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inklore · 3 years

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more than a spark.

premise: your first five dates with druig seem more disastrous than anything and still sparks fly.

pairings: druig x (f)reader

warnings: none unless you count badly written fluff, pet names (love), vulgar language (mild swearing), and the worst slow burn ever written. but please still respect that my writing is not for minors.

word count: 6.04k

etc: i had to use that picture of barry, it was calling to me! i also changed a few things in the series masterlist, such as this is now going to be a three part mini series with time jumps to make my life easier.

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“Of course this would be your idea of a nice date, watching me fall on my ass.” You sneer down at Druig as he helps you tie your skates, with much protest from you you might add. You had tried at least four times to bend down and tie the used death traps yourself and had almost fallen over each time. The two of you had grabbed the grubby things from a less-than-enthusiatic teenager behind the counter. And you would have sat down to slip them on and save yourself the frustration but every bench had someone sat upon it or a child crying perched on their mothers lap whipping away snot.

Druig seemed to have no problem slipping his on with ease and zero trepidation, walking through the light snow on the ground with a gracefullness that made you want to push him over. “It’s not that bad, trust me.” He smiles up at you as finishes the last of the laces. Standing up and reaching his hand out.

Which you glare at, “I can do it.” You say in a huff as you walk past him on slow wobbling legs towards the ice. You don’t miss his low chuckle as he follows close behind you.

Your fingers grip the cold wood of the side of the enclosed area, chewing on your bottom lip as you debate on your best course of action—every single outcome that plays in your head ends with you landing flat on your ass or a facefull of ice and some snot nose kid laughing down at you. It could have all been an irrational fleeing worry, much like the ones you got before going to the grocery store or doing other adult tasks. Realistically how hard was it to just move on ice? You were wearing footwear that literally made it easier, quicker, it couldn't be that hard. You had a clutch, you were halfway there, you could do it.

But as soon as you put one bladed toe onto the ice and feel how it easily glided and slipped, you knew that your fears were indeed not irrational and you were most definitely going to land on your ass. Your first thought after this revelaton is to turn around, say fuck it and chalk this little ‘date’ up to Druig failing and call it a night. Because there was nothing romantic about bruising yourself.

And then you look and he's there, on the ice and standing with ease that—incredibly annoying—smile on his face as he reaches his hand out to you once again. You reluctantly place your palm in his, his hands much warmer than your own, easing some of the bubbling nerves in your belly.

As he slowly pulls you onto the ice you are sure if you could look at yourself right now that you looked like a newborn deer walking for the first time, your legs feeling more jelly than bone. And you expect to see a wide smirk on Druig’s face, but instead you see a soft smile as one of his hands holds your palm and the other comes to rest at your forearm to help you. It only takes a good minute for your legs to stop wobbling and then the two of you are stood still on the sides of the ice rink, other skaters breezing by you as if they were in the Olympics.

“See, easy.”

“Druig we are not even ten steps away from the gate.” You point out in a huff that makes the both of you laugh, Druig trying to conceal his by ducking his head into his leather jacket. “How do you even know how to do this? Do they even get snow in North Dakota?”

“More often than you think.”

“And I suppose you excelled in such a cold skill, much like you do everything?”

Druig smirks at your playfully annoyed toned, “Something like that.” You knew he wasn't one for talking very openly about his family unless someone prompted it and even then, unless he trusted you enough to let you peek into his world, he didn’t reveal much. You always got the sense that he was protective over them, that there was an underlining fear that not many would understand his blended family. But you loved hearing the stories he had told you of his own accord. You had even met a few of them when they had visited him, and you had gotten along with each easily. Even so much so with Kingo that Druig made him leave his apartment after a few too many mimosa’s shared between you and the infamous movie star, and the several show tunes the two of you wouldnt stop belting out driving Druig and the neighbors up the wall.

“Thena had a knack for ice skating.” He clarified, “if you think I’m good you should see her.” The soft smile that came across his lips as he fondly spoke of his older sibling made your chest feel fuzzy. And if it wasn't for the group of teenagers who zoom past almost knocking you on you over, your skates sliding out from under you making you squeal, Druig quickly pulling you to him, your hands wrapping around his neck to stop yourself; you would of told him how cute he looked when he was being sappy, but now that you thought about it the word cute and Druig in the same sentence tasted weird in your mouth, especially since you meant it wholeheartedly and not in your normal jabbing-teasing tone.

But you didn’t have time to really get to the root of why that caused you pause, when your heart was beating a mile a minute from almost bruising your tailbone—and the fact that you were now pressed close, too close, to Druig that you were sure he could feel your beating heart through your chest cavity and the soft reassuring smile on his lips, indicating that it was okay made you want to scowl. To quip something sarcastic. But all it did was ease you to breathe again as you stared back at him.

You don't know how long the two of you stand there as you try to slow your breaths and feel grounded again before he asks, “ready to move?”

You really weren’t. You would of been fine if this was all you experienced from ice skating; standing, almost getting knocked on your ass, Druig gripping onto your hips. . . heart feeling a little weird as you found yourself nodding, and he maneuvered himself so he was behind you. Hands still holding onto your hips, his soft “relax” in your ear followed by a chuckle as he slowly glided the both of you across the ice—at the slowest pace possible you were certain. But it didn’t matter. You were moving and relaxing into his hold, letting him lead you around the ice.

“This is very smooth of you.”

“What?” You can sense the smirk in his tone.

“Taking your date ice skating when you know for a fact they don’t know how, only to get them in this position.”

“Yeah?” Druig squeezes your hips with the tips of his fingers, “and what position would that be?” You want to turn and give him a look, but know you’ll fall on your ass if you even try.

“Are you always like this with your lady friends?”

“I have no idea what youre talking about.” It’s whispered in your ear and it makes goosebumps go up your spine, that you quickly shake off and smack one of his hands playfully for.

“Only the first date and you’re already being unbearable,” you sigh.

Druig shifts a little causing you to flail for a second before he’s moving himself so he’s beside you instead of behind. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding onto your hand. When he turns to look at you you glare at him, the look on his face smirking as if he’s truly enjoying seeing you act like a fish out of water. “What? Afraid you’re going to fall?” You roll your eyes at him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. If you fall,” the next thing you know the two of you are doing a small spin—that makes you squeal a little obnoxiously. The cold wind whipping lightly against your already cold cheeks, and you think maybe—after you’ve stopped spinning and you’re now facing Druig in his arms once again, that your cheeks hurt because of the cold breeze. But once you’re grounded again you realize it's because you’re smiling so hard. The boy in front of you matching your big smile, “I’m going with you.” He finishes his thought and it takes you a second to comprehend what he said after your laughter dies down and the two of you are moving normally again.

If you fall, I’m going down with you.

And you’re too busy to read into the look he has when he says it, or anything else other than what's happening right now; Druig picking up speed a little bit the two of you moving throughout the rink as if you weren't clutching to him with a death grip. Each squeal you let out making him laugh harder. And then he’s convincing you that you’re ready to try it solo and you assure him that that's the last thing you are ready for. But then he’s letting go of your hand and you’re begging him to come back.

“Druig, I swear to god!”

He smirks, crosses his arms over his chest and skates in place.

“You are the worst!” And you move your wobbly legs out of spite, if anything, to reach him and give him a jab in the ribs. But you’re moving at a snail's pace and you’re almost certain that your legs are going to go every which way and make an uncomfortable splitting of your pants happen.

“Stand up straight.” Someone suggests as they skate by you, their pity making you grumble.

You look to Druig and he just shrugs nodding his head, his infuriating smirk still present. You scowl at him, but heed the advice given. Taking a slow breath in as you try to straighten yourself up. Try to ignore the nerves in the pit of your stomach, try to focus on staying still. Try to remember what it had felt like when Druig was behind you, how he had steadied you, how his legs moved, how he kept his balance. And it’s that thought alone—and your determination to be petty once you reach him, that has you moving a little faster. Less on shaky legs, steadiness finding you slowly but surely.

And you can’t help but smile wide, your mouth agape in shock as you move along.

“Beautiful,” Druig says as he watches you move making your way to him. Your smile faltering ever the slightest when you hear the word, notice his cheeks are red from the cold and his smile is warm and it’s making you feel even warmer. Distracting you just enough that you forget to pay attention to the fact that you’re trying not to fall, and the next thing you know your arms are going ever which way and your ass it hitting the ice with a thud.

You don’t miss the way Druig tries to reach out for you before you hit the ice and when he quickly skates over to your side reaching down to help you up, you don’t miss his stern face of concern and you find yourself laughing.

“Shit,” You groan, laughing up at him as he puffs out an airy sigh shaking his head. Your body is too fuzzy with laughter and joy to feel embarrassed or pain—until Druig is pulling you up and you feel the throbbing at your tailbone.

And it feels even worse once you are sat down. The two of you making your way off of the ice and changing back into your own shoes. Grabbing a hot chocolate from one of the many food stands around the rink, finding and an empty table to rest at.

Druig’s hands are in his leather jacket as he sits across from you, periodically taking sips from the cup in front of him. His look of concern still etched on his face as you feel him watching you. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” your reassurance is flat as you sit up straight to emphasize the point and you wince. “Nothing a massage won’t buff out.”

“I could help with that,” he smirks, bringing the cup back to his lips. “M’pretty good with my hands.”

“Only the first date and you’re moving to second base,” you play with the side of your cup, picking at the cardboard. “How overzealous of you, no wonder the ladies keep coming back for more.” You tease.

Druig smirks, shrugging, “what's a date without a perfect ending?”

You can’t help your mouth gaping open at his words, feening shock. Fake shock that is. You can’t remember a steady girlfriend Druig has ever had that wasn’t one who mostly just shared his bed with him. For as long as you knew him he hadnt been in a committed relationship unless that commitment was casual sex. Which thats all some girls wanted from him, a pretty boy to fuck them and move on.

But there had been others that had wanted the Irish boy to open up to them, show himself, be more than just something to fuck. You had really never had the inclination to ask Druig why he never let them in, opened up himself to the ones who really showed interest. You had never been interested much in his dating life, nor his yours. And where Druig kept himself closed off from everyone else he had let you inside. Opened the doors to the parts that he didn’t let just anyone see. The complexity of him was not something everyone would take as something more than what they saw on the surface; a brooding stoic face. But knowing him for as long as you had you knew that the distance he put between trust and friendships, relationships, and you were sure even sex was something you found heartbreakingly tender.

But maybe that was just because you were on the other side of it. It hadnt taken much for the two of you to click when you first met, your friendship sliding into place as if that it was always there. As if in a past life it had already been known, written, fated. And life was just waiting for the right moment to make it happen in this reality.

And you had almost forgot that this was supposed to be a date. That the two of you had made a silly little bet. Everything feeling ever the norm between the two of you. Druig suggesting going ice skating would be something he would tease you about not knowing how to do over sharing a pizza in your apartment. And then he would drag you down to actually do it. It almost made you laugh at how this whole bet was going to turn into one big joke at the end of the day. Because the both of you knew deep down that the friendship the two of you shared together, the connection, it was nothing more than just that. You weren’t like every other girl who looked at Druig as if he were some Irish God. He was just Druig to you. Your best friend, your annoying best friend who took you on an ice skating date just to see you fall on your ass. Jerk.

There wasn’t going to be a perfect ending, at least not the one he continues to tease you about as the two of you drink your hot chocolate to combat the cold. But you were sure there would be a happy one, one where Druig losses miserably of course.

“S’don’t understand why we don’t go get a real one.” Druig sighs as he stands back to take in your tiny plastic tree the two of you just spent an hour putting together. Snapping in branches and trying to fluff up the fake pine needles so they give the tree a fuller look—something that was a waste of time as it looks more bare than anything.

“And watch every girl go gaga over you swinging an ax at the tree farm? No thanks.” You press your lips together and give a fake look of sincerity.

“I don’t think that would be that bad.” He smirks shrugging.

“As your date I’m offended, as your friend I’m disgusted.”

You had expected Druig to pull out another big—this could humiliate you by falling on your ass—stop with the second date as well. So when he showed up at your apartment unannounced with a pizza in hand and declared the two of you were going to put your Christmas tree up, you were surprised. You're still bruised tailbone very thankful.

So now here the two of you were picking out bulbs and ornaments and placing them on your sorry excuse for a tree, while both of you snuck bites of pizza. Banter and conversation flowing between the two of you as usual.

“You still have this?” You smiled as you looked at the ornament Druig held up.

“Of course, why wouldn't I?” It was a small snow globe that housed a small replica of a town in North Dakota, ‘I Visited North Dakota’ printed across the bottom in large letters. Druig had brought it back to you as a late Christmas present after he came home from spending the holidays with his family one year. It had been a silly gag gift that the both of you had laughed at, Druig insisting that his mother thought it would be a cute present and, in her words “everyone deserves a little something from someone else's home, it’s special” he had said she was all but insistent on it and so he gave you the tacky little snowglobe and you’ve treasured it ever since.

“I’m surprised it's lasted this long, who knew gas station ornaments were made to last.” The two of you laugh as he places the globe right next to your other just as tacky—but less special—ornaments.

When the two of you have finished putting the rest of the bulbs on, and are done arguing about which way the lights should be placed on the tree.

“You can't go right with them when I'm going left.”

“They're just lights, they can go anyway.”

“It’s not going to look right.”

“Druig the perfectionist.”

“The tree is ugly as it is, let's not make it worse is all I’m saying.”

“Hey!” You scowl at him.

“Love, I can see right through the damn thing,” Druig points pointedly at the large gaps in the tree and the both of you start to laugh at the ridiculous plastic evergreen.

And when the two of you are sat in front of it finishing up the pizza, the greasy box sat between you on the floor, neither of you have stopped laughing at it.

“It’s not that bad. What's that film? Charlie and the Christmas tree?”

“Charlie and the-What?” You try to cover your mouth so as to not spit out the pizza in your mouth.

“Is that not it?” Druig laughs, “with the white dog and the shitty tree?”

“A Charlie Brown Christmas!”

“That's it!” He shakes his head, “Gilgamesh made us watch it every year. He would laugh throughout the whole thing.” You watch and listen as he talks about his family again, that fuzzy feeling as you watch the softness that takes over his face as he does—something you think you’ve noticed before, but can’t put your finger on if you really had. Can't remember catching yourself paying more attention to the set of his face, the way his smile comes and goes so light and sweet, the fondness in his eyes. Instead of holding onto every word like you usually did you found yourself distracted by his face and for whatever reason it made you inwardly cringe at the way your stomach starts to flutter.

Making you quickly turn away and feen more interest in the slice of pizza in your hand. The two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you finish up the remaining slices and continue to admire your handy work. The tree didn’t actually look that bad, and once you got the garland on it kind of hid empty spots—kind of.

“Shit,” you jump to your feet, “we forgot to put the star up!” You rifle through the boxes of extra, and too tacky, ornaments and bulbs. Pulling out the small white star that was meant to top the tree.

“Will it fix the appearance, do you think?”

“Druig.” You try not to laugh at his teasing and the continuing degrading of your dear old tree. “It’s half your fault it looks like this.”

“I wanted to go out and get a real tree, not this Charlie tree.”

You sigh, “His name is Charlie Brown. If you’re going to insult the tree please get it right.”

“M’sorry but there is nothing right about this tree, love.” He’s laughing again, his smirk ever the annoying as you try to hide your own laughter with annoyance.

“Will you just help me, please?”

“Fine, fine.”

Druig stands, dusting off his fingers of any pizza crumbs and comes behind you. The tree isn’t that tall but you can’t reach it even on your tippy toes, so when you feel his hands at your waist lifting you just enough to reach up and place the star on top, you definitely don’t notice the way his hands are actually not really on the sides of your hips but on the back of them, his palms very close to gripping your ass.

You also definitely don’t let out a short puff of air once your feet have returned to the ground and you hear the softest “beautiful” brush past your ear as Druig sets his chin on your shoulder. His arms now wrapped around you as the two of you stand in front of the tree. And it definitely doesn’t make you feel weird inside your chest at all…

“This is the worst date by far.” Your breath is coming out in heavy pants, the cold puffs of the hot air burning your lungs visible in the air as you stop for what seems like the tenth time.

This had been your fifth date, the third and fourth seeming to blur together; the two of you attempting to put together a gingerbread house which didn’t go as either of you planned. The two of you having two different opinions on the structural dynamics of how a cookie house was supposed to look. And the fact that Druig spent half the time eating the frosting and mints that by the time you got to the roof there was barely anything left to hold it together.

“Maybe they like open concepts,” he shrugged, licking frosting off of his fingers.

“Open concept doesn’t mean a missing roof!” You snatched the frosting out of his hands, the pouty smirk he gave making you—annoyingly—smile.

“S’our house, it can be whatever we want. A roof doesn't matter,” he tries to reach for the frosting again but you quickly move out of the way.

“No!” You point your finger to his chest in a show of fake dominance, it only makes him chuckle and grab your wrist pulling you into him and trying to grab the small tub of frosting out of your grip. Your back pressed to his chest as you squirmed against him, raising and pulling your hand this way and that way out of his reach. “You don’t need anymore! We need to do the roof!” You try to sound stern but you’re laughing too much. “How are you constantly hungry, your mouth is always busy eating something I swear!”

“Then maybe you should occupy it with something else if you think that’s the case,” and any other time you would turn around and slap his arm playfully. Tell him how absurd he is. But there’s a moment that after he’s said the words that something in you shifts, the mood, the vibe, that has your body tensing. And you’re sure it’s because you didn’t expect it, didn’t expect to hear those words so close to your ear, up against you, or in that low teasing tone.

That’s definitely it, no other reason could be applicable.

And when Druig finally grabs the frosting from your hands, his finger already dipped in a little glob of the bottom, pulling it out and bringing it to his lips. You turn in time to meet his gaze as he does so, his finger sliding past his lips, his mouth and tongue going to work on cleaning it of the sugary mess that coats his digit. You can’t look away from his gaze and the way he’s staring at you gives you that weird feeling again. . .and you open your mouth to tell him how ridiculous he looks, you swear you do. But nothing comes out and then he’s smirking as if nothing happened and asking you where the gumdrops are.

The fourth date had just been a simple dinner at your favorite restaurant. Druig insisting that you dress up because it was definitely a real date, and when he showed up in his signature leather jacket and dark jeans and you stood there in the nicest black dress you had—one that was a little too short for your liking but the only good one you owned—you wanted to be angry at him.

Especially when he smirked as his eyes looked you up and down, the notion definitely not making you move around antsy like. Or want to quickly grab your jacket because you suddenly felt shy.

But then he pulled out a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back and your anger was soon replaced with something fuzzy and way more annoying.

“Druig.” You could feel the heat rising to your face, “why did you-“

“It’s a date. Or have you forgotten?” He grins handing you the bouquet and after some more playful banter and denying that you were definitely not flustered, and Druig insisting that he saw a fluster, the two of you made your way to the restaurant and spent the rest of the night eating your favorite dishes and joking and carrying as you normally would.

The atmosphere didn’t change until the two of you had returned back to your apartment and Druig took your hand in his and brought it to his lips to give you the smallest of kisses on the back of your hand.

“Seriously?” You almost want to laugh because it’s cheesy and comical but all you can do is smile stupidly at him.

“M’quite the romantic I know.”

But this, your fifth date? It was definitely the worst.

Druig had dragged you to the suburban side of town where there was too many hills and not enough sidewalks. And that alone told you you were in for trouble.

Exercise was not something you enjoyed doing willingly let alone as a date, and yet here you were trudging up a hill with Druig ahead of you dragging a sled behind him.

It seemed the higher up you went the more breathless you became. And when you finally reached the top you couldn’t stop yourself from doubling over to try and catch your breath.

“How are you not dying? I never see you workout.”

“Athletic family.”

You shake your head huffing and puffing, “I swear you guys are like superheroes, so good at everything.”

Druig chuckles, “not quite, love.” He reaches over and grabs your hand, “you okay?” His thumb rubs across your knuckles soothingly.

You wrench your hand from his, “I’m fine, wasn’t even that steep. Totally cool.” You say, trying not to give him the satisfaction of snickering at your suffering. But it’s too late. He's already laughing softly and giving you that ‘I love winning’ look. He hasn’t won anything, if anything this is making his chances of you falling for him even worse. This kind of physical activity was the least romantic thing anyone could have done. It's absurd.

Once Druig has set up the sled; which means he moved it a dozen times to get the angle and trajectory just right, he’s sitting himself on it and reaching out to pull you down in his lap.

“You go first, I’ll go second. Just in case you’ve miscalculated and end up in that tree over there.” You insist backing away from him.

“Are you scared?” His tease makes your blood boil ever the slightest, this was a competition after all, that’s what bets were right? A competition to saus out a loser. And you refused to be the loser, in this instance, or any.

That’s what you told yourself as you sit between Druig’s legs, there being no other reasoning; the way his smirk turned into a soft smile when he reaches his hand back out to you, or that same trusting look and reassurance of ‘I got you’ that he gave you on the ice definitely having nothing to do with it. Because you weren’t scared, tired from climbing up the damn hill? Absolutely. Not wanting to slam into a tree or hit a rock? Also correct. But not scared.

And the only reason you find yourself pushing your back up against his chest, nestling yourself tight between his arms is because if you do hit said tree you were sure he’d be able to protect you better if you were so close to him. Not because he felt so warm against your back, so safe.

You hadn’t gone sledding since you were a kid, you pretty much forgot people even still did it. You resided in the city after all, there weren’t many people sledding up and down the streets.

“Ready?”

“As I’m ever going to be, this close to death.” You joke, sort of, the slight prickle of anticipation anxiety hitting the pit of your stomach.

Druig chuckles lightly, “I’ve got you.” Both of his hands grab the rope at the head of the sled, using his foot to ground in the snow as he pushes with maximum effort to move the two of you and the plastic contraption closer to the edge of the hill. Until you’re tittering atop it and then you’re plummeting down the hill—that seems a lot longer, and steeper than when you climbed it, shockingly.

And you can’t help the childish squeal that leaves your lips as the wind whips past you and the two of you are flying down the hill. The two of you hitting the bottom with a soft thud kicking up snow from the head of the sled, chunks of it raining down on the two of you and slipping into your shoes.

But you can’t seem to really care because the two of you are laughing, the childish joy of when this is all you wanted to do as soon as snow hit the ground in your youth. Not finding your way home until your nose was runny and cheeks were burnt from the cold winds, but it being worth it. And as Druig tries to stand from the sled, his boots slipping on the snow and plastic mix in the bottom, toppling over into the snow on his back, you laugh harder.

“At least I’m not the only one who’s fallen on your death trap dates.” You rest your hands on his bent knees as you try to use him as a clutch to get up, not wanting to end up on your ass for a second time.

“Oh yeah?” And before you can retort any kind of remark he’s grabbed your wrist and pulled you down face first into the snow next to him. It’s not hard enough to hurt, or do any damage—except the fluffy snow that coats the lower half of your face and has now gotten into your gloves.

“You are the worst date ever!” You shriek, pick up a handful of snow and throw it at him. Making him laugh and roll away from you to quickly stand from the snow, grabbing his own handful and nailing you atop of your fluffy hat.

Your mouth falling agape as it rains down on you. And if you hadn’t noticed Druig gathering up more snow as he doubles over in laughter you would surely give him a death glare. But you’re too busy making quick work of getting to your feet and matching his actions; snow gathered in your already wet gloves, arm moving behind you, setting aim, and ready to fire at him.

And so it goes like that for you don’t know how long. The both of you out of breath laughing and trying to hit the other with snowballs; you getting him in the side, the back when he’s bent over which he lets you know is a cheap shot. Even once right above the forehead, in which case you say, “Oh no, your precious face. How will you occupy your Friday nights now that the bait is ruined?” You tease and he smirks at you sinisterly and starts to chase after you, hitting your back with several soft throws of snow until he’s reached you by your hips. His arms wrapping around them and dragging you down into a snow pile.

You wrestle in his arms the both of you laughing and trying to grab the snow around you to throw at the other until your faces are freezing and surely close to being frostbit. And all you can do is stare at each other and try to help the other get the snow out of your vision.

And then you can finally see him and he’s looking at you with that fondness you love so much. He’s swiping the last bits of snow off of your cheek and letting the softness of his gloved thumb stay there for a bit rubbing your skin that you’re sure looked as burnt as it felt.

And you wish you could say you know how much time goes by but you’re both seemingly lost in just laying there catching your breath and staring. The cold and wetness of the snow melting under your weight dampening your clothes. You try to move your gloves fingers and it aches, a soft wince puffing from your lips.

“Cold?”

“Freezing.”

Druig sits up pulling you with him, taking your hands and ripping the gloves from your shaking fingers. The cold of the outside doing little to add to their already burning numbness. He removes his own gloves in the same swoop, presses your palms into his, rubbing them together for some kind of heated friction.

“This would probably work better if both of our hands weren’t freezing.”

“You’re probably right,” you agree with him and the both of you chuckle softly.

And then he’s bringing your hands up to his lips and you hold your breath for a beat, a second, a minute, until you feel his hot breath being blown from his redden lips. The heat from his mouth helping the numbness dull within your fingers. He switches between that and rubbing your hands together. And you don’t realize you’re staring at him, like really staring, watching every move of his lips as he blows air onto your fingers. Watching every twitch and frictioned twist of his hands against yours.

You don’t realize how clouded and content you are with just watching him until he’s got your fingers so close to his lips and he looks over at you through his lashes. You expect him to smirk, be his teasing self. But he doesn’t. He just continues to blow, eyes never leaving yours. Then pressing the softest of kisses to the backs or your fingers, then the top of your hand. And it makes your stomach flutter and if you weren’t in utter shock at the sparks flying through your veins right now you would have ripped your hands from his clutches and pushed him over into the snow.

“All warm?” He asks softly, a sweet smile slowly spreading across his lips.

#druig #druig x reader #druig x female reader #druig fluff #druig eternals #druig one shot #druig imagine #eternals x you #eternals x reader #**

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1kook · 3 years

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crunchyroll & rail

the 10th installment of my netflix & chill series !

SUMMARY Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. WARNINGS smut in the forms of making out, jk nipple play, some 69 action, cunnilingus, blowjobs, brief choking, jk trying his best to listen to oc but he doesn’t rlly :/, fingering, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, unprotected fuckin raw, its romantic but when is it not… MISC fluffy and domestic <3, weekend getaway <3, the Big Question, shy jk, sailor moon supremacy, jk makes this big elaborate speech about the sun and moon, mentions of 240p YouTube quality, RATING m (18+) WC 8.7k

NOTE (!) the smut in this chapter is relatively short ! I was more concerned with writing this monumental step in their relationship, so sorry to all the lads who come here specifically for the p0rn but today we focus on the l0ve <333 anyway nc 10!!!!! Can u fuckin believe….

Jungkook mentions it at the dinner table one night. You’re not eating— well, you are not eating; Jungkook has been stocking up on his protein intake like a madman —but finishing up some work you had brought home. Your back aches, your eyes burn. The mere sound of his soft voice has all those feel-good endorphins shooting through your nervous system like a shot of adrenaline. “We should take a trip,” he says, fork clattering against his plate to signify the end of his feast.

Your fingers tap across your keyboard, eyes flickering between an Excel sheet and the report you’re typing out. It takes you a moment to respond, a delayed, “huh,” that even Jungkook doesn’t find convincing.

In the background, you’re listening to what has to be one of the worst voiceovers of the original Sailor Moon series in a language you don’t even understand. But you know the series like the back of your hand, know what exactly is happening even if you don’t understand what they’re saying, because you’ve watched it only about a million times. It’s mostly just there for background purposes anyway, some white noise to try and replicate the noisy soundtrack of your office.

To make matters worse—complicated?—, you had been too lazy to get onto your usual pirating sites and had settled for the five minute, five part, 240p clips of Sailor Moon on YouTube (you know the ones), and Jungkook has to wait until Episode 74: Part ⅖ ends before you grace him with a proper response. “Where do you wanna go, baby?” you ask, giving your eyes a break from the data as you move to scour YouTube for Episode 74: Part 3/5.

He’s stretching back now, arms wound up above his head. His hair— god, his hair —is an ashy color now, a faded version of its golden ancestor from a few months ago. Soon, he’s planning on going back to brown, claims he’s getting too old to be dying his hair, whatever that means. For now, you watch his inked fingers run through his scalp; he looks delectable. Maybe you’re hungrier than you initially thought. Or at least thirstier. “A cabin,” he suggests, and he offers this little half shrug that would otherwise seem normal had you not been well-versed in the art of Jungkook Body Language. His front teeth nibble at his lip, eyes laser focused on his empty plate. Even now, he still gets nervous asking you out. That thought alone makes your ego soar as high as an airplane. “Just something small.”

Usually, “something small” with Jungkook ends up being something big and, in most cases, something expensive. Which you’re totally not opposed to— you’re at the point in your relationship where you don’t even bother trying to dissuade Jungkook from showering you with gifts. It’s one of his many, many, many, many forms of loving you and, well, he knows you like the back of his hand. He rarely misses.

Lo and behold, it is a grander affair than a simple cabin. “Well, it’s more like a resort,” he confesses, reaching across the table for your hand. Immediately, his thumb finds itself rubbing over the simple band of your promise ring. “Just wanna do something nice for you. I know you’ve been tired lately,” he adds on, voice a quiet murmur that nearly gets lost under the intensity of the pout that appears whenever he becomes even the slightest bit bashful.

You smile, the fondness in your heart skyrocketing to impossible heights when he lifts your hand to press those pretty petal lips against your knuckles. “Well, just let me know when,” you tell Jungkook. “So I can request time off from work.”

Episode 74: Part 3/5 starts playing after an ad, and you’d pause it for the sake of preserving this moment with Jungkook, but it’s hidden under so many tabs on your laptop that you lose it the second you leave the tab. Jungkook’s head tilts to the side, sending his ashy locks cascading beautifully. “You know that show is on Crunchyroll,” Jungkook says, seemingly moving past his bout of shyness now. “And you have the password.”

“Do I,” you murmur, but he’s lost you once more, your true talent of typing with one hand showing itself as you return to your Excel sheet, the other still firmly squeezed in his grasp. Jungkook releases soon enough anyway, cleans up the table quickly, and disappears off into the kitchen. He sings when he washes the dishes, likes to pretend he’s a terrible singer even though you’ve told him countless times he could easily take X Factor by storm. (And you know exactly what it takes to wow those judges— you spent the entire last month psychotically watching multiple X Factor seasons from multiple different countries, nearly considered joining the damn audition yourself.) The horribly dubbed Sailor Moon is yelling now, shrieking really, and Jungkook calls from the kitchen, “don’t forget to take your contacts out, sweetheart.”

It’s domestic and it's nerve-wracking.

You want Jungkook, that much is a fact. Aristotle and Socrates and that other guy could debate the philosophical intricacies of the world, turn this dimension in on itself until it was a scrambled mess of emotion and thought, but the one thing they could never change, could never even question, is your love for your boyfriend. You want Jungkook badly, but more importantly, you want Jungkook forever.

And you’re sure Jungkook probably, maybe, hopefully feels that way too. But the way you feel is… slightly concerning to say the least. For starters, you’re convinced your love for Jungkook was meant to be, and that’s saying a lot coming from you. You’re not one for cheesy, soulmate tales— that was more Jungkook’s thing —but the more you think about it, the more you become convinced that you and Jungkook were destined to meet. Like the planets aligned one year, the stars conferred, a tectonic plate somewhere in California shifted; whatever it may have been, something happened somewhere that led to the birth of this beautiful romance of yours.

Lately, being with Jungkook has this inexplicably fiery feeling blossoming in your chest, these waves of emotion that sometimes have you fantasizing about the weirdest of scenarios with him. Like yelling at him for not taking the garbage out on time, or bumping into each other as you make dinner in the kitchen, or buying a new rug together.

(Most drastically, the other day, you had a dream where you were pregnant and Jungkook was there and there was a house and a dog and an annoyingly friendly neighbor and this god-awful tile in the bathroom.)

Long story short, you’ve been fantasizing about a forever with Jungkook. The concerning part is the timing; was this too early? You’re nearly halfway through your second year with Jungkook now, and you know most people date for many, many years before the mere thought of union even occurs to them. In another life, maybe you were the same, would have held off until the very last moment. But with Jungkook things just feel right (at least for you), like there wasn’t going to be anyone else after him. And you sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be.

You slump back into your seat, eyes fluttering shut. Too many thoughts swirl around your mind, and the screech of the Sailor Moon voiceover on screen certainly doesn’t help. How you managed to spiral that far down your thoughts in the span of one 240p, five minute clip of a larger episode amazes even you. To add onto your worries, the clip abruptly ends and Episode 74: Part ⅘ is nowhere in sight, a fact that draws a frustrated moan out of the already sensitive you.

Luckily, Jungkook eventually returns, standing closely behind you. His presence is enormous, the room suddenly overflowing with a shit ton of those feel-good endorphins all over again, except this time they reach an all-time high when he leans over and quietly shuts your laptop. “Come sleep,” he says softly, and it’s a pleasant mixture of his genuinely caring voice and that horndog purr of his that lures you into bed. And it’s that same voice that croons softly into your ear, fingers nestled between your folds until you’re orgasming yourself into a deep slumber.

Much to no one’s surprise, the cabin turns out to be quite the luxurious lodging; two floors of dark oak everywhere you turn, a stunning stone fireplace in the bedroom, and a truly breathtaking view of the resort’s snowy hill (read: front row seats to watch all the snowboarders and skiers wipe out in the snow). Jungkook had splurged quite the pretty penny on it, so you make a point to clap it up for him when he first opens the door to your temporary home for the weekend.

The main bedroom is beyond words. It’s got an attached balcony (that you doubt you’ll be using in this chilly weather), and a wooden canopy bed that makes you feel like a royal (that you will certainly be using). It’s separated into two areas, the bed space and a tiny entertainment area on the other side of the room. Perhaps the best thing about the room— and the cabin itself —is the huge, smart TV mounted above said stone fireplace and the fact it allows the phone mirroring option in lieu of not having any streaming sites. And as is with every and anything to do with televisions, Jungkook is the most excited of the two of you. “Baby, look,” he beams, pointing excitedly at whatever he’s got mirrored onto the television this time. Knowing him, it’s probably another documentary.

You had the forethought to finish your work before the trip, spent two days in the office going absolutely ham on this month’s final reports until your department head promptly sent you home to finish the rest there. You had given yourself a fright upon entering the bathroom that night, the state of your under eyes so severe, you feared it was sufficient cause for a national emergency. Similarly, Jungkook had done the same with his work, cooped himself up in his study until he was free from the shackles of capitalism for the weekend. All this to say you’ve missed him these past few days.

But even though you’re sorely malnourished in the affection department and craving a good kiss or two, you wouldn’t dare interrupt one of Jungkook’s little nerdy, tech-induced fanboy moments. They’re cute, in their own geeky way, providing some insight to a mellower side of your boyfriend who looks on with childlike wonder; Jungkook’s eyes always get so big when he talks about nerdy stuff. You get to work hanging up the silk shirt he packed for tomorrow night’s fancy dinner at the resort, listening to some British narrator’s detailed description of the functionally extinct Northern white rhinos living under 24-hour surveillance in Kenya.

(Jungkook’s really into nature documentaries again, had spent a few nights sniffling as he watched that one Koko the gorilla film.)

The original plan was to head to the nearest store and whip up something small to eat at the cabin. But Jungkook is a little tired from the long drive, slumps down into the couch in front of the now lit fireplace like a limbless blob as he tunes into his documentary. His nose is a little red from the outside chill. It’s so cute. He’s so cute. You love him so much, you fear you’ll accidentally squeeze his cheeks to death. It’s a thought that occurs more times than you’d like.

According to the pamphlet on the nightstand, the resort has its own room-service to order from. Normally you would do that, but not this time; you had gotten into a bit of a squabble with the man at the front desk after he had tried to withhold Jungkook’s reservation for arriving two minutes past your check-in time, called each other all sorts of names before he backed down and gave you your room key. So you’re still a little salty, to say the least. Instead, you settle in for some pizza in front of the huge TV, calling up the nearest place to order some of Jungkook’s and your favorites.

You plop down beside him, instinctively cuddling closer when he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “So,” you start, flipping through the rest of the resort’s introductory pamphlet. There’s a loud roar on screen. In all honesty, you didn’t even know what Northern white rhinos sounded like until then, and you probably never would have if not for the man beside you. “What are you in the mood for tonight, sweet boy?”

You’re not sure if it’s the fatigue or the overall relaxed vibes he’d been exuding since the moment you entered the cabin, but Jungkook is weirdly cooperative today. “Whatever you want,” he responds, head on your shoulder. He even places the remote in your hands, gives your enclosed fist a gentle tap as if he’s just handed you the secret to eternal youth. In other words, it’s a rare sight to behold. “This is your trip, pretty girl.”

You appreciate the sentiment, but feel the need to clear the air, tucking your feet up onto the couch as you snuggle closer. “Our trip,” you clarify, and snatch the remote anyway before he changes his mind.

Jungkook releases a quiet huff of laughter, head rolling back against the couch cushions to display his thick, juicy neck that definitely doesn’t awaken any vampiric tendencies in you. “We can even watch some anime if you want,” he murmurs, casually throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way that would have made any teenage girl in the early 2000s squeal with excitement. It’s one of those barely there touches, but the way he holds you makes you feel so safe and warm and loved. So loved and in love. “The ones on Crunchyroll, though.”

For the sake of preserving these good vibes (and your ears [and Jungkook’s sanity]), you navigate to the Crunchyroll app on your phone, quickly finding your latest obsession and mirroring it onto the big television before Jungkook can react. “Sailor Moon?” he asks with a tone that implies a feigned interest, mostly out of respect for you; he’s, sadly, still not the big dorky anime fan you had hoped to convert him into.

“In the name of the moon, I’ll punish you,” you recite dutifully, snatching up the throw blanket on the end of the couch. It’s barely big enough to cover the both of you, has Jungkook’s outstretched legs and your booty subject to the chilly air. Who cares, Jungkook is a furnace anyway.

He snorts. “Punish me,” he mumbles, as if he doesn’t believe it. His snarky comment wins him a playful pinch against his doughy cheek, not that he particularly defends himself against it anyway, eyes fluttering shut as you tug at the pale skin.

“Don’t fuck with the moon, Jungkook,” you warn him, snuggling closely against his side as your favorite opening song begins filtering through the speakers of the television before you. It’s infinitely better than the 240p YouTube clips you had subjected yourself to the entire last week, the graphics scarily clear.

“Right, of course,” Jungkook says, but a hint of amusement seems to curl around the sound anyway. Nevertheless, he lets it go, cuddles into your side as you pour your full focus into watching yet another group of ragtag teenagers with supernatural abilities kick some ass.

You can tell Jungkook isn’t really into it, and you’re torn between just snuggling him into a well deserved nap or taping his eyelids open so he can become a fan of this show with you.

The loving, caring, adoring side of you says Jungkook deserves the entire world and more (the more in question preferably being a fluffy blanket and a nap). He worked hard this week, just like you, and on top of that he was the one who planned this entire weekend getaway for the two of you to enjoy. You want him to rest up.

The obnoxiously in love girlfriend-slash-best friend in you says Jungkook is sorely missing out on one of the greatest shows on planet Earth and that naps are for the weak.

Your jumbled thoughts are interrupted by a loud sound on the television, a yelp from Ms. Sailor Moon herself that has you jolting up in surprise. Jungkook welcomes you deeper into his embrace, chuckles at your little fright. “Scared?” he teases in that low voice that makes you feel like you’re going crazy, really. So crazy and irrational, and the only thing that stops you from bombarding him with an unexpected outpouring of love is that hard and sharp thing that pokes your side when you get too close to him. It’s not Jungkook, sadly, but something in the front pocket of his hoodie instead.

And for some reason, part of your brain is stuck all of a sudden, rewinding the last two and a half years like a broken cassette tape that had the tape reel hastily stuffed back inside by a toddler. It’s choppy to say the least, and it certainly doesn’t help when Jungkook calls your name softly, tenderly. “__,” he murmurs. It’s a little weird; it’s not often he says your name, mostly referring to you with one of the many pet names from that part of his vocabulary that focuses exclusively on terms of endearment. Your heart skips a beat.

Now, if anyone were to ask, it’s approximately around this time that you begin to spiral. The pink curve of his bottom lip is just too close, the mole on his nose too prominent. Paired with the obnoxious tittering of Usagi on screen, you can feel your thoughts begin to overlap, bumping into each other within the realm of your brain until all that comes out are the messiest of messy thoughts.

They go like this:

Most episodes of any anime run for approximately thirty minutes. Take out the commercial breaks, the opening and ending credits, and it becomes something closer to twenty. Twenty minutes per episode, filled with plot and gags and tears and whatever else necessary to make you feel something, anything really.

“What’s in your pocket?” you ask tentatively.

In contrast, it takes approximately two seconds for Jungkook’s lips to quirk up— first the right side, always the right side —and his eyes to crinkle. Two seconds for him to smile, a sweet expression that reminds you of Netflix and college and quiet laughter and tattoos and silly YouTube videos and cookies and cell phones and job applications and blond hair; two seconds to make you feel everything all at once.

“There’s nothing,” he says, but his cheeks are pink, and it’s not from the cold anymore. His smile is so big it makes your own cheeks ache just looking at it. You can’t even hear the television anymore. Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. “It was supposed to be for tomorrow,” he admits, unwrapping his arm from around you.

It’s a little funny, somehow, because his hands are covered in ink, in tiny doodles and intricate pieces of swirls and words that ooze this aura of strength and toughness. But they tremble when he opens it, as unsteady as a wispy dandelion on a windy day, fumbling with the box. And when you look closely, he’s been biting at the skin along his thumb again, that nervous habit you’ve been trying forever to help him overcome.

Someone is saying something on screen, something important to the plot. The volume is loud, but not as loud as your heart. Not as loud as Jungkook’s quiet murmur when he speaks again. “Will you marry me?” he asks softly, looks at you with flushed cheeks and big eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

The answer has always been the same, hasn’t changed since the first time he planted the seed in your mind. Still, it catches in your throat, nearly loses out to a surprised and emotional sob that you barely manage to bite down. You had just been speaking, had just been ready to deliver a whole spiel on the importance of him watching Sailor Moon with you. But when you try now, it’s raspy and dry, as if you haven’t used your voice in years. “I— yes,” you exhale, surprised by the lonely tear that trails down your cheek. You go to wipe it away, but Jungkook beats you with a gentle hand cupping your cheek.

His smile is wobbly, patches of red blossoming across his face that eventually consume his entire appearance as he leans his forehead against yours. Only then do you realize he’s crying, and you laugh out of reflex. “You’re crying,” you say, and Jungkook snorts.

“You cried first,” he sniffles, smiling. “You made me cry.”

He looks like a wreck, but, like, a hot wreck. An engaged, hot wreck who’s eyes flicker back to the TV to remind you to pause your anime, always so considerate. You do, hastily smashing buttons on the remote before remembering it’s controlled by your phone, hands flying back and forth as your nerves actively work to retire themselves after Jungkook’s proposal. “Easy there,” he soothes, eventually catching your hand in his, drawing it up for a kiss against your knuckles.

The ring fits perfectly, snuggly. Vaguely, a memory drifts through your thoughts of Jungkook and Doyeon on a rampant mission to reorganize your jewelry box a few months ago, but it disappears as quickly as it came. You’re taken by the ring, a simple band with a pretty diamond on top. It’s a good mixture of you and him; flashy yet mild.

“You love me,” you marvel, a revelation you’ve had the honor of experiencing time and time again with Jungkook. Still, it never fails to render you speechless. He hums.

“I do,” he says, taking your hand in his. “It’s the easiest thing for me. Like breathing, or existing. I think I was made to love you.” And normally, you’d be the first one to correct him. Jungkook was made for so much more, a fact he’s proven time and time again with his abilities and the sheer size of his heart. He was your golden boy, could do anything he set his mind to. Always amazing you, always making you fall in love all over again.

But now, with the weight of his words sitting heavy in the air, you find yourself incapable of negating the fact, instead sniffling at the meaning.

Pleased with your silence, Jungkook places another chaste kiss against your ring. “I love you, __,” he confesses, voice nearly a whisper. Your entire body feels as if it is doused in gasoline, lit aflame over and over again. Your heart threatens your rib cage, pounds away with the strength of a world renowned boxer. Jungkook’s hands curl around your wrists carefully. “I used to think we were like the moon and the sun,” he admits, “that you were my sun and I was your moon. In love but always separated by those thin veils of the sunrise and the sunset.” He pauses, nuzzling sweetly against your palm once more before gently guiding them down between the two of you. “But that really sucks— saying goodbye to you every night? I hate that, __. I hate watching you leave, I hate watching you run off in the mornings or halfway through the day, having to drive back and forth from your place to mine. I hate having to be away from you when all I wanna do is hold you. I— I want to be by your side,” he rambles, eyes nervously meeting yours. They’re still glassy, dark lashes framing his chocolate irises wonderfully. “Forever.”

Your heartbeat stutters, the simple word looping itself in your mind like that night in his dining room all over again, all the fantasies of having a forever with Jungkook bubbling to the surface. Jungkook pushes on. “You are my sun,” he says softly, mostly to himself. “But… I don’t wanna be the moon anymore. Being the moon means, eventually, I’ll have to say goodbye. In the night or in the morning, it always comes to an end. And I don't want there to be an end with you,” he insists, clutching your hand tightly. “I wanna be another star, the closest one to you. The one who gets to be with you forever. I wanna be by you and shine with you and—“

“Explode into a gazillion little fragments of cosmic dust with me,” you offer, and Jungkook nods along eagerly, too amped up on his speech to bother scolding you for your playful comment.

“Yes, I want to— to—“ The words catch in his throat. So much emotion from the man you once thought was the dictionary definition of calm and collected. “To—“

“Marry me,” you fill in, and Jungkook practically blows a fuse from how emotionally fired up he’s become, exclaiming a resolute, “yes!” that leaves you stupidly grinning back at him.

His outburst leaves him with flushed cheeks. “I do,” he reiterates in a softer tone, averting his gaze from you as if embarrassed by his cheesy outpouring of emotion. Usually, it’s the other way around; you make all the corny declarations of love and Jungkook laughs along suavely. It feels nice to have the tables turned.

There’s so much to say, but the words all fade away when Jungkook shyly looks at you again. You settle on tackling him back onto the couch cushions, taking his surprised little yelp in stride as you suffocate him in your embrace. “Save those words for the big day, superstar,” you giggle, peppering his red face with tiny kisses that make him scrunch up cutely. “I can’t wait to blow up into one huge supernova with you.”

Beneath you, Jungkook groans. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, voice muffled against your shoulder. Begrudgingly, his arms come up to envelope you, pulling you closer until the blanket scrunches up uncomfortably between you two. “That must’ve sounded so lame.”

Leaning back so you’re not completely squishing him, you carefully push his silvery hair away from his forehead. “Don’t be,” you assure him, placing one chaste peck against his pouty lips. “I thought it was cute. I didn’t know you were into astrology.”

A sigh. “Astronomy,” he corrects, “astrology has to do with zodiac signs and placements.”

You run your thumbs over his cheeks, collecting any of the drying tears that paint his face. “Oh, like how you’re a Virgo and I’m a“—

The TV remote you had lost somewhere along the way is suddenly rematerialized beneath your knee, sends the speakers blaring to life with a deafening screech that has both you and Jungkook leaping up like two frightened cats. “You always do this,” he laughs, that loud boyish sound that makes you feel like you’re sitting on a cloud. He watches you with a gentle smile as you hurriedly shut off the television, the remote haphazardly tossed somewhere behind you afterwards. You return to his embrace, wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his warmth. His heart thumps a steady rhythm beneath your ear.

“You’re gonna be stuck with me forever,” you warn him, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like he’ll suddenly disintegrate before your eyes.

Above you, Jungkook hums, placing a kiss against the crown of your head. “I look forward to it,” he responds, pulling you impossibly closer, until you can feel the wrinkles in his shirt imprinting themselves against your cheek. He’s back to being that suave bastard again, and you find yourself wishing you had milked those big crocodile tears out of him for just a little bit longer.

Fingers gently press against the muscles in your nape, push themselves in deeply until you can feel all the tension seeping out, turning you into a limbless blob over Jungkook. “Jeez,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “And you wanted to wait until tomorrow.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I just thought you’d rather get engaged at a fancy restaurant with a pretty dress,” he defends, and you can hear the grin on his face. “For the photos.”

“Fair point,” you concede, eventually pushing yourself up so you’re not entirely squishing your boyfriend beneath you. Jungkook is already looking at you when you lift your head, has got this funny double-chin from this angle that makes his normally sharp jawline disappear. You find yourself tapping a finger against his chin, on the chocolate chip mole that hides itself beneath his plump bottom lip. “If anything, just propose to me again tomorrow at the restaurant.”

It wins you an eye-roll. “I’m not gonna propose to you again tomorrow,” he laughs, doesn’t even push you away when you become annoying and start tapping your fingers against all his beauty marks like you’re playing Whack-a-Mole.

“Booo,” you frown, but let it go soon enough, foregoing your little game to press your lips against his. “Then I better make this a night to remember,” you murmur, tilting your head to the side.

Your hands dip into his luscious locks, fingernails tracing thin lines along his scalp that are certain to send tingles down his spine. As predicted, Jungkook releases a quiet groan soon after, a sound that’s muffled against your own lips. He’s pliant tonight, but not in a way that would elude fatigue. Pliant in a way that suggests he wants you to take the reins tonight, exhaling softly against you as he parts his lips.

“Let me take care of you,” you hum, the hand that had been mindlessly hovering along his cheek drifting down to caress the side of his neck. Jungkook nods, his irises swimming in lust. You smile at his silent compliance, give his throat a light squeeze that makes his breathing hitch in surprise.

He’s always at his prettiest when he’s beneath you like this, limbs moving in slow motion as you guide him along. You can already feel the beginnings of his arousal stirring beneath the front of his sweats, his cock slowly making its presence known against your thigh. You press your lips against his once more, making sure to make it rougher than the first kiss. Your tongue is met with little resistance, slips past his lips and dips into the hot cave of his mouth where Jungkook releases another trembling breath.

Two hands come up behind you, trail themselves over your back and down to your ass, where he gives the two globes a tight squeeze. It draws a whimper out of you, one that Jungkook greedily swallows up. His tongue rubs up along yours, the wet muscle daringly pushing back against yours. His rebelliousness is only quelled with another press of your fingertips around his throat.

“Slow down,” you tell him. The first roll of your hips against him is slow, cruel in that you cut the motion short just as Jungkook begins to push back. A bratty huff escapes him, swollen pink lips pushing out into that endearing pout you love so much. It makes you grin, releasing the grip around his throat to carefully brush a stray strand of hair away from his eyes.

It’s a gesture that works to soften Jungkook as well, the petulant look on his face melting away as you trail your pointer finger along his cheekbone. It’s replaced with a more tender one, dark lashes blinking up at you slowly. “Open,” you command upon reaching his mouth, finger pressing down against his pink lower lip. Jungkook obeys, opening his mouth until you can see his pink tongue and the dark abyss that leads down his throat. Your finger pushes itself in, and Jungkook certainly doesn’t try to resist. His lips suction around the digit fairly quickly, tight enough to keep you there but loose enough for you to slowly draw your finger in and out, each short plunge pressing down against his tongue.

It’s a rather short affair, one that comes to an end when he accidentally bucks up against you, pressing his hardened member against your core. You retract your finger. “Can you,” he tries, but his cheeks are stained red and he refuses to meet your gaze. “Just…”

You intercept him with a chaste peck, maneuvering your legs until your knees are firmly pressed into the couch cushions beneath him, his thin waist trapped in between. When you sit up, you feel drunk on power and the way Jungkook looks up at you certainly doesn’t help. “Can I sit on your face?”

He chokes. “I— sure, please,” he blurts out. His gaze follows you as you slip off of him, quickly discarding your pants and top on the floor. One pat against his thigh has him hurrying to shimmy out of his clothes, his sweatpants caught around his ankles.

“You’re excited,” you laugh, stripping him of his bottoms when the frustration takes him over.

Jungkook scoffs. “Well, yeah,” he mumbles, tugging his shirt off with one smooth motion. The ink around his bicep is as dark as ever, contrasts wonderfully against his warm face. “My fiancée is gonna sit on my face.”

The title makes you preen, quickly finding your place on his lap once more. With your clothing out of the way, Jungkook really does become a furnace. Every inch of his body is hot to the touch, soft too. “Fiancée,” you giggle, hands on his chest. They slide down, fingers playfully nudging his brown nipples. Jungkook flinches at the touch. “Gonna sit on my fiancé’s face,” you parrot back, delicately pinching one nipple between your fingers. A moan spills from his lips, his cock pushing against your thigh once more.

It’s the reminder you need, pushing back dutifully against him as you continue to toy with his chest. He’d look pretty with piercings, you find yourself thinking, watching on in fascination at the way his pert nipples stand at attention. Beneath you, Jungkook begins to grow desperate, his hands finding their place on your waist to encourage you to grind down against him once more.

Jungkook swears up and down that he’s not particularly sensitive about having his nipples touched. But when you’ve got him like this, sinfully laid out before you, you can easily confirm that his claims are nothing but lies. He loves having his nipples touched, squirms beneath you impatiently with each playful tug and twist you bestow upon them.

You duck down, pressing a kiss against his pectoral, just beside his nipple, and Jungkook’s entire body shivers. A few careful drags of your tongue against his warm skin only serve to string him along further, the prettiest whimper pulling itself from his lips when you finally envelope one of them in your mouth. “Wait,” he gasps, clawing at your clothing as if he both wants to push you off and push you closer. You grin, brandishing one mean nip at the sensitive nub.

Eventually, your incessant need to play with Jungkook’s chest is fulfilled. “Lay back,” you instruct, watching as he shuffles down flat on the cushions, silver hair tumbling away from his eyes. He’s so red, eyes hazy. Your panties are discarded, joining the ever growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Once upon a time, the idea of sitting on Jungkook’s face had terrified you, filled you with nightmares of crushing his windpipe or breaking his nose. For the most part, they’re pretty unrealistic fears, ones that can be easily shut down after one careful Google search on safe sexual practices. These days, it’s all too easy; in the mornings, especially, it’s become natural for him to guide you on top carefully, holding your hand as you whimper and sob over his face.

In the current moment, you find yourself stroking a hand down the side of his face, completely enamored with the huge puppy eyes he levels your way. Jungkook likes having your pussy in his face just as much as you do, loves making you feel good in any way he knows how. But there’s a separate matter at hand, one that stands at attention beneath his black boxers and successfully wins your attention.

Truthfully, there is no dilemma to ponder over; you want both to ride Jungkook’s face and suck him off. The solution?

“We’ve never done this before,” Jungkook mumbles in amazement, his voice slightly muffled from his position beneath you and slightly behind you. Still, his arms dutifully wrap around your thighs, guiding you closer to his mouth where his hot breath fans against your glistening folds. You rock back willingly, hands preoccupied with pushing his boxers down and away from his engorged cock.

“Really?” you ask, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the cock before you and the tongue that gently laps at your folds. Jungkook makes a sound, something between a hum and whimper, his mouth slowly getting to work against your folds. “M- Maybe,” you stutter, all thought processes coming to a halt as you carefully take him in your hand.

His cock is hard and long, his tip an angry shade that weeps with precum. From this angle, you get to watch Jungkook’s huge thighs twitch at the sensation, the tattoo that marks up one of them doing little to hide the fact. Your hand squeezes him, watches in awe as another fat droplet oozes out of his tip. A moan tears itself from his throat, and it’s so goddamn sexy it nearly drives you insane.

It’s one particularly long lap of his tongue over your clit that sends you into action, back arching at the tingles that shoot down your spine. Wasting no more time, you guide Jungkook’s cock into your mouth, let your own tongue shower his mushroom tip in kitten licks that have him bucking upwards. He releases your clit with a lewd pop, hot breath fanning across your lips. “Fuck,” he gasps, voice harsh.

Admittedly, it’s more difficult than you thought it would be.

You’re not one to be easily overwhelmed (says you), but with Jungkook’s twitching cock in your mouth and his teasing tongue dipping into your entrance, it becomes hard to juggle your attention between the two. Even Jungkook, who is quite frankly the master of cunnilingus, seems torn between the two, his breathing shallow and quick against your folds.

With each slow descent around his cock, he shudders, thigh muscles tightening in anticipation. It causes a lull in the pace of his tongue, the generous kisses and licks against your folds subject to a somewhat uneven pace that, surprisingly, leaves you more on edge than you’d ever expected it to; right when you think he’s about to suck your clit into his mouth, you’re met with a harsh exhale instead, one that makes your lips flutter.

You’re both disappointed in yourselves for never having tried this mind-blowing position before, and equal parts understanding as to why you haven’t tried this position before— it’s a lot. His cock is halfway down your throat when it twitches, sends a gush of precum into your mouth that has your eyes rolling backwards, a whine slipping out around him. Jungkook appreciates the vibrations, letting it fuel him as he plunges his tongue into your hole. It’s a two way street, you realize, one that is constantly experiencing traffic.

“Baby,” you gasp, pulling off of his cock with a slick sound, hypnotized by the trail of saliva that connects your lips to his tip. Jungkook’s tongue prods along your slit, makes your eyesight go blurry when the tip of his nose brushes along you as well. The idea of his cute nose buried deep someplace it shouldn’t be has you grinding down on him. “We can— we should stop,” you stutter, your trembling hand reaching forward to grasp the base of his cock.

He’s slick with your saliva and his precum, and your hand makes a squelching sound upon contact. It must feel good, because Jungkook moans against your folds, his thighs unconsciously falling farther apart as you slowly jerk him off. You think you might’ve heard your name slip from his lips, but your mind is fuzzy, lost in your lust as Jungkook licks a sinful line from your hole to your clit, curling his tongue at the end. “J- Jungkook,” you cry, flinching away because it’s become too much, your toes curling as the beginnings of an orgasm threaten you.

Before that can happen, he relents, leaning back with a heavy exhale, his hands loosening their grip against your ass and plopping back down against the cushions. “Fuck,” he pants, his cock twitching in your hold. A lonely droplet of precum trails down the side, your knuckles coated in the glossy substance. Beneath you, Jungkook rubs one soothing palm against your hip.

You slink off before he can get any funny ideas, maneuver yourself around until you’re kneeling between his parted thighs, his fat cock standing at attention between the two of you. From here, he looks ravenous, and you begin to question who exactly is taking care of who. Jungkook looks like he’s a second away from pinning you down and swallowing you whole, a thought that makes your toes curl.

It’s with a cautiously horny hand that you reach for his cock again, holding him with both hands. Jungkook growls, head lolling backwards until all you can see is his neck and his chin, thick veins protruding along his skin. Jungkook doesn’t waste a moment longer. “C’mere,” he purrs, hauling you up until you’re clumsily leaning over him, palms framing his face. A lone finger runs down your spine, its faint touch making you arch forward. “Sorry,” he says, securing an arm around your waist. “I know you wanted to take care of me, but…”

You roll your eyes, submitting yourself to his clutches as he masterfully rolls the two of you over. The couch is soft beneath your back, and Jungkook looks pretty from above too. “You just can’t sit still, can you?” you murmur playfully.

Jungkook’s forearms find their place beneath your thighs, the fold of the back of your knee perfectly slotted against his warm skin as he shuffles closer. “Maybe another time,” he laughs along sheepishly, his hard cock gliding over your slit, teasing your clit. You gulp, eyes scanning over his lean build as if it’s the first time. “Sorry,” he repeats, but he’s got this stupidly dopey grin on his face as he glances down at your pussy; he’s insane, he’s got to be, what man makes heart eyes at a pussy?

Your man, apparently. Grasping the base of his cock, Jungkook takes care to drag it along your folds collecting your wetness along his length, a deep shudder wracking his body through it all. “I knew you would do this to me,” he mutters, so low you nearly miss it under the thundering sound of your heartbeat.

“Huh,” you mumble, and you’d like to defend yourself and say you weren’t as cock-crazy as Jungkook was coochie-crazy, but that would be a lie. You’re staring at his cock as if it holds the secrets to the universe right now.

Jungkook juts his head to the side, a motion similar to the one he does when he’s trying to crack his neck. His tongue prods along his cheek, eyes laser-focused on the point where your two bodies meet. “From the moment you walked into my house,” he grunts mindlessly, finally lining himself up with your entrance. He chances a glance up, meets your gaze with a patient look, “all good?”

“All good,” you hurriedly reply, fingers finding their place against his broad shoulders. With the way he had prepared you earlier, mouthed along your clit and your folds until you were pleasantly aroused, the glide now is too easy. Tight, but easy, has the two of you releasing twin moans that echo off the wooden walls of the cabin.

Jungkook’s forehead is covered in a thin veil of sweat, one that glistens when the evening sunset pours in through the balcony doors, highlighting him in a golden light that makes you dizzy. The angry tip of his cock sinks into your walls, Jungkook’s ashy strands sticking to his forehead and his cheeks. For some reason, you find yourself reminiscing on the aforementioned moment Jungkook had spoken of. Of the soft sweater he’d worn that day and the dinner he had made, the blond tips on his chestnut hair and the way he’d clung onto every word you’d said.

It makes you tear up, and, after laughing at Jungkook early for crying, you quickly turn your face away.

Jungkook isn’t dumb. “What now,” he chuckles, though his breathing is labored, every inch of his cock that penetrates you further bringing with it another rush of adrenaline. At the hilt, you’re embarrassed to say there’s multiple tears streaming down your face, so you can’t even play it off as you usually do. “Crybaby,” Jungkook teases, but his voice is so soft and tender you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“Just move,” you bite out, shamefully covering your face with your hands. Jungkook leans over you, the movement pushing his dick deeper inside of you, your walls clenching around him. A kiss is placed over your knuckles, just shy of your engagement ring. Your chest lurches with a silent sob. “Jungkook,” you whimper, sinking further into the cushion, “please, just—“

“I got it,” he assures you, placing one final peck against your handmade (literally) shield. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he makes sure to whisper, “love you,” before unsheathing himself.

You shudder, your heart feeling so full, you fear it’ll burst. You both love and hate when he treats you like this, like an ice sculpture in the scorching heat that has him doing everything he can to keep you solid. His touch is soft, the roll of his hips too slow for your liking. You feel so small and vulnerable— too pampered. “Harder,” you beg, your voice an airy whine that has Jungkook chuckling above you.

He lives to please you, hiking your leg over his shoulder with a renewed vigor. His hands find themselves on your waist, forcefully pinning you down against the couch cushions as he sets upon fulfilling your latest request. The next series of thrusts are jerky, have you jostling in his grip as Jungkook pounds into you with an all new mindset. “Lemme see you,” he huffs, thumbs painfully digging into your skin. You tremble in his arms, heart swayed by the quiet plea in his voice. “Let me see your face, pretty girl.”

Reluctantly, you do, brandishing your tear-stricken face his way. Jungkook smiles, that stupidly handsome smile, his hips snapping into you roughly. “Fuck,” he moans, the expression never leaving his face, even when run your nails over his chest harshly. “You’re so pretty.”

You ignore him for the sake of your already weakened mental state, focusing instead on the brutal force of his hips, the way his cock stretches your walls out. Each push has you seeing stars, thighs quivering from the sensations that shoot up your spine and down your toes. “Oh,” you mewl, hands gripping his biceps as you lose yourself to him. Your eyes roll back, vision a mess of colors and nothingness all at once.

“Is this hard enough?” Jungkook husks out, and he sounds so close. His proximity is confirmed when his mouth slots against yours, his harsh breath mingling with your own as he continues to frantically buck into your inviting heat, each new round of thrusts leaving you weaker and weaker than before. “God,” Jungkook cries, the sound nearly lost beneath your own moans and whimpers. “Gonna k- keep you forever,” he spits, tongue slipping into your mouth.

He’s messier than usual, moves with unrefined movements unlike his normal self. You don’t care, you love him all the same. His sloppy kisses turn into desperate ones, matching the pace of his hips. “Kook,” you sob, arms wrapping themselves around his neck, pulling him close until his thrusts are reduced to a shallower depth.

“I’ve got you,” he croons, lips against your jawline. His cock presses in and you swear you feel it alongside every inch of your walls, a warmth blossoming in your stomach. He’s layering messy kisses down your face now, lips sucking dark marks any chance he gets.

True to his word, Jungkook indeed has you. His cock pistons in and out at an astonishing pace, each surge into your folds making you dizzy over and over again. It’s a feeling you fear you’ll never grow tired of, in fact, it’s a feeling you fear you’ll begin to crave even more in the future. The good thing is, that future will extend into forever.

You yank him towards you, swallow his low laughter with your lips. Jungkook doesn’t complain, lowering himself until he’s practically squishing you beneath his beefy body, cock ramming in and out despite all that. His tongue glides along yours, makes it his mission to muffle each of your cries.

It doesn’t take long for you to be fulfilled. Given the fact you had sucked him off like a lollipop whilst having him eat you out, you’re not entirely surprised. That and the emotions of tonight have you melting into him sooner than you’d like, his name falling from your lips as your thighs clamp down around his waist. Jungkook takes it in stride, slows the maddening pace of his hips to cradle you in his arms. You’re like jelly, practically flop back into the cushion when he slips an arm beneath you. “You’re so good for me,” Jungkook praises, lavishing your throat in tiny pecks as his orgasm circles around. “My pretty girl.”

“Love you,” you sigh, and your body feels numb, his intrusion but a small touch now that he’s tired you out once more, your walls tender and raw. Jungkook presses a smile against your throat and, moments later, releases inside of you.

Even minutes after the deed, the feeling refuses to return to your legs. He didn’t go that hard— well, you’re not entirely sure. The memories always become blurry toward the end of your escapades. Everything rushes back in waves, and for some reason, your first thought is, “where’s Sailor Moon?”

Your post-rump conversations have never been the most coherent, usually filled with pretty weird thoughts and ideas. Still, more grand things have happened tonight for you to be worried about a magical anime girl. Jungkook draws himself out of your core with a huff of laughter. “On the TV,” he answers, unfazed by the oddity of your question.

That’s how you know he’s a keeper.

It takes a while, but eventually Jungkook responds. “Avocado toast,” he says, though his answer is dripping with uncertainty. He’s naked as the day he was born, snuggled up beside you in bed. He’s propped up on one arm, looking down at you over the ample swell of his manly bosom. It takes everything in you to keep your hands off his chest.

“Correct,” you respond, “and what movie did we watch?”

Without missing a beat, “Transformers, the first one.”

You nod, glancing at the ceiling as you rack your brain for any other trivia questions to ask your fiancé. “The title of the playlist you made?”

A flush paints his cheeks. “Date Night playlist,” he answers through a pout, reprimanding you for bringing up such a memory with a flick to your forehead. You wince. “I was young and silly,” he defends.

You beam, cuddling into his side until he’s forced to lay back down. “Yeah, yeah,” you tease. “We’re only gonna get older from here,” you lament. You’d say it’s difficult to picture him with a gray head of hair, but his current silvery locks don’t leave much room for your imagination.

Jungkook pulls you close. A beat of silence passes, and then, “so who are we telling first?”

Definitely Namjoon.

#networkbangtan #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook #Jungkook fic #jeon jungkook fic #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader smut #bts fic #bts smut #mine

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 2 years

Text

Red and White

Chapter 3

Rated: M

Warnings: hopefully correct Spanish (did my best), Sub/Dom themes, afab!reader, professor x student play

A/N: thank you all for likes and reblogs!

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Four

"Now would Norse Mythology count as a course in Xenoarchaeology or should it remain as part of historical studies?" That is a daily debate you start with Steven when bored and want his attention. It's a game you play with each other, like how he said 'Is water wet?' Harmless fun to see what sort of argument either of you can make.

Steven turned around from his chair ready to give you the biggest lecture only to stop when he saw you standing there with a hand on your hip, white laced lingerie on. His tie in one hand being twirled around.

"Oh?" He blinked twice as if he could never get used to seeing you. Perfect, beautiful you.

"Professor Grant, you have been working for too long. You forgot our private session, love."

Between the three of you, you have a high libido. Now, that doesn't mean you are always ready to go and needy for sex, it just means when you start it might be a minute until you stop.

Luckily, your boyfriends have quite the stamina.

Steven clears his throat before fixing his glasses, "W-well, my deepest apologies, Ms.(Name)–"

You sit on his lap pressing a finger on his lips, "Are you going to make it up to me?"

A nod has his hands grip the armrests of his chair.

"Good, Professor."

With Steven, you are the dominant one. He gives you control and his trust, you take care of him and he takes care of you.

With Marc, you are the submissive one. Well, you both switch depending on the mood, but most of the time Marc likes to be dominant.

"Want to touch me?"

"Yes, please."

"Please what?"

"Ms. (Name), please."

You tease Steven into craning his neck to get a kiss from you. Two small kisses then a third longer kiss with your teeth tugging on his bottom lip. Your needy puppy, who needs a leash when he easily puts a metaphorical one on himself.

Though you might buy one after using his tie to guide him to the bed.

"Professor Grant, you are so well behaved when you want my cunt around your cock." Dirty talk is another favorite to use on him as his cheeks burn red, his hands gripping the bed sheets as he lays on his back and his feet over the edge of the bed. "But you forgot our tutoring session." Pouting as you crawl over him, kissing your way up from his stomach to his chest. "My poor grades…"

"L-let me make it ah OH ah up to you, M-Ms. (Name)!"

Once– No– Three times you have gotten off on the voice of Steven and Marc. Those lonely nights in your apartment (or flat as Steven says it is called here), with just your hand or toy to keep you occupied.

You take extra care to leave your mark on his chest, the good boy not touching you until you say so.

"Naughty Professor," Licking his nipple while you lay on top of him, arm between your close bodies, finger undoing the string of his sleeping pants. Oh, how you adore his well-behaved nature, this touch-starved neediness causing him to be as obedient as a puppy sitting still for a treat.

Your treat for Steven is freeing his cock and giving him the slow and teasing handjob. At first, you make sure he is chasing for that rush; second, you don't let him go over the edge.

"Mi querido guapo." My handsome darling. You know about a few different languages ranging from growing up to your line of work. It drives your lovers nuts hearing you switch from English to another language. "Empieza. Buen chico." Beg. Good boy. He is practically singing under you.

"Please, please, Miss— Ah, bloody hell, God." Voice cracking as you edge him for what is going to be the third time.

"Color?" Giving him a moment to cool down enough to think.

"Green!" His cock aches badly. "Don't stop, love."

"Inside or my hand."

"Inside… I want to feel you." You adore how romantic he is, always wanting to end this with himself inside of you. Holding you for as long as possible.

You both went to bed around midnight-ish.

You woke up to who you think is Marc coming out of the shower. The smell is not his usual body wash nor is it Steven's. To be honest, you don't smell anything as if he used an odorless soap. Next is seeing go through a duffel bag pulled from the flooring. Why would Marc hide something?

The mannerisms are similar but… The clothes are off. Looks like some thug from those old noir films you love.

What the hell?

He turns towards the bed causes you to close your eyes and act as if you are shifting in your sleep. His footsteps are light, you nearly can't hear him.

You pretend to sleep when Marc (?) comes by the bed, sitting down at the foot of the bed. His hand hovers over your legs, hesitantly touching and squeezing your calf lightly."Vaya a dormir, señorita." Go to sleep. You tense up as he leaves your side and leaves out the window of the flat.

#reader insert #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #smut #jake lockely x reader #jake lockely x you #jake lockley #steven grant x you #steven grant x reader #steven with a v #steven grant #marc spector x you #marc spector #marc spector x reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight

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bobateastay · 2 years

Note

Can I request 1 with Seonghwa for the song prompts? ~~

1: say what you want, but say it with your fists like you mean it for once.

park seonghwa x gender neutral!reader

cw - 80s!au, somewhere between fluff and angst, blood, physical violence, very brief gun + war mention

word count: ~812

a/n: this is a little different from what i usually write - i hope it works and that you're not disappointed by the lack of interaction. i liked working with the idea, thank you for the opportunity!! i hope you enjoy and have a wonderful day <3<3

“Get up!”

Seonghwa barely heard the yell. His ears were ringing enough to make him dizzy and there was a horrid pain radiating through the side of his face, burning and aching so badly he figured he may as well have been hit with a sledgehammer. But it was just a fist that hit him. The fist of somebody who’d been shoving at you and spitting unpleasant words before he got involved. He almost regretted getting involved now - he barely knew you after all, you were just the cashier at his favourite corner store, and he wasn't being of much help - but he pushed himself back up onto his feet all the same, struggling to keep himself upright.

“You got some fucking nerve,” the person who’d almost knocked him unconscious said. They were close to mocking him. Seonghwa opened his mouth to speak and only then noticed that the inside of his cheek was bleeding, hot and metallic tasting blood spilling over his bottom lip to splatter all over the concrete beneath his feet. He tried not to show his shock when he spat out a mouthful of crimson spit, his hands shaking as the person in front of him stepped even closer to him. “You didn’t come here just to get beat up, right? Or maybe you don’t care after all?”

And it wasn’t that Seonghwa didn’t care, because of course he did. He cared more about most things than he ever cared to show. It was hard not to care, with the wars on the news and gas prices high and teenagers sporting black eyes because somebody else thought they were born better than them. He still remembered that debate in the news a few years back about whether or not lunchboxes should be considered weapons in the hands of delinquent kids (who calls a kid a delinquent anyway? was all Seonghwa had had to say at the time) and still wondered why the debate was over lunchboxes and not guns. So it wasn’t that Seonghwa didn't care, it was just that his caring didn't always measure up to his actions.

It was his own fault too. He didn't like admitting that he was softer around the edges than he meant to be - and he didn't mean that in a big macho man way. He meant it in the way that someone who'd been on the receiving end of one too many punches and who'd run from trouble before offering someone a helping hand meant it. He meant it in the way that someone who wished he'd look out for his friends - or anybody who needed looking out for, really - more often meant it. He didn't like admitting it because he thought he'd probably be a better person if it weren't for all of those soft edges, and that much was obvious too.

Maybe that was why he bled so easily or folded over after just a few punches. Maybe he'd been wrong to get involved. Maybe he wasn’t made for showing how much he cared.

“Seonghwa-”

He struggled to figure out what was going on when he felt a hand close around his, pulling him into a run so fast that he barely managed to keep up, clumsily stumbling away from cruel jeers and taunts until he came to such an abrupt stop that he ran straight into somebody’s back. He took a step backwards, holding on tight to the hand that was still holding his, and stared incredulously.

“You?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Me,” you replied. You sounded out of breath, but beneath that it sounded almost like you were in awe. “I’ve never seen someone do anything like that.”

“What?” he croaked out, narrowing his eyes. He lifted a hand to cradle the side of his face that was still stinging and winced. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even get a decent punch in. Just stood there.”

“Are you kidding me?” you cried out, voice rising in pitch. “I bet I’d have been beat to a pulp if you hadn’t been there.”

Seonghwa grimaced at the thought. You grabbed his other hand and pulled both of his hands close to your chest. He could feel your heart thumping just as hard as his own and let out a sigh of relief. You were both still standing, still breathing. Maybe you were right. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that he’d just stood there, as long as you both got out in the end.

“Let me fix you with some ice and clean clothes,” you said, still holding his hands against your chest. Seonghwa glanced down at his shirt, stained with slowly-darkening red, and nodded. You smiled, and he tried his best to smile back even with how numb and stinging his face still felt. “Thank you for caring.”

He sighed. It felt surprisingly good to show that he cared.

“‘Course.”

thank you for reading! 💗

taglist: @daisyboyclub @i-luvsang @peanutpmingib @sannierio @lokai-fi @w-iill @cutie-wooyo @xirenex

#ateez x reader #park seonghwa x reader #ateez fanfic #park seonghwa fanfic #ateez fic #park seonghwa fic #ateez imagines #park seonghwa imagines #ateez scenarios #park seonghwa scenarios

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pyroclastic727 · 4 years

Text

Is Amity autistic?

In the Owl House fandom, we hear a lot about how Luz is written to be ADHD. Now I would like to present the flipside: Amity is coded as autistic.

Here’s the breakdown.

Amity is touch-averse. “BuT aMiTy ToUcHeS LuZ aLL tHe TiMe” nice try. The key to autistic touch-aversion is only being okay with touch when she initiates it. And that totally matches up with Amity. See, Amity is really happy when she initiates touch with Luz. She’s also cool with it when Luz holds her hand after standing near her for enough time that Amity can predict an incoming touch. That’s because Amity consents to that touch and expects it.

But when other people touch her? She doesn’t take kindly to that. When Luz initially bumped into her at Covention, she snapped at her and degraded her. Even when she bumped into Luz in Enchanting Grom Fright, her initial instinct was to snap at Luz, since she didn’t expect to be touched. When Hooty touched Amity’s face without consent, she flipped out and beat him up. Not even Lilith beat Hooty up when he wrapped her up in his mucus-filled tube, but Amity gave Hooty the injuries we all wanted to see him with, because he breached her boundaries without her consent. Even as late as the last episode, Amity fell over when her face got close to Luz’s on the bleachers, because she didn’t expect it.

Amity stims. Okay, this one took me a while to catch, since most of the time, Amity is very controlled with her actions. This symptom isn’t very intense; her senses aren’t understimulated too often, and she really only does it when she’s really excited.

Mainly, when Luz offered to carry her. While she adorably scrambled for words, she also flapped her hands against her legs. At first I thought it was just a cute thing she did, but there’s more to it. She was so excited to be held by Luz that it showed up in her hands flapping...a common stim. With Amity feeling more comfortable around her new friends than the old ones, I wouldn’t be surprised to see more stimming in the future.

Amity always has The Mask as her expression. You know, the one with her eyes half-lidded, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly downturned. I also call it the Resting Blight Face, for...reasons.

At first I thought it was just a way to hide her true emotions, since her parents are assholes. But even though Luz makes her feel accepted, she keeps doing it. It’s more like...you know that feeling when you’re thinking really hard, or uncomfortable, or ashamed, or even just relaxed, and you can’t think of which expression to wear quickly enough, so you put on an unreadable one to tide people over? Apparently most people don’t do that, since allistic people tend to have expressions for those feelings, ones that arise naturally.

Another symptom of autism is having hard-to-read expressions, or being less expressive. In Amity’s case, it’s the fact that she doesn’t see a need to have an expression in calmer moments, so she just uses her usual expression.

Amity hyperfixates. This has several facets, so I’ll break this down.

She initially hyperfixated on school. And that’s how she became top student. Amity Blight is who you would mistake for a “gifted student.” But make no mistake...she is not gifted, and gifted is a bullshit label used to overexert people and force them to keep school as their special interest for their entire lives (and I may have a bit of a vendetta against it). Anyways, we already know she’s a perfectionist. My theory is that Amity originally was hyperfocused on school--the Abominations track, to be exact--and that’s part of how she got so good. Then, her focus shifted, but the school expected her to keep being top student. Cue the perfectionism; she was no longer able to focus on school like she wanted to, but everyone expected her to, so she got insecure about it.

She hyperfixates on Azura, just like Luz did. Yeah, she keeps it secret from the world, for most of the time. But she definitely likes Azura a lot. I mean, she started to reconsider her opinion on Luz when Luz offered her an Azura book. She destroyed her jock career because she tried to use an Azura move in real-life Grudgby. Her interest in Azura is long-lived, starting about the time that her interest in school would have expired (which would explain why she stayed closeted). And we can’t ignore the fact that she sees Azura in Luz and is definitely enjoying the parallels between herself and her fictional counterpart. (Which might not be a coincidence, but that’s an entirely different theory).

She hyperfixates on Luz. Yes, part of this is a crush. But a lot of us have watched Amity’s personality go from alpha bitch to cutest little bean in the Boiling Isles, all thanks to Luz’s influence. Lumity is not a rivals-to-lovers speedrun due to bad writing, it’s due to Amity hyperfixating. She’s already extremely introspective, going so far as to keep a diary where she analyzes and makes sense of herself. It’s not a stretch to say that she identified the faults that kept her from Luz and worked hard to change those off-screen.

Amity keeps a journal. To me, this seems like masking. You see, Amity is what people would consider to be high-functioning, since she can pass for allistic. But in order to do this, she has to put in significant effort on her part. See, when she does something that makes it so she doesn’t pass, she just sees it as a problem (since she probably doesn’t know about autism, and she passes well enough that she would totally be undiagnosed). Then she tries to fix the problem, in order to keep being perfect.

Amity has awkward body language. Thanks to the journal and other ways of masking, you don’t see this early on. But once she feels comfortable enough around Luz to let her guard down...she completely forgets boundaries. To review: in episodes 15-17, she throws herself at Luz, holds her formal rival’s hand for 24.71 seconds, blushes every time she sees Luz, and loudly declares her thirsty thoughts about Luz in uniform before literally running away. While some of this can be seen as normal gal pal things or crush things...you’d think a repressed wlw like Amity would try very hard not to touch Luz, so as to avoid being outed. Or at least she would do less of that stuff, so as to respect Luz’s boundaries the way she wants her boundaries to be respected. But that’s not the case, since she straight-up misses a lot of social cues. And since she feels comfortable around Luz, she doesn’t feel the pressure to be so paranoid about the cues, and can be her awkward self. From her point of view, she probably sees it as being freed from her parents’ judgment.

Amity takes things literally, sometimes. Now, this doesn’t happen all the time, since she isn’t heavily affected by this autistic trait. But when Luz says “I’m picking up what you’re putting down” and Amity says “I’m not putting down anything” and looks down...she not only missed the conclusion Luz drew from her words, but also assumed a literal meaning from her words. I can’t come up with many other instances of this, mostly because this doesn’t happen often. I would assume that Amity missed these a lot early on, and learned how to mask/identify them.

Amity is easily upset when things don’t go as planned. Let’s review these. In the library, she gets really mad at Luz when they end up stitched to a book, and it takes Luz’s sweet personality to get Amity to loosen up and laugh over it. When she goes to practice magic, and Luz steals her wand and uses it to get her siblings kidnapped, Amity locks Luz in a cage and assumes that she will get badly injured if she tries to fix the problems she caused. When Luz comes to her school, she panics and focus on how that doesn’t change anything. When she burns Willow’s mind, she appears absolutely terrified of being punished, flinching and bracing for impact when Luz finds her near the memories, constantly trying to distract Luz as they work together to save Willow, and hiding behind Luz when she confronts the Inner Willow. When Luz asks her to join her in Grudgby, Amity doesn’t initially agree, instead taking much more of the episode to come to terms with her involvement in it.

Amity likes predictability. She’s not attached to routines, but she does like being able to expect things. If she makes a plan for the day, she expects that day to adhere to that plan, and she doesn’t respond well when it changes. When Luz comes to her school, she focus on how that doesn’t change anything...not how that would ruin things or complicate things. Whenever she gets involved in Luz’s shenanigans, she either gets angry, scared, or takes a while to accept it. In a broader sense, she takes a while to accept that Luz and her shenanigans are a permanent fixture in her life--sixteen episodes, to be exact.

Finally, it would make for some excellent representation. An ADHD Dominican-American bisexual protagonist is pretty groundbreaking. But an ADHD Dominican-American bisexual protagonist girl who dates an autistic wlw witch girl from another dimension is exactly the kind of intersectional representation you’d expect to see from an unrestricted Owl House crew.

...Now, this might just be me hardcore projecting. I’m a little scared to post this because I don’t know how much of this is me reading into imaginary things, or trying to convince myself that Amity is like me. Feel free to debate/disprove me or support me in the comments.

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youryanderedaddy · 3 years

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Best Friends Forever

Summary: Your best friend finally has you back after all these years, tied up on his bed and ready to learn your lesson.

Tw: nsfw, non-con, slight mention of blood, threats, choking, slight degradation, dirty talk, cursing, infantilization, possessive behavior, patronizing behavior, overuse of petnames, slight dom vibezz

You knew your boyfriend was a lost cause, an addict so gone he would have done anything for a fix, but you never expected him to stoop so fucking low.

You had woken up in a suspiciously familiar place, laying on sheets oh so soft, puffy and white you simply couldn’t mistake the bed you were on. The walls were painted in black and blue, a combination so deeply engraved in your mind you couldn’t shake off the feeling you weren’t trully conscious, but dreaming of a happy yet distant memory of the past. It took you less than a second to realize you were in his room - the one where you had spent so many joyfull sleepless nights back in your youth. The relief was short - lived, though, because the moment you tried to move around, you became aware of the tight rope keeping your sore limbs tied to the wooden bed frame. After a while of twisting and thrashing around while screaming at the top of your lungs for help you finally heard the door open. You hoped you would at last be able to go home now, still desperate to believe this was merely a prank, a way for your junkie of a boyfriend to scare you into giving him money.

“There is no use trying to escape the bonds, my little love.” His voice emited through the small room, low, smooth as butter and softer than ever. You tried to lift your head and catch a glipse of the person talking, just to make sure you weren’t imagining things or going insane. And there he was in all his glory, the boy, no, the man you knew well looking so different from how you remembered him, but still it felt impossible not to see the many similarities - from the unruly dark curls to the warm gray eyes that used to be your only guide during times of misery and pain. This was none other than your childhood best friend and you had absolutely no idea why you were tied to his bed. “Oliver, why on earth am I here?” You asked as soon as the initial shock had worn off, completely forgetting to address the weird petname the student had called you.

He smirked slightly before crossing the distance keeping him away from you, and carefully sat down by your left side. He reached out to stroke your cheek in an affectionate way, his fingers lingering for a moment too long for it to be considered a mere platonic gesture. You tried to turn your head away from the warm touch since it made you feel uncomfortable and left you with so many new questions. “I missed you so much, precious.” Oliver took a deep breath and smiled at you, gently moving your jawline so you had no choice but to face him once again. “I was so happy when that disgusting piece of shit you call a boyfriend offered you to me.” The man bent to your shoulder-level and whispered in your ear, his tone so full of sick satisfaction you could swear there was honey dripping from his mouth. “I paid a lot of money to have you back, sweetheart.” He licked his lips in an obscene, suggestive way and you had to supress the sudden urge to vomit as you finally remembered exaclty why you had stopped contacting your best friend once you had started college. The boy used to be clingy, obsessive even, but you could have never guessed it was that bad.

“Oliver, please untie me, you are scaring me.” You pleaded in a tiny voice, hoping to summon what was left of the goodness he had tucked away deep in his heart. In response the male only chuckled and shook his head as he placed a small kiss against your neck, causing you to shiver in discomfort and disgust while you were mentally debating whether you wanted to kill him or your ex boyfriend first. Soon your spiteful thoughts were replaced by panic when your captor brought his hand to your t-shirt and started unclasping the small buttons one by one. You couldn’t help but turn red from embarassment the moment you felt your nipples harden under his palm and you became painfully aware you weren’t wearing a bra underneath. Your former friend had your tender breasts exposed to the cold air in a matter of seconds, his terrible fingers already pinching and pulling at the erect tips. “You have such pretty tits, darling.” He said huskily while squeezing your boobs, licking and biting the stretched skin. You hissed in pain and squirmed in a desperate attempt to move away but the rope was holding you in place, tightening around your sore injured wrists even more.

“I have wanted you for so long, angel.” The student admitted quietly, his stormy eyes fixed on yours, his stare so intense it could burn a hole through you. “Tonight I will make you mine.” Oliver declared with a clear sense of confidence and claimed your lips in a quick rough manner, muffling your pitiful whimpers like a man starved and hungry for flesh. The forced kiss and his deranged words made your stomach turn but something in his longing gaze told you there was a lot more in store. The guess, much to your horror, was soon confirmed when the dark - haired male reached down between your parted legs and easily slipped your panties down to your ankles. With your last bit of protection gone you felt awfully vulnerable, literally naked in front of the beast too keen on the past to see how much he was hurting you right now, in the present. You wanted to scream the second his fat grabby fingers pried your folds open, but choking on your desperate sobs proved easier at that moment.

“Aww, don’t cry, angel.” Oliver growled playfully and slid his index into your tight entrance, quickly adding a second one before you had the time to adjust properly. “I have to prepare you, baby, otherwise my cock may just tear you apart.” He remarked in low sickening voice, the excuse too crude and vulgar to be an act of caring. You whined as your walls clenched down tight now that there were three fingers stretching your hole, and you berely managed to utter “too full” before your friend pulled you for a deep kiss again, his tongue devouring your mouth, leaving you breathless and queit while sucking in the sweet pained moans.��“You can take it, babygirl.” The man groaned against your swollen red lips and grabbed your hips in a strong hold - you were sure there would be purple bruises there tomorrow.

Eventually, after half an hour of pushing his fingers in and out of your channel, lapping at your neck and leaving wet love marks all over your collarbone, the student was satisfied with his work. He had turned you into a whimpering mess and was ready to thoroughly enjoy the fruits of his labor, whether you liked it or not. “I am going to put it in now, precious.” Oliver pecked you on the cheek just to lick the salty trace of tears off your puffy skin. “I will force my whole length in your perfect little pussy.” Your captor bit your sensitive earlobe and you broke down in tears like a kid, the threat ringing in your ears like the gospel. “This might hurt a bit so I advise you to stay still and relax, baby.” The way the man continued casually, almost cheerfully, as if he wasn’t about to brutally rape you, made your skin crawl, but there was nothing you could do. You were all tied up, powerless to stop him. Suddenly, without any warning, his hard thick member entered you, piercing pain spreading through your whole body. The student panted in pleasure as soon as he thrust his manhood into your heat, the way it sucked him in leaving him high and blissful. You let a few miserable whimpers, the ache too much to bear, his moves too harsh, sudden and deep.

“Don’t give me such a-agh tormented expression, my love.” Oliver quickly shushed you by putting his hand over your mouth and pressing down to prevent any noise that might have escaped. His gaze was lustful, insane, but also loving in a twisted, perverse way. “Fuck, I love you so much.” He muttered, his voice gentle for a split second before going back to being taunting and mocking. “I used to be so angry each and every time you dated another guy, another asshole who was only after your body.” The man was rambling now, his face turning red at his own vicious thoughts, his growing anger reflecting in his cloudy pupils and his painful thrusts. “You always chose them over me like a stupid little bitch ...” He whispered dangerously and lifted your body towards his own so you could take his hits even deeper, so deep that you could feel the tip of his member kissing your cervix. “Well, now you don’t have a choice, angel. I have claimed you and I will keep you here forever.” You were crying out in agony, your pussy clamping down around the enormous length slapping again and again against your core. It burned so bad you wished you could dissapear somewhere far away just so you could have a moment of relief. “Oh, sweetheart, I know it hurts, but it’s almost over, you can take it for me, right?” The male cooed at you, switching back to that disgusting, infantilizing baby voice you had already grown to despise. When you failed to respond he gripped your throat, squeezing so tightly blood rushed to your cheeks and you inhaled sharply though your mouth only to feel the suffocation cut your breath short. “Answer me.” He barked through gritted teeth and you nodded frantically, desperate to gasp for air and cling onto dear life.

“Good girl.” Your former friend purred, pleased with your obedience, and let go of your neck, grabbing your hips instead. You coughed and drooled pathetically until you managed to resume your breathing, but the man, still buried deep inside you, seemed too caught up in chasing his own pleasure to notice how badly he had hurt you. Fortunately for you Oliver was really close, that much was obvious by his furious shoves at your abused cervix and his low growls each time he lowered his head to kiss you. Soon he came with a loud moan, painting your walls white, your ruined hole dripping with his seed and your blood.

Your captor seemed satisfied afterwards, peaceful in a way - there was a small smile adorining his cold lips as he wiped the tears off your face and squished your bruised body against his strong frame in a tight hug. You bit your tongue to stop the tears from overflowing once again, but to no avail. He let you sob in his arms until there wasn’t liquid left in your red, puffy eyes.

“You did very well, my love. I am really proud of you.” Oliver kissed your temple gently, resisting the temptation to graze you all over again with his lips, tongue and fingers. “I will help you clean up, then I will fix you some nice dinner.” He murmured in your ear, tickling the heirs on the back of your neck with his warm breath. “Doesn’t this sound good, baby?”

You closed your eyes and nodded slowly.

#yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere smut #male yandere #yandere oneshot #yandere oc #yandere male x reader #yandere oc x reader #yancore #male yandere x you

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rose2jam · 3 years

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Why It Was Practically Inevitable That Severus Snape Would Join A Cult, an essay by Rose Jam

So, let’s talk about Cults. Disclaimer: This is just information I’ve gathered over the years from my personal fascination with religious cults. I’m in no way an expert or a psychologist or whatever. This is just my personal understanding from the research I’ve done.

A cult is started when a wildly charismatic Leader feels like they have a purpose, a higher calling, or a mission to be fulfilled (or they could also just be an egomaniac). Maybe they really do feel like what makes them special comes directly from a higher power, be that God, or the Heir of Slytherin, but either way, this person has a pathological need to be worshiped, and they need followers in order to do that.

So, how does one obtain Followers easily? By finding the misunderstood misfits of society, and promising them something. The people who feel like no one else understands them, or their ideologies. But this Leader? This Leader GETS IT, MAN! The Leader understands them perfectly, vindicates them, and makes them promises along the way. Like, if they stick with the Leader, then not only will they finally be understood, but they themselves will also be revered. That they will rise above all of the others who have put them down for so long, and will come out on top as a superior being.

Any of this sounding familiar?

Charles Manson preyed on young people in the middle of the hippie movement, mostly women, who were feeling lost, lonely, and in need of guidance, or in terms of the men he recruited, seeking power over others. Not all of these people were poor or helpless; some of them came from middle class, or even rich homes and families. Yes, some of them came from broken homes, but all of them felt “broken” themselves, in some way. So Manson used their desires to have a family to draw them in. He then used LSD and other drugs to keep them under his control, and he created a manipulative environment where the members of his “family” felt they could never leave him, and if they didn’t follow his commands, something horrible would happen to them. I’m not going to go into full detail on the Manson Family Murders, but if you’re personally interested, check out the Podcast “Cults” on Spotify.

So back to basics, this Leader draws in Followers with flowery promises of community, power, family, or whatever. But once the Leader has that following, the terror will begin. Cult Leaders are usually master manipulators, and have completely brainwashed their followers into believing the “us vs them” mentality, that the outside world is evil, that the outside world will only harm them, that the outside world would never understand what they’re doing on the inside. And that the Leader is the only one who knows the truth, so they better stick with him. Or maybe the Leader has gaslit his followers so completely, that they become dependent on him for everything, to the point where they don’t know how they would possibly function without the Leader. Or, the Leader has created an environment that’s so hostile, that Followers are too afraid of what might happen to them if they tried to leave, or didn’t do what the Leader commanded. Typically, it’s a combination of all of the above. Destructive cults will either hurt others outside of their circle (The Manson Family, Sect of Nacozari), harm themselves (Heaven’s Gate, The Ant Hill Kids), or both (The People’s Temple, Aum Sinrikyo).

Now that I’ve laid this foundation, I’m going to tell you why it was practically inevitable that Severus Snape would join a cult.

Snape’s childhood ultimately laid the foundation for the mental state he would be in when he decided to join the Death Eaters. He grew up in an abusive household, where his father, the muggle, had his magical wife so thoroughly whipped, that she couldn’t (or chose not to) use magic to defend herself, or her son (1). Eileen had obviously told Severus about magic, about Hogwarts, about what a wonderful place it was, and what a wonderful gift magic could be. Severus also watched as Tobias beat the magic out of her. (I know it’s debated whether Tobias actually physically abused his family, but he certainly verbally/mentally/emotionally abused them, so the term “beat” could be used figuratively as well). I don’t think it’s unreasonable to believe that Severus developed an extreme hatred of muggles with “burn the witch” mentalities from a very young age because of this.

Enter Lily, perhaps the only other magical person in his life besides his mother up to this point. He sees her using magic out in the open, perhaps recklessly, for fun, and he sees an opportunity to make a friend (and, admittedly, to be smarter than someone about something for a while). He was so eager to tell her all about magic, because getting to learn magic, and go to Hogwarts, has possibly been the only thing keeping him going in his young life. And now he’s made a friend, a real friend who doesn’t think he’s weird because he’s magical. Unlike Petunia, yet another muggle who makes fun of him for being weird (2). And Lily actually seems to like him back. For a kid who probably hasn’t received a lot of affection in his life, this is monumental. This friendship is everything. Why wouldn’t he love her?

So the time finally comes to go to Hogwarts. Severus gets to escape his abusive household, and finally has an opportunity to embrace magic for the first time in his life. But almost immediately, he’s met with a hic-up. Specifically, James Potter and Sirius Black. So Severus is no longer facing abuse exclusively from muggles who think he’s weird, but now he’s also getting it from other magical people who think he’s weird (3). And this started on the fucking TRAIN before he even GOT to Hogwarts. You can’t tell me that wouldn’t sour a kids dream right off the fucking bat. And then, when he finally gets there, he’s separated from his only friend, by being sorted into different houses (4). What a way for a life-long dream to be thoroughly dashed in less than 24 hours.

Let’s look at Snape’s Hogwarts experience. He’s a good student, and he pours himself into learning as much magic as possible, and at being the best he can possibly be, probably motivated by a desire to be better than what his Father thinks possible. During this time, he is regularly bullied and abused by the Marauders. Sometime before his 5th year, the Incident at the Shrieking Shack took place. It definitely sucks to have been so thoroughly fucking duped, and put into a life-threatening situation involving a goddamn werewolf (5). But perhaps even worse than that, the salt in the wound, was that no one fucking did anything about it (6). He saw Sirius and James and Remus get out of that situation without facing any sort of proper punishment (as in, they all still stayed at the school as opposed to being expelled like they DEFINITELY SHOULD HAVE BEEN (At least Sirius should have been)). Dumbledore was looking out for the Marauders, but no one was looking out for Severus. On top of that, Severus isn’t allowed to TELL anyone about it, not even Lily. So, he goes through what was possibly one of the most traumatic experiences of his life, and he can’t even tell anyone that it happened.

So, what sort of support system does Severus have during all this? He has Lily, sure (who literally told him he should be GRATEFUL to James, one of his abusers). But, what he really has, is Slytherin House (7). I’ll say it plainly: Severus was sorted into a house that was already full of existing cult members. McGonagall says in Sorcerer’s Stone that “Your house will be like your family” (she at least says it in the movies, I’m too lazy to get up and reference my books rn lol). So, Severus’ family, his support system, for 10 months out of every year, is a house that is already full to the brim with pureblood elitists with prejudiced ideals, who would absolutely vindicate Severus in his dislike for muggles. As a kid first getting sorted into the house, it’s obviously not unreasonable to become friends with the people you’re literally living with. His dorm mates became his family. So, when his dorm mates started to become Death Eaters… This is headcanon, I fully admit, but like, fuck, Severus didn’t have a lot of friends, and was probably already drifting apart from Lily. Do you really think he was going to tell the people he had to live with every single day, not to mention the only people that had been supporting him for years, to go fuck themselves for using Dark Magic? Especially when he was probably feeling like he was on the verge of thinking that their rhetoric made some sense?

On to Snape’s Worst Memory (8). At this point, he’s spent 5 years in Slytherin House, with fellow students who casually throw around the M word. He gets attacked by James and Sirius, he’s practically defenseless, and then the girl who he’d considered his closest friend for so long… has to force herself not to smile when he’s thrown upside down and exposed to everyone on the grounds. Sure, she was trying to defend him at first, but she also fucking nearly smiled at his humiliation, his pain, his abuse. So he hurls the one word that he knows is going to cut the deepest, that will hopefully hurt her as badly as she has hurt him. And it works.

Severus had been beaten down his entire life. By Muggles and Magic Folk alike. And finally, he’s betrayed by Lily, his last lifeline to the light. He betrayed her as well, of course. But he did try to show remorse. And she doesn’t forgive him (9), which was her prerogative, of course.

So. Who does he have left?

I’ve placed little (numbers) throughout my writing here. Each of those numbers denote the specific events that led Severus to becoming an angry young man, who hates muggles, hates (some) magic folk, and resulted in him feeling weak, helpless, and desperate. For what? For power, for a family, for a community. For a world where he is no longer the weird one. For a world where he’s respected, strong. For the world he thought he was going to be a part of, when he arrived at Hogwarts in his first year.

And it just so happens that this is the exact world that Voldemort is (allegedly) trying to create.

Severus Snape was angry, and vulnerable, and as such, he was practically the poster child for the type of person who would be susceptible to falling for a cult. Maybe he was recruited by his friends in Slytherin House. Maybe he was recruited directly. Either way, charismatic Tom Riddle came along, understood how he felt, where he was coming from, told him he deserved better, and offered him all of the things he never had in his life. And being at rock bottom, being the lowest of the low, to Severus it must have seemed like a miracle of an opportunity, or perhaps, like the only chance he had left.

Now, let me be extremely clear; everything I’ve written is not trying to EXCUSE Severus Snape for his actions. There is always a point where personal responsibility must come into play. Except for children born into cults or victims of kidnapping, nearly every person who has ever joined a cult has made the personal decision to join it. I’m just trying to express how unbelievably easy it is, for a Cult Leader to find people with damaged lives and low self-worth, to suck them in with promises of a fulfilling life and grandeur, and for those people to be easily swept up and brainwashed into believing that what they are doing is right. (Or that what they are doing is required, because the alternative is more horrifying.)

The type of people who joined the Death Eaters are the same type of people who joined Heaven’s Gate, or The People’s Temple, or yes, The Manson Family. Now, I’m just going to say, from my own personal point of view, I do not vilify anyone who’s ever joined a destructive cult. On the contrary, I feel sorry for them. Because most people who join a cult, don’t necessarily do it signing up for the… end result of what happened to them. Some of them totally do, like Heaven’s Gate. Most of them knew that the end result was going to be the “evacuation of their earthly vessel”. But the people who joined the Manson Family, for instance, did not initially join it KNOWING how it was going to end. They were part of the family long before Manson even came up with Helter Skelter, and by the time the Tate-LaBianca Murders took place, they were already too far gone to go against it.

I highly recommend anyone who’s interested in a humanizing view of former cult members, to read the essay “Leslie Van Houten: A Friendship” by John Waters. https://www.huffpost.com/entry/leslie-van-houten-a-frien_b_246953

Or, at the very least, listen to this 7 minute NPR interview with John Waters about the essay https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111585116

It’s the story of how notorious film maker John Waters, became friends with former Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten, and about how she broke away from the cult after her conviction, how she’s spent the last 51 years of her life recovering from the psychotic influence of a maniac who’d promised her the world, and how even though she was convicted to life WITH a possibility of parole, it’s never been granted to her, despite the fact that she has done literally everything possible to try and atone for her crimes.

Maybe I’m just a bleeding heart. I’m pretty much the only person I know who feels sorry for Leslie Van Houten and other cult members who were brainwashed, abused, and manipulated into doing a lot of the horrible things they’ve done. But there are people in the world, who have committed FAR more heinous crimes than the Manson Family murders, and who are far less repentant than Leslie, but because those crimes weren’t as notorious, they get to walk free.

Addendum: When I first posted this, I had a few people point out to me that they had always associated Voldemort and the Death Eaters with Hitler and Nazi Germany. This is a perfectly fair point, but one that I personally don’t jive with, and the reason is simply the numbers. There were literally millions of people in the Nazi party during WW2. Death Eaters don’t even reach triple digits, as far as I’m aware. As I hinted at in this essay, I consider Voldemort and the Death Eaters to be MUCH closer to Charles Manson and the Manson Family. The Manson Family 100% had Nazi ideology, of course. "Helter Skelter” was Charles Manson’s prediction that there was going to be a massive race war; one that the Whites were going to lose, and that he and his Pure White family would emerge from it in order to rule over the remaining Blacks. Kinda... sounds like a Death Eater thing, huh?

Sorry. Back to Snape. There is a lot we don’t know about Severus’ actual time as a Death Eater. I think it can be reasonably assumed he’s never actually killed anyone before Dumbledore (In Prince’s Tale, Severus questions if his soul would be safe from killing Dumbledore, and Dumbledore implies that his soul would not be damaged by helping an old man avoid pain and humiliation. This leads me to believe that Severus never committed any soul-damaging murders before this). Beyond being a sneaky spy and delivering the prophecy to Voldemort, his time as a Death Eater is all up for conjecture.

Severus does make one important deviation from the typical cult member mold, however. In the end, he manages to break away from the cult. The scales fall from his eyes. In a figurative sense, the LSD has worn off. What made him sober up, was the threat to his last lifeline to the light. The one good fucking thing he’d ever had in his miserable life. He was brought back by genuine love. Ya know, the ENTIRE MESSAGE OF THE HP SERIES. And not only did he leave the cult, but he then spent the rest of his life actively attempting to destroy it, and atone for the mistakes he’s made, in an effort to bring back the world he’d been excited for, as an 11-year-old kid, so full of hope.

#Snape Meta #Severus Snape #Pro Snape #Snapedom #Snape Community #This will be the TRUE test of the tags #Essay Jam #Why It Was Practically Inevitable That Severus Snape Would Join A Cult

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alaskasmonsters · 4 years

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Gentle Hands | Shigaraki Tomura

with a quirk like shigaraki’s, physical touch had never been something another person had trusted him with. the fear of what he could do proved to be too great to get close enough. everyone was scared to touch him...everyone but you.

part two

pairing: shigaraki tomura x gn!reader

w.c: 3. 223

warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, descriptions of injuries, shigs is touch-starved :c

a.n: this took me way too long to turn out like this...i seriously don’t know what happened along the way but this was meant to go an entirely different direction...idek.

Shigaraki’s room was enveloped in darkness. The only source of light coming from where you had carefully cracked the door open after several unanswered knocks. It barely illuminated the small space inside, only revealing the silhouettes and rough placement of the furniture.

You’d never been inside of Shigaraki’s room before. There had never been a reason.

As the league’s personal medical support (or nurse, something Dabi liked to refer you to) you’d mostly only talked to any of them if there was an emergency that required your help. Then they’d meet you in the “living room” (you hesitated using homey words like that in connection to the hovel the members of the league had resided in the last few months).

Not that you didn’t get along with them, but you couldn’t really say you were particularly close with any of them. Criminals liked to keep their distance. Distance meant safety, it was the first rule in the handbook basically. Shigaraki was no different. He was the most mysterious of them you’d say, even more distanced with you it seemed. Saying there was no reason to grow attached to a NPC, like you were a dog that would be returned to their rightful owner soon anyway.

It didn’t bother you much. You knew the man needed his personal space, he had his reasons to be suspicious of new people, to be hesitant to let anyone too close...they all had.

That’s the price they paid in a life like that, or maybe they had already been like this before they ever became villains.

Entering Shigaraki’s room now and without permission was probably the closest you’ve ever come to being disintegrated, you thought as you carefully peeked inside. The guilt from intruding already crawled up your stomach. You wouldn’t normally do this, but you were worried after Kurogiri had told you about an “incident” this morning.

It had left Shigaraki badly injured and hiding himself in the darkness of his own four walls, since they had returned. Kurogiri hadn’t told you any details, but you could tell whatever happened had been bad, judging by his concerned tone when he’d requested you to look after the man. He asked you to heal him even if he were to refuse and you had agreed immediately, although you doubted you’d get close enough to Shigaraki if he didn’t want it.

The darkness was thick before your eyes, you could hardly tell the difference between the bed and the rest of the room. Not even the tv’s light was burning...you had expected Shigaraki to play a game if he really were as frustrated as Kurogiri had made it sound like.

The only reason you spotted a glimpse of where the man was located was due to the way the light reflected off the white strands of his hair. He was on the ground behind his bed.

“Shigaraki?” you called his name softly, not sure if he’d already noticed you or if maybe he’d fallen asleep.

You got no answer.

“Kurogiri sent me. Can I come in?”

You waited a minute, probably longer, but when there was still no answer you let out a heavy sigh.

“I’ll take that as a “I don’t mind either way”.”

You squeezed through the small space between the frame and the door, not daring to expose the man to more of the light he seemed to be so sensitive to. At least you guessed that that was the reason he was sitting in the darkness. Maybe he was just feeling emo, Shigaraki seemed the type.

You closed the door behind you, plunging the room into darkness again. This turned out to be a bad idea, since now you were both without sight and you had to slowly and carefully approach where you remembered the bed to be. You could only speak of luck you hadn’t bumped into anything before you made contact with the bedframe, using it to navigate closer to where you suspected Shigaraki to cower at, sliding down to sit on the ground as well.

You sat in silence for a while, making sure he didn’t want you to leave after all, but Shigaraki stayed quiet, the only sign he was still next to you was the sound of his ragged breathing.

You debated what would be the best approach. Should you scoot closer? Maybe you should start with telling him Kurogiri had sent you? Or maybe you could let the two of you stay in silence for a little while?

Approaching Shigaraki when he was in a vulnerable state was similar to a wild animal that had been injured. You had to be careful about it.

“You hurt your hands,” the words slipped your mouth.

Not careful enough.

Had you seriously gone with the worst approach you could have possibly chosen? Good job, Y/n!

Shigaraki didn’t curse you out so you guessed it was fine after all. Maybe his hands were off worse than you had initially thought...

“I want to fix them, if that’s alright but i’d need a little bit of light to do so,” you explained, keeping your voice quiet and calm.

There wasn’t an answer for several minutes. You started to grow restless, thinking that maybe you had overstepped a line, maybe it was better if you left again…

Before you could though you heard a grumbling agreement, barely audible, much closer than you had expected. A second later a dim light illuminated the small room.

You had to close your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness before you could finally look at Shigaraki, who was sitting a few feet away from you, his back leaned against the matratze of his bed.

He looked miserable, his face was lowered so he couldn’t meet your eyes and his features were hidden by the messy white locks.

But what shocked you most was his hands. He had spread his fingers, palms up, on his lap so you saw the actual damage that the attacker had done.

His palms were blood-smeared, cut open, some cuts running so deep you thought you could see parts of the bone peaking out from between the damaged skin.

You felt bile rise up your throat at the view.

It looked painful, cruel. As if someone had tried to ruin his hands in the most painful way possible.

You inched closer, eyes trained on the damage.

Shigaraki tensed up as you scooted closer and you stopped immediately, looking up into his face, making sure you didn’t overstep again.

He was still avoidant of your eyes, shrunken in on himself with his shoulders hunched. He looked like a scared child to you...

“May I?” you asked him, desperately hoping he’d say yes.

His eyes only flickered between you and his hands once before he gave a soft nod.

You carefully reached out to grab the backside of his hands, meaning to pull them closer for you to inspect. The way Shugaraki froze at your touch made you pause and you realized with dread that you had forgotten to ask if it was okay to touch him. He must be in pain, of course he was.

You quickly removed your hands again, giving him a concerned look.

“I’m sorry Shigaraki-kun, did i hurt you?”

He frowned at your question, eyes quickly jumping between your expression and your hands just inches beneath his, waiting to reach out again if he’d allowed it.

He seemed conflicted for a second, but then he shook his head.

You chose not to question it, only giving a soft nod in response before reaching out again. This time you gently wrapped your fingers around his wrists instead, drawing his hands closer so you could inspect them better.

The light was still too dim to see the most gruesome parts of the injury, but even without it you could easily get an idea of what had occured.

The wounds were too deep, the blood that came out of the slashes in a dark flow...this wasn’t caused by a normal knife. Rather by another person’s quirk, one related to mutilation because how else would you describe the cruelty of the wounds inflicted.

It probably made it impossible to heal by itself, too.

Whoever did this had wanted to make Shigaraki’s quirk absolutely useless, damaging his hands beyond repair in the most cruel way.

And while you did know he’d caused a lot of pain with those hands, the idea someone had tried to mutilate them made you sick to your stomach.

You let out a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down as you leaned down to hover just above Shigaraki’s hands.

Thankfully the league of villains had you and your quirk, seeing as you could heal almost everything, as long as the wound was still fresh and cells weren’t too damaged to manipulate.

Dabi had been the one to introduce you since he’d found you years before when you first started helping him with his unfit quirk. You weren’t a villain, only by association, but you’d always had a soft spot for difficult cases. You hadn’t been able to heal his scars then, since the cells were already dead and the injuries were old and your quirk wouldn’t let you revive anything. But you’d suggested to take care of all the newer wounds

Now you were working with the league of villains or maybe helped out was a better way to phrase it, considering the only method of payment you’d receive was fast food.

You focused your attention on Shigaraki’s injuries, leaning even closer to be able to see everything up close. It was necessary to use your quirk appropriately.

“Ready?” you asked, eyes searching for Shigaraki.

They were wide and attentive. He looked nervous if you had to guess, although he would have denied it if you had asked.

He gave you a nod and you smiled at him, giving his wrists a reassuring squeeze. You decided to ignore the way his eyebrows knit together at the gesture. You imagined he didn’t like touch very much.

You shift your attention to his left palm first, removing your hand from where they had gripped the man’s wrist to let it hover over the injured skin. The tell-tale sign of buzzing spread through your skin as you focused all your senses on the damage you’d been inspecting.

The sight of the cuts running oh so deep, the smell of iron stinging your nose, the feeling of broken and ruined skin and bones and muscles.

A green light, slowly growing brighter and bigger, more intense in color too formed and enveloped your hand. Your fingers inching closer and closer to the bloodied and ripped skin. Just right before your hand would touch his you stopped, the light now extending until it was enveloping his hand as well.

Shigaraki’s fingers twitched, his wrist tensed under your touch. You pressed down on the juncture to reassure him you’d hurry up.

You watched his skin pulling bac, his hands shaking a little when you concentrated on repairing the muscles that have been torn apart before.

It was a slow process, you knew that. You were known for officiency not speed, after all. And you were aware it hurt, probably just as terrible as when the blade had ripped through his skin in the first place. Regenerating injuries like this would usually take weeks and months, a dozen operations and it still would never go back to the way it once was. Doing it your way, basically forcing the cells to regenerate, speeding up the natural process and enhancing it...it took energy from both you and him.

His breathing was ragged, his arm was shaking in your grip, more intense than before and you hated it, hated knowing he was hurting and you couldn’t do anything to make the process go smoother for him, make it hurt any less.

All you could think of was running your thumb over the inside of his wrists, trying to reassure him like that. Trying to signal him that it would be over soon.

You didn’t know if it helped but you certainly felt his body freeze up for a moment. Maybe that was just because of the procedure though.

You watched the skin grow over again, slowly, and leave behind a slightly bloodied but smooth skinned palm. Shigaraki sank back into his seat, letting out a small huff as the pain stopped.

You took the time to inspect his palm, letting your fingers glide over the smooth skin and noting how it all seemed to be back to how they were originally with joy.

“Does your left hand feel okay? Flex your fingers a little.”

When he stayed still you looked up, Shigaraki’s gaze already focused on your face. There was something unreadable in the way he looked at you. He almost looked confused.

You bit your lip, glancing between his hands and his face as dread slowly rose in your stomach.

“You can flex your fingers...right?” you asked nervously.

What if you made a mistake? What if you messed up with his muscles?

Shigaraki’s finger twitched, before he bent them. Spreading them apart before creating a fist. You quickly pulled your hand away to leave him the room to move around a little, returning to tap his skin once more when you saw he was done.

“You feel that?” you asked, less nervous now that you knew that he could still move it.

The only answer you got was a grunt but that’s all you needed.

You moved on to his right hand then. Clasping his wrist with one hand to stabilize him and raising your other just above his palm. You repeated the procedure once more, green light enveloping both your hands as your face was set into a deep frown of concentration.

You stroked his wrist with your thumb once more as soon as you felt Shigaraki tense up again.

He was trembling even harder this time and you couldn’t tell if it was only because he was already exhausted or because this hand had been through more damage.

All you could feel was that the level of damage must be similar, the time it took you to fix the connections of the muscles felt about the same. Then his skin grew over slowly.

You repeated your check up, smoothing your fingers over the skin of his palm and telling him to flex his fingers. He reacted quicker this time, clenching and unclenching his fist a few times.

You gave his wrist a last squeeze before you let go, satisfied and happy you’d done a good job. Of course you wouldn’t know for sure until a few days later when Shigaraki was able to tell you if his hands were giving him any problems. But for now Shigaraki looked a lot better.

His pale face had filled with a little bit of color again, although his eyes were weirdly unfocused as he lowered his head to inspect his hands. You watched him in confusion, as he flexed his fingers again. Wasn’t he sure if you’ve done a good job? Did he feel pain?

“Is everything alright? Wait, lemme see again.”

You leaned forward, softly gripping his hands to pull them closer to inspect once more. Shigaraki froze up at the contact again and you frowned when you saw that the skin was all smooth and fixed, giving no reason for the man to act so tensed up.

You searched his eyes, only finding him already staring at you with an undefinable look in his eyes. You were just about to open your mouth to ask him about it. Not necessarily why he was acting so weirdly, but more specifically what haunted him.

Before you could do that, he surprised you with pulling his hands back before opening his palms which were facing upwards.

You watched in confusion.

He stretched his fingers, raising his hand upwards. The motion made you cock your head to the side. He was looking at you with narrowed eyes, clearly expecting something from you. Thinking you knew what he tried to ask of you you placed your hand on top of his, noticing him spreading his thumb apart to not touch you with all five of his fingers.

Shigaraki searched your face for a reaction but you didn’t know what kind of reaction that was supposed to be.

“I knew you were kinda crazy but that’s another level.”

“Excuse me?” you gaped at him.

“Only a crazy person wouldn’t be afraid to touch me.”

Gears started turning in your head and your cheeks heated up at the realization that that had been the reason why he’d frozen up. He wasn’t used to touch. He had been probably overwhelmed having your hands all over him.

“Oh...I guess I trust you wouldn’t disintegrate my hands.”

He raised an eyebrow at you.

“I’m useful aren’t i? Maybe I'd be more worried about a foot or knee cap but I kinda need my hands for the healing.”

He hummed in agreement, seemingly satisfied knowing you weren’t a total moron.

Although to be quite honest you weren’t so sure if you’d flinch from his touch even if it was directed towards your face. You didn’t know if you had it in you to mistrust him. When it had come to this point you didn’t know, somewhere along the way you had just stopped questioning your growing positive feelings towards the leader of the league of villains (and the other members as well).

Sometimes you liked to think both of you had mutual respect for each other. Enough to not randomly disintegrate the other person, that was.

“I’m sorry i made you uncomfortable, though. I should have asked beforehand.”

He snorted, fingers flexing under your grip, bending to run them over the palms of your hand.

“I don’t mind,” he muttered.

You didn’t think it was all he had wanted to say, but whatever else tried to leave his mouth was held back by Shigaraki biting his lip. You didn’t question it.

The man continued exploring your skin and you spread your fingers a little wider to give him more access. It was fascinating to you, how curiously he was exploring your skin, like a small child eager to experience new sensations. He had cocked his head to the side, eyeing you from beneath his hair, calculating, waiting.

He reached for your hand and you let him. Let him grip and turn it, until he could easily intertwine his fingers with yours, hesitant and careful to touch you, mindful to spread his pinky to not touch your skin.

You felt your cheeks heat up at the gesture, curiously glancing up at the man that was so hesistant with physical touch usually.

“Shigaraki-kun?”

He shook his head, eyes focused on your hands

“Tomura.”

You smiled, surprised but satisfied for some reason.

“Tomura,” you whispered, closing your grip around his hands.

Taglist: @crystal-lilac

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