu tickle #marvel tickling

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years

Text

The Green-Eyed Monster

This is a sequel to Water Seeks Its Own Level, although you probably don’t have to read that one for this one to make sense. It’s set a few months after the events of that story. I originally intended to write for someone new but I am just totally smitten with Eddie. He called me back to him.

Pairing: Eddie Kingston x OFC

Word count: 3,836

Content advisory: a healthy dose of smut and cursing

“Son of a bitch!” You jerk your hand back, wincing in pain and you smack the side of the toaster oven, as if it’s the appliance’s fault you haven’t yet figured out that food coming out of the oven is hot. To make things worse, you actually feel a little guilty for taking your anger out on the inanimate object. You’re in a bad mood. The toaster oven is just the latest thing to make your day worse.

You run some cold water on your hand before you go back for another attempt at removing the leftover pizza slice that you don’t even want but you figure you should eat something because you’ve poured a couple of beer down your gullet and if you don’t eat something, you’re going to get a headache.

So you gnaw joylessly at your pizza slice, trying not to notice that reheating it has not made it taste fresher than the three days it’s been in your refrigerator. None of this would have happened, of course, if you’d just gone out with the rest of the crew like you’d assumed you would. There was a Korean barbecue place that a few of the AEW gang had heard good things about and finally someone had taken it upon themselves to get a side room reserved so that you could all go together and have a good time. You’d been looking forward to it.

But earlier in the day, you’d found out that the group that was going included Eddie, along with his new so-called family: the Butcher, the Blade, and the Bunny, also known as Andy, Braxton, and Allie. It shouldn’t have bothered you. They’d known each other a long time. You knew them all well. They’d all been bugging you to come along whenever they were going out together, or at least they had until recently.

As things too often did for you, it came down to Eddie. After he’d shown up in AEW, the two of you had rekindled the fuck-buddy thing you’d had going when you were both on the indies. The problem was that now you weren’t just hooking up when you happened to be on the same tour or show: you were together every week, living in the same city, working the same schedule. So your casual, no-strings-attached thing had become a very frequent thing. It had become a leaving stuff in each other’s apartments thing. It had become a casual understanding of at least one night of the weekend together thing.

What it hadn’t become was a relationship, at least not in the articulated, public, monogamous sense. You didn’t have anyone else in your life. You didn’t want anyone else in your life. You’d spent years telling yourself that Eddie was just someone you could go to for a good time in the sack, and even though you were aware that he always stirred up feelings in you that went beyond a fallback booty call, you kept telling yourself that was all it was.

Now that the two of you were actually stable in terms of work and living space, though, you’d started to wonder if maybe you did want things to be a bit more stable with Eddie as well. Although you’d never discussed your status, you didn’t have anyone else in your life and you didn’t want anyone else in your life. Even though you were surrounded by beautiful people at work, people who had their shit far more together than Eddie Kingston ever would, it was like they didn’t really exist. You didn’t say that to him because you didn’t want to risk embarrassing yourself. If it was going to happen, it would come out naturally, by which you meant that he’d have to get around to bringing it up.

Things had been fine until recently, until Eddie had taken it upon himself to reunite Braxton with his estranged wife Allie, the Bunny, so that they could have each other’s backs. At least, that’s what he said he was doing. But it actually seemed that Allie was spending most of her time with Eddie. He was the one on television calling her “the beautiful Bunny” and taking credit for wooing her back to the fold. He convinced her to join them. He was the one she seemed loyal to. Even backstage, when the four of them were around each other, Allie always seemed to be hanging off Eddie’s arm, laughing extra loudly at his jokes, and insisting that he come along wherever she was going. It made your blood boil.

You didn’t say anything because it wasn’t like you had reason to think that Eddie wasn’t going to have anyone else in his life. And you were even sure if he did, because cuckolding his friend right in front of his face would be bold even for him. You’d gone out with the group of them a couple of times but you’d felt nauseous from jealousy, watching him talk about how great it was that they were all working together again.

So you’d ended up begging off and just spending time with Eddie when you could be alone. More recently, you’d just started avoiding him because thinking that he was leaving your bed to have a quick shower and then run off to another woman had you crying your eyes out on several occasions. You never said anything, you just stopped returning his texts and stayed clear of him at work. And after a while, he’d stopped messaging and trying to talk to you. Things were over.

You throw the remainder of the pizza in the garbage. Thinking about everything that’s happened in this weird, hopeless thing with him makes you feel rejected and miserable all over again. You miss him. A lot. But now it’s pretty clear that he doesn’t want anything more with you, that he wants to keep things open, and you know you can’t deal with that.

The doorbell cuts through the fog of frustration and self-pity, startling you so much that you give a little yelp. You old place had one of those systems when the bell was hooked up to your phone but this one had a buzzer that sounded like an aircraft engine and you didn’t feel like you were ever going to get used to it.

“Hello?” You mumble, hoping that it isn’t another homeless person looking to sleep in the hallway downstairs.

“It’s me, can I come up?”

He doesn’t even have to say his name because you’d know that almost cartoonish accent anywhere. It figures that he’d just show up unannounced after eleven, like nothing had been weird between you. Maybe for him, things hadn’t been weird at all.

“Yeah, sure.” You press the release to open the front door and wait, pacing a little and trying to stay calm until you hear a knock on your door.

And when you open it, there’s Eddie, his face and jacket sprinkled with rain, sporting a fresh-looking bruise on his left eye that he turns to try to hide it.

“We haven’t hung out in a while,” he grunts, his eyes a little suspicious and resentful.

“True. Guess we’ve both been busy.”

You motion for him to come inside, quietly pleased that he remembers to take his boots off. You reach over to take his jacket so that you can hang it up and he looks almost offended.

“I know where it goes,” he snaps, opening the closet and putting it on a hanger himself.

You grip his jaw and turn his face so that you can get a better look at the damaged eye.

“What happened?”

He steps back, pouting like a child who’s been caught doing something he knows he isn’t supposed to.

“We went out to a bar after the restaurant. Archer offered to buy me a drink, and I said I wanted to buy him a drink. I guess it got out of hand.”

“Two friends try to buy a round at the bar turns into a fistfight. That is so you.”

You can’t help but laugh at your own joke because it is such an Eddie thing but he doesn’t seem amused.

“You got something I can put on this?” He grumbles.

“I have a couple of ice packs in the freezer. Come on.”

He follows you over to the open kitchen with its little breakfast counter while you start lifting frozen entrees out of the way to find the artificial ice.

“So how come you didn’t come to dinner?”

“I don’t know,” you lie. “My stomach was a bit upset and I probably wouldn’t have been much fun.”

He gives a low cackle. “You just don’t like it when you can’t have me all to yourself.”

You pause from digging through the back of the freezer to shoot him a scornful look.

“You just want me there so you can have a larger audience,” you retort, standing and producing the ice pack.

“Who said I wanted you there?”

You slap the cold pack into his cheek, giving a cruel little smile when he winces at the impact.

“Thank god you never decided to become a nurse,” he growls.

You can feel his eyes digging into you, searching for an opening. He knows all your fault lines so well, but he knows that there’s something going on with you that he hasn’t seen before. Your body twists under his scrutiny, trying to make it less obvious that you’re avoiding meeting his gaze.

“So what’s up with you anyway?” he asks, still studying you too closely for comfort.

“Not much. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine with me.”

“What?” You finally look back at him, eyes wide with fake surprise. “Did I say something that made you think I was pissed at you? Did I do something to get you pissed off?”

“Come on. You know what I mean. You barely talk to me at work, you never go out if you think I’m gonna be there. You won’t answer when I message you, or it’s two words long like I’m annoying you. I thought things were going ok with us for once.”

“They were. They are,” you counter desperately.

He places the ice pack on the counter and arches his brows at you. When you reach to remove it, he grabs your wrist and pulls you between his body and the counter, shaking his head as he presses it hard against yours.

His hands graze down to your hips and under your shorts, gripping both of your ass cheeks hard and you feel yourself melt against him, as you always do. You incline your head forward until your lips are against his, your arms winding around his neck, and you let yourself fall into the kiss you’d told yourself you were going to avoid. Everything that Eddie does with that mouth of his is magic and every second you spend locked in that embrace, you get drawn further in.

“I missed this,” he growls softly, giving a hard squeeze for emphasis.

It’s almost painful to pull yourself back from what you want so much but if you don’t extricate yourself now, you’ll be going crazy over him forever, so you force yourself to do it.

You try to pivot a little but he has you locked in place.

“Please, just let me put the cold pack back in the fridge.”

“No,” he whispers, giving you an evil little smile before nipping at the skin of your neck. “That’s gonna stay right there and melt and make a mess until you tell me what’s going on with you.”

“That’s not fair!” You whine, trying fruitlessly to reach back so you can at least throw the stupid in thing in the sink.

“Kinda seems like the Princess has decided she’s too good for me again.”

His lips lock onto the base of your throat and you main loudly. He’s doing it on purpose, tweaking your sensitive spots with his caresses and his words.

“You know that’s not true, Eddie.”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you were afraid someone might find out that I was your dirty little secret.”

“It’s not that, I don’t give a fuck who knows.”

That draws a guttural laugh from him and the sound makes your stomach flip. You don’t offer any resistance when he eases your tank top over your head and trails kisses down the center of your chest.

“So tell me,” he insists, twisting a nipple hard between his fingers, “why I haven’t been getting any of this.”

“Why does it have to be something wrong with me? You’re the one with your new faction or family or whatever, making all sorts of plans and wooing Allie to join you.”

He lifts his head and as soon as you see the smirk on his face, you know you’re done for.

“Wooing Allie?”

“I don’t know what you call it. You got her to ditch what she was doing and go back with you guys.”

“I call it talking to my friend’s wife and making her work things out with him. That’s not what most people would call ‘wooing’, princess.”

“Whatever, I just meant that you’ve been busy so maybe I’m the one who should feel neglected.”

You fold your arms in front of your chest because the only thing worse than trying to salvage your stupid comment is trying to do it half naked while he gives you that amused look.

“I don’t believe it. You’re fucking jealous.”

“No,” you whine.

“Oh yes you are. You think there’s something going on with me and Allie.”

“I guess it seems like you have a bit of a thing for her, at least. You’re always talking about how beautiful she is and all that.”

“Princess, has anyone explained to you that not everything you see in wrestling is real?”

“It doesn’t matter. I just said that you’d been busy and-“

He kisses you again, little ripples of laughter coming out as he does. You return the kiss, diving in and hoping that you can just shut him up and make him forget what you’ve said, and to shut yourself up before you say anything worse.

“I like this,” he chuckles. “You’re jealous because you think I’m hot for someone else.”

“Fuck off, I never said that.”

The two of you continue kissing, more passionately and hungrier than before, but the next time he pulls back to catch his breath, he goes back to his new favourite subject.

“I am never letting you live this one down.”

“You can leave any time, you smug asshole.”

He chuckles again, his hand sliding under your clothes, between your legs. He buries his face against you, his lips pressed against your ear as he drags one finger, ever so lightly, from the back of your slit all the way up to your throbbing little nub, repeating the gesture and using his hip to hold you still and stop you from thrusting against him to get more friction. He just keeps up with that ghost of a touch, humming with pleasure the more he can feel your frustration.

“You want me to go? Really? Because it feels like maybe you’re not so sure.”

You just whimper in need, while at the same time trying to force the desire you’re feeling out of your body.

He lightly strokes and taps at your clit as he whispers to you, “I like that you’re jealous. But you need to tell me these things, not deprive both of us, ya silly brat.”

His attention then shifts, two thick fingers swirling at your entrance while the two of you bite and lick at each other. You hold out as long as you can, which isn’t long at all, before begging.

“Don’t do that. Stop teasing.”

“Well what do you want me to do?” he rasps, grinning as you thrust against him, trying to force some more pressure.

“Fuck me. Stop talking and fuck me through the mattress and into the goddamned floor.”

He lifts you up by your thighs, smiling when you wrap your arms around him to secure yourself as he carries you to your bed. As he places you down, he removes the rest of your clothing in one smooth movement before discarding his own. You kiss playfully for a moment before you tap his thigh.

“Get up here,” you order.

And he is most happy to oblige, kneeling over your body and letting you take his thick cock in hand, easing the swollen tip past your lips, sucking and licking while you slowly move your hand along his shaft, occasionally letting your thumb flick delicately along the seam, relishing the yelps this gesture never fails to elicit from him.

“So you want that even if I’ve been giving it to another woman?”

You growl but the vibrations only increase his pleasure and he starts to thrust a little, pushing himself further into your mouth and throat.

“Aw, don’t worry,” he purrs, “I’ll always have some use for you.”

At that, you punch him hard in the hip and rake your nails down his ass. He eases down your body, sparkling, mischievous eyes meeting yours. It’s like there’s nothing else in the whole world for you but you know better than to say so.

“You know what you need to do, Kingston? You need to shut the fuck up.” You push on his shoulders to direct him where you want him to go, and while he takes his time getting there, the journey involves him working his way down your body, like he’s worshipping you.

“This what you want?” he asks, licking at your soaked flesh.

“Mm-hmm.” You squirm in anticipation, suspecting that he might try to draw this out longer, so when he dives in and starts fucking you with his tongue, lips and teeth, you let out a loud moan and clench at the bedsheet with both fists. You’re already so close.”

“Lucky for you I have such good stamina,” he hisses. “So I can handle all of these women I’m fucking.”

“You’re still talking,” you groan. “Why are you still talking?”

He gives a harsh bite on the inside of your thigh. “Look at me.”

You glare down at him but immediately feel a little unnerved by the deadly serious look in his eyes.

“You know damn well there aren’t any other women. I haven’t fucked another woman, haven’t kissed- hell I haven’t even beat off thinking about another woman in months. So let me enjoy this for a few hours until you go back to thinking you’re too good for me.”

With that he goes right back at it, letting you feel the full skill of that constantly moving mouth. You let yourself go, feeling for the first time in ages like you have exactly what you want, what you need, right here in your bed doing everything to make you happy. Your whole body trembles in ecstasy, the tide rising steadily within you, your whines and moans growing ever louder.

“I love you.”

It slips out so naturally that you almost don’t notice that you’ve said it until he pulls back.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Get back down there!” You push his head but he shakes you off and now you’re aware you have a problem.

“Oh no, I want you to repeat what you just said.”

“I don’t remember,” you whine.

“Sure you do.” He moves to his side next to you, running his fingers over your skin so that you stay worked up, frustrated, and desperate.

“I fucking hate you.”

“No,” he scolds, “that wasn’t what you said.”

You exhale in exasperation.

“Let me get you started. You said ‘I’... come on, repeat after me.”

“What makes you think I even meant it?”

“Well you have to tell me whether you did or not, don’t you, princess?”

His finger traces a curved line between your hip bones that only accentuates your overwhelming, unmet need.

“I’m not hearing anything,” he coos, flicking his tongue over your nipple.

“Fine!” you roar, hitting your breaking point. “I said that I love you, and yeah, I meant it.”

Grinning, he moves back down your body.

“Now was that so hard?” he asks just as he buries his face between your legs again.

You’d love to give a sharp retort but the second he’s giving you what you want, every other thought leaves your mind. You are one pulsating nerve waiting for release and he is expertly guiding you there. Within minutes you’re screaming his name, tears leaking from your eyes as you come down from the best orgasm you think you’ve ever had.

By the time you can open your eyes, he’s hovering over you, the tip of his cock throbbing against the lips of your pussy.

“Say it again.”

You groan a little and push against him but it doesn’t work.

“Say it again and look at me this time.”

His incredible eyes bear down on you and it’s very different than before. This time, you can’t hide the truth of it behind sarcasm and annoyance. This time he can see into you. You’re vulnerable.

“Come on.” He prods at your face with his nose and lips before once again locking you with that killer stare. “Let me hear you.”

“I love you,” you stammer, trying to read his reaction and more than a little afraid of what that might be.

He moans a little and pushes himself part way inside you, rocking his hips slowly.

“Again,” he rasps.

“Don’t be like this. I said it. I said it twice. What the hell do you want?”

He grabs a handful of your hair and thrusts his face even closer to yours. “Five years. Five fucking years I’ve been waiting for you to come around. So I want to get the most out of this that I can.”

“Eddie Kingston, I love you.”

He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and thrusts into you harder.

“Are you going to say it back?”

“Sure,” he laughs. “When I feel like it.”

He pounds into you with increased vigor, laughing more when he sees your face contort somewhere between fury and ecstasy, your pussy contracting involuntarily around him.

“You are such a bastard,” you yell, fighting the second orgasm that’s about to overtake you.

The phrase is barely past your lips when your whole body spasms, pulling him right along with you.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he pants after a couple of minutes. “I am a bastard. But you finally managed to figure out I’m the bastard you want.”

You can’t help but laugh, wondering if he really did know ages before you did that you were in love with him, or if he was just hopeful. You run your hands over the back of his head and pull on his earlobe a little with your teeth.

“God help me,” you whisper.

#eddie kingston fanfic #eddie kingston imagine #aew fanfiction #aew imagine #wrestling fanfiction #wayward wrestle writing

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heli0s-writes · 4 years

Text

Saga*

Summary: Bucky is in a mood.

A/N: HELLO. Here is the much-awaited bunny saga. How did I get here. Why did you guys do this to me? Thanks everyone who cursed me with this, especially @softbiker who put the bath-time idea into my head and had me dry-heaving about it. 🧡

Warnings: Smut! 18+ DomBucky. Rough sex. Mild comeplay. Anal fingering. Over-stimulation. Crying. Possible Dubcon. Please I don’t know. 2.5k words.

It’s nine-thirty and hazy when you get home. Another day spent poring over paperwork and e-mail chains, tracing lines of command to seek the right department head to question and scrutinize. Senators and budgets. Bureaucracy and posturing. Your affixed scowl and bared teeth when you berate men making wrong decisions for half the free world.

Most of the time, your job is fulfilling and fits you perfectly. However, it’s been an entire week of fuck-ups to resolve and you’re overwrought. Sleep-deprived. Pissed-off. Permanently on edge. Thank God the house is quiet, at least.

You break the silence almost guiltily, calling his name. Nearly seventeen hours you’ve been gone—and it’s been like this too long. Now it’s Friday and you texted him near lunchtime you’d have to be in tomorrow, too.

Radio silence ever since. Naturally, you’re anxious.

Down the hallway, Bucky’s voice echoes. “I’m in the bath, sweetheart.”

Instantaneous relief.

The door swings open and buttery vanilla greets you first. Then notes of garden rose cuts through the cream. Moisture hangs heavy in the air. Thick. Warm. You marvel at the view.

He’s leaned back, shoulders and chest exposed above the swirling bubbles, hair tied up with a smile on his pretty lips. His reflective left arm rests on the smooth edge of the porcelain, motioning you forward with shimmering candlelit fingers. Silver bowing to an orange-golden glow.

“Been waiting for you.”

Droplets roll down his neck, gather in the space between his collarbones. It’s heavenly. You slip in the tub and heave a sigh. Oh, he’s good. Always so good at taking the day from you. Always known what you needed.

Since the first time he caught you grilling Tony at the compound, flicking off Steve on your way out in half-jest half-sincerity because their levelling an entire block meant a mess-ton of work on your end and a headache into next year, he’d known. He asked you out, then, as an apology. Something about the mission being his fault. Lemme get you a coffee, please. And you had snapped up yours, Barnes, but met him the next day anyway. Twenty minutes turned into two hours and by the time you were leaving for home, he was coming along with you. One broken bedframe later and you were gone for him.

Exactly what you needed.

“Buck...” You rest your head on his shoulder now, grateful. “Mm... Sorry I haven’t been home much.”

“I know you are.” It’s a mysterious reply, but you’re too worn to raise questions.

Bucky’s breath fans over your shoulder, hotter than the water on your skin. A kiss to your throat. His torso rubs against your back. His legs and arms shift, rearranging himself around you purposefully and it feels like you’re being eased into a trap.

A groan when you discover his game. Exasperated and on edge, reflexive with attitude because you’ve spent all week telling men what to do, you put on that voice you reserve for work: sharp. Commanding. “I have to be up early; I need to sleep.”

Petulance is his reply. Equally decisive. Even sharper.

“I don’t care.”

Under the flickering glow, Bucky sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth, peers up from behind darkening eyes, and you feel your entire soul tremble.

“Go lie down.” His timbre is steady, indifferent, as if he’s got the entire situation in the center of his palm. He rumbles from deep in his chest, and the trap is revealed. Turning gears and metal mechanisms clatter. Bucky’s finger on the trigger. “Be good, bunny.”

Fuck. You bite down a wince. That pet name. He only uses it when he’s feeling a certain way— dominating, maybe even vengeful. Tired of missing his girl and chasing her shadow. His pupils are blown wide and hounding your every move. Voracious and predatory and you feel very much like his prey now. Defiance flees. You’re barely audible.

“Bucky—“

His tongue flicks over a canine and your stomach leaps into your throat.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

The cage door crashes down. Locks itself shut with you ensnared.

Harried thoughts about how to escape his wrath swim through your mind on the bed. You love him. Jesus Christ, do you love him, but you have to get more than three hours tonight. Your eyes are still shut when you feel big hands slide under your calves, behind your knees, lifting you up and right onto his face.

Leisurely licks despite his urgency. Up. Down. The pad of his tongue wet and loving, slicking you up with kisses and spit. His tender affection tucked within impetuous craving. A bruising grip to your hipbones, settling your body, ignoring your pleas when you attempt them.

“Haven’t gotten to touch you in days. You know what that does to me?” Another long, soft suck as you quiver. You can hear his mouth. Smell your own scent threading through the rose and vanilla atmosphere. Sweet and tangy. Alive and keening. Undeniably eager for him. Your pulse feels attached to every effort of his fingertips.

“Gonna have you all night---” Low timbre, curling deep. “—till you’re falling apart for me—” You try to catch your breath. “—shaking the goddamn bed—oh--”

At the first clench of your orgasm, Bucky smiles against your clit, flicking sharp lines as you jerk the tender bud away.

“Stay still.”

His left hand wraps itself around the base of your throat, pressing enough to keep you compliant. The plates shifts and clicks. You break out in a shudder at the sound of it whirring. His other fingers begin their real work, heel of his palm hitting your throbbing clit with every manic shove. Squelching. Smacking. Your desperate whimpers. And then a final loud yelp and you go slack for the second time.

On the comedown, your bones melting into the mattress, you attempt to swat him away, but he’s faster— of course he is— and in a flash he flips you. A crack of his palm and agony shoots up your side like fire.

“I said, stay still.”

You yelp when he does it again, squirming helplessly because he’s barely touching it now— the swollen skin on your ass blistering. He’s dancing on the edges, teasing, lifting— and then—

Another one. You’re stuck in his grasp. Your vision blurs. He leans forward to kiss newly formed tears at the edge of your eye into his devilish mouth. Your spine is electric like a live wire.

Tracing your inflamed wound with his finger-- light touches around the edge of the hurt-- he dips past your flushed cheek with a grin. His tongue is hot when he licks the salt between your teeth. That teardrop he pulled from you, traded from his mouth to yours.

“Cryin’ so pretty, baby.” Bucky praises against your trembling chin, tasting another droplet collecting along your jaw, “You’ll be good now, won’t you?” A weak nod. Captured game spellbound by all his power.

“Get up there with your fucking face in the pillow.”

Metal grasps the back of your neck, tangling your hair, pressing your cheek into the cushion. A slow nudge, he parts your entrance, giving just a tiny bit of him, making you squirm and clench already around his cockhead. Beneath his grip, you pant, nodding, inhaling lungfuls of fresh detergent on the sheets, steeling yourself.

Another mindful lean. He’s so thick. You shimmy desperately, throbbing for more. “Needy fucking girl.” A scrape of his teeth to your shoulder. “Jesus, you got me all slicked up and wet.”

He sinks in-- all the way—easily and so, so deep you swear the air’s been punched clean out of your body. Bucky holds you beneath him, dick pushing deeper and deeper and god how is he doing this.

“I’m gonna fuck you hard, baby—” A grunt. “--maybe too hard, huh?” His breath chases a shudder down your back. “I’ve been wound up—can’t help myself anymore.”

You struggle, shake your head, feel yourself choking up another sob, toes curling until they feel stuck.

“Come on it,” he commands, “Squeeze my cock, sweetheart. Make it filthy with your pussy.”

“Ngh— Buck, you’re gonna—“

A wilted cry tears itself free, smothering itself out on the pillow beneath. You’re still reeling when he picks up his pace, hands gripping your ass, spreading you to admire the sight of him welded inside. You’re trembling-- twitching, overstimulated and overwhelmed—sniffling quietly. You’re shivery and hot, raw and exposed.

He drives in again.

“You ain’t going back to work tomorrow. You’re gonna stay right here— all— fucking—day.” You punctuate his syllables with gagged moans—lilt high like you’re injured, fisting the blankets, tears catching in the pillow.

“Sweet girl,” Bucky croons, wolfish, “Does it feel good?”

He sticks his fingers back in your mouth, thumb under your tongue where spit has collected and drags out a line of it. “Look at you… drooling everywhere, bunny. You’re so fucking messy for my cock.”

Bucky drags his hand down your back, takes his time traveling over the swell of your ass, into the dipping line and prods gently against your tight hole. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Yeah?” A wiggle of his hips, “Tell me you want it.”

Your brain is—not quite working. A little crinkle of static here, a little drone of magnetic humming there, realizing how embarrassed you feel. Submissive and helpless, sloppy and displayed, but you have enough bearing to nod. Get a quiet agreeance out. “Y-yes.”

And it’s enough for him. A lazy kiss to your shoulder, stilling his cock, spreading what’s smeared around your pussy and his base up to your hole, driving in slow and deliberate. The little sense you have flees entirely. You want it so bad, lost to him.

Grinding, grinding, grinding. Deeper and deeper. Dragging all the way out and then back in.

“Too much? Hm? You’re gonna take it, though, aren’t you? Yeah--” He’s harder now. Stiffens up with his own goading, you tensing beneath him, sheen of sweat on your brow and back. “Fuck, I love your pussy. Love your ass. Gonna fill you up at least twice.”

Sometimes the pros of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex. Sometimes the cons of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex, too. Twice is a walk in the goddamn park for Bucky. It’s a promise and a threat.

One finger becomes two, hooking slightly, rubbing the back of his knuckle down, feeling the stroke of his cock through your swollen layer of muscle.

“Oh,” you whine, “Bucky—ah—ah.”

It hurts like the way a long morning jog does— aching muscles, worn and overworked, thrumming voltage and adrenaline— and you’re high on it. Clumsy grunts and gasps, blabbering compliance, head spinning. Your vision bursts white. Or black. Or stars—whatever. You’re finished, that’s for sure. Gone for him. Like always.

But not Bucky. Hell, he keeps going, crams another finger inside of you, other arm underneath your belly now, elbow crooked, thighs splayed around your hips, shoving himself in so fucking furiously it rattles the entire room.

The realization dawns that you’re not coming back down. It feels like you’re being torn apart. Skinned and stinging and the most incredible sensation in the whole damn world with him wrapping your entire being around his desire as he fucks into you. You feel claimed. You feel owned. You feel infinite.

“Jesus, baby.” He grunts, “Jesus—fuck—yeah. Fucking good-- all mine.”

Near inarticulate and filthy. He gets this way when he’s close-- tongue-tied as much as Bucky can be, because he’s always got the kind of clever vocabulary that makes your entire body burn without ever having to touch you. So now, when he’s stuffing you full and saying those kinds of things, you don’t stand a chance.

Bucky grips your hair and peels your throat exposed, sucking a mark on the pulse point, and comes so hard he knocks you both into the headboard with the back of his hand cushioning the blow.

His cock is covered when he pulls out, still half-hard and stroking himself, using it like lube. You push your palms over your face, move your knees together but he wedges them apart so wide they smart.

His ruddy cheeks glow beneath the searing blue ring of his eyes, a microscopic corona encircling the darkness of enormous pupils. He holds you frozen with a single look-- ravenous. At least twice floats into your head. Oh, god.

It doesn’t take long the second time, like he’s propelled straight through his first and pitched right into the next. He buries his face into your neck, jerks to a halt with heavy pant, hair splayed over your collar. The sound of it, the smell of it, the feel. His cock, painfully hard. His come, shoved deeper. Your insides, bruised tender and sore, throbbing, stinging, still fluttering for more. Pleasure blurs into pain and back again.

He pinches your nipples hard. Squeezes your jaw, your cheeks. Fucks your mouth with his hand and smears your spit down your sternum.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” He leans into a thrust, “Tell me.”

Bucky sits you up into his lap, wraps his limbs around you lovingly. The world is hazy and incoherent. You let him do as he pleases, making only choked-up sounds and half-attempted replies.

“Yeah.” Quiet crooning, shushing in your ear, soothing your frantic heart, “I got you. I got you, baby. I got one more for you, alright? And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? You’re gonna learn your lesson.”

You sob his name with each thrust, chew on your lip distraughtly. You can’t. It’s too fucking much. Stop, you think, please. More, you think, please. Every time you feel thrown off one edge, he takes you to the next one, even higher. He fucks you raw and open and loose and when he finally comes for the last time, you dig half-moons into his arms, curl into the shape of a wounded animal and tremble in pleasure.

He cleans himself up. Cleans you too. Soft caresses on the parts of you he marked up, nuzzling his nose into your cheek, imprinted with the creases from the pillowcase. Bucky lays you down slowly, brushes the damp hair from your jaw, settles in next to you with sweet kisses and mindful aftercare.

God, he’s good. Always known what you’ve needed even before you realize it for yourself. Your man.

Wrapping you up his arms when you need warmth. Giving you space when you’re feeling restless. Loving you slow when you’re withdrawn. Loving you hard when you’re aching.

And oh, you ache.

Your body sinks into the sheets. Every synapse shutting down, feeling a rest so deep every cell hums.

“What’re you gonna do tomorrow, bunny?” Gentle prodding, just a little sharp. Hypothetical, of course because he already knows your answer. Already knows you belong to him for the rest of the weekend.

Bucky tugs up the comforter around your shoulders, slotting himself behind your body, enfolding both of you safely. Your lids flutter shut. All the stars in the sky pitch themselves out. The night closes black and endless, eats your mind until you’re lost to sleep.

He pulls you tight to him. Possessive. Caged in. One final scrape of his teeth over the back of your neck like a warning before he muffles a satisfied moan into your hair.

You’re trapped. You’re caught. It’s heaven.

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