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eepy-pleepy · 3 years

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It’s Not Everest (No Vacancy)

The neon “NO” is hidden behind an overgrown shrub, so Dean pulls the Impala into the motel parking lot before they can see that it is, in fact, lit.

“Awesome.” Dean says in a tone that clearly doesn’t think so, and whips the car around to pull back onto the dark road. They immediately hit a pothole and Sam’s head bumps the ceiling.

“Ow, wait, Dean, we didn't go check with the office, maybe they just left the sign lit because they can’t freaking see it–”

“No, Sam, every goddamn motel in this godless town is full up and I don’t particularly feel like walking into another musty fucking office just to have them tell me I need to learn how to read. It’s too damn late, I’m too damn tired, I’m just gonna find a pull-off where the cops won’t feel the need to be our 5AM wake-up call and we’re sleeping in Baby. Fuck it.” He emphasizes the last sentence by throwing the car into park, all seventeen feet of shiny black metal successfully hidden behind a bank of tall, scraggly shrubs off the shoulder of the road. Dean kills the engine and the early summer evening rises to fill the silence with the musical stylings of several hundred crickets.

“Dean.”

“We’ve done it before, Sam.”

“I know we have. What about Cas?”

Dean looks over at the passenger’s side. Sitting shotgun, Cas looks back at him, his eyes just a dark glint in the moonlight.

“I can just... keep watch outside.” He says.

“Bad fucking idea.” Dean snaps. “I wake up in the middle of the night and see you out there lurking, I might shoot you between the eyes. You’re staying in the damn car.”

“Dean, there’s not enough roo–”

“Look, Sammy, passing out is passing out, sitting or lying down. This is a molehill, not Everest. I just need my four hours, damn.”

Dean crams up against the driver’s side door, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his bent knees against the back of the seat between himself and Cas. He’ll worry about bootprints on the leather upholstery when he isn’t so fucking exhausted.

“Jerk.” Sam mutters from the backseat, almost inaudible.

“Goodnight, bitch.”

“Goodnight, Dean. Sam.” Cas murmurs.

“Don’t make it weird, Cas.”

"Goodnight, Cas."

"Thank you, Sam."

Dean gives a little huff through his nose. Cas folds his hands in his lap and turns his head forward to watch the fireflies.

Dean doesn’t like it when Cas watches him sleep. Cas knows this.

But if he doesn't want eyes on him, he shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to himself. This is the fourth time inside of an hour that he’s shifted around, clearly uncomfortable with his sleeping arrangement, six feet of full-grown man trying to figure out how to make three feet work for him.

It's clearly not working out.

Dean's head has fallen against Castiel’s arm. He’s snoring gently, Cas can feel his breath warm through the sleeve of his trench coat.

He shuts his eyes. Pulls his focus down to just this, the upper lefthand side of his body. Feels the weight of Dean's head, the unyielding shape of his skull, the softness of his cheek. Cas turns his head towards him, just to better assess the situation. Not at all to feel the soft tickle of Dean’s hair against his nose and lips. That’s just an... accidental consequence.

Cas feels too big for his own skin. It’s something a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent should be entirely familiar with, but this isn't the feeling of cramming a Chrysler building into a 5-foot-11-inch frame.

This is bigger than that.

The slump of Dean’s body across the seat means that his head is the only thing supported, and it has his neck at a bad angle. If Dean's an angry sleeper, he's even worse with a crick in his neck and Cas doesn't love the idea of being stuck in a car with that tomorrow. He can't pull Dean more flush against his side without the risk of waking him and sending him into a conniption of bruised heterosexuality, so instead, he carefully lifts his arm. It works perfectly: Dean slides forward, falling to lying down with his head in Cas' lap.

The effect is immediate. The uncomfortable pinch between Dean's brows smooths away and he takes a deep, slow breath, settling against his new pillow and sinking into an easier sleep.

Cas hasn't realized he's smiling, yet. It's a tiny, soft thing, the one he gets when he's looking at something precious.

He is.

The moonlight catches the sweep of Dean's eyelashes, the top of his cheek, the shell of his ear, gilding them silver. His lips are parted, plush and dark in the contrast of the pale light. He's slightly curled up on the bench seat and Cas knows it's to fit the small space but that doesn't mean it's not the most fucking endearing thing he's ever seen.

The short hair over Dean's ear is mussed from the way he was slumped like a grumpy turtle past the collars of his shirt and jacket. Delicate, Cas brushes it right again.

Dean shifts, pressing up into his ghost of a touch. Cas draws back, afraid he's been caught doing something definitely not on Dean's approved list of Things Just Friends Do, but Dean doesn't wake. Cas' hand hovers.

He shouldn't. He should return to looking out of the front windshield and prepare the diffusion for when Dean wakes up to find himself sleeping in Cas' lap. That's what he should do.

The trouble is, nothing short of a fucking catastrophe could pull his eyes away from this. Dean is so beautiful, so calm and easy in his slumber, and he's right here, safe and close and warm. Literally right in his lap.

Cas pets Dean's hair, feeling that dangerous constriction again, something so huge and profound it might very well burst him. Dean sleeps on.

"You should tell him."

Sam's voice from the backseat is so quiet it's barely a whisper, but it startles Cas like a gunshot. He turns his head a margin to find Sam watching him, head and shoulders against the back driver's side door, arms crossed over his chest.

"Did you say something?" Cas tries, matching Sam's barely-there whisper.

"You heard me."

"Tell him what?"

"You love him."

Cas turns his head further so he's not just looking at Sam out of his periphery. There's nothing accusatory in Sam's tone, quiet as it is, or in his posture, cramped as it may be. He looks back at Cas with nothing but the same easy camaraderie he's always shown him, like they're discussing a good book or the lovely weather, not a complete paradigm shift.

In his lap, Dean tucks one hand under Cas' thigh and nuzzles his face deeper against the fabric of his pants. Cas looks down at him again and feels ready to explode into several new galaxies.

"I can't." He breathes.

"Why not?"

"You know your brother, Sam.” Cas says, unable to stop himself from stroking light fingers through Dean’s hair again. “And I’m happy. I refuse to risk losing him in pursuit of something I don’t need from him.”

“You’re right, I do know my brother. Probably better than he’d like to believe.” Sam says. “And I think he might surprise you, given the chance.”

Cas looks back at Sam like he wants to argue, but then just closes his mouth, his jaw bunching. Sam gives a little shrug and sits forward, reaching behind himself for the door handle.

“Just some, uh… food for thought.” He says. “I’m gonna hit the head. I’ll take my time. No particular reason.”

“Sam.”

But Sam’s already unfolding out into the night air, the car rocking as his weight shifts. The crickets are suddenly much louder, invading their little bubble of quiet. In Cas’ lap, Dean twitches.

Sam shuts the car door and Dean sits bolt upright. His gun, dropped in the footwell before he fell asleep, is in his grasp in a blink.

“Sam's just gone to relieve his bladder.” Cas says next to him. Dean squints at him and sniffs, wiping at his groggy eyes, then flicks the safety back on. The gun hits the footwell again with a dull thunk.

"God. Like a damn cashew. You'd think with all that height there'd be more... storage."

Cas is carefully looking forward, and not at the red mark on Dean’s cheek that’s the same shape as the warm spot rapidly cooling on his thigh. Dean rubs at that side of his face.

“Was I…?” He clears his throat. “Uh.”

“Asleep? Yes. I thought that was the idea.”

“Lying on you.”

“You needed to stretch out.”

Dean gives a frustrated sigh. “No, Cas, man, that’s your personal space. You should have shoved me off.”

“It was easier on your neck.” Cas says, still looking straight ahead. “You weren’t bothering me.”

“That’s not the point. You gotta have boundaries.”

“What’s mine is yours, Dean. I have no qualms sharing everything I have with you.”

Dean scoffs, leaning forward over the steering wheel and tilting to pop his spine. “Jesus. You ol’ romantic.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. The slightly uncomfortable smirk slowly slips off of Dean’s face. His eyes drop to Cas' lips before he catches himself, and he makes a weak attempt to laugh the charge out of the air between them.

“Man, you gotta figure out your levels. Last person who looked at me like that had me thinking marriage."

“Dean, why do you say things like that?”

Dean’s shoulders shove up under his ears. “You turn eyes like that on some innocent girl she’s gonna up and devote her entire life to you, Cas, I’m just letting you know you gotta tone it down!”

“Why would I turn eyes like this on some innocent girl?”

“Because you’re doin’ it to me like you think it’s a normal thing to do!”

“Dean, maybe you need to figure out how to receive a signal without assuming the other person isn't aware of what they're broadcasting." Cas snaps, then subsides as something like fear flickers across his face.

Dean’s jaw hangs uselessly for a stunned moment.

"Cas. You–"

Cas watches him in the manner of a gazelle waiting for a sudden deadly movement. Dean's gaze flits to Cas’ lips again.

"You. Uh." He says eloquently, and his tongue darts out in a nervous motion. This makes his lips impossible to ignore, shiny and wet in the moonlight.

“It's not Everest." Cas whispers.

"It kinda fuckin' is." Dean says, hoarse.

“Forget it. You should go back to sleep.” Cas says, reaching towards Dean with two fingers. It’s his fighter’s instinct that makes Dean grab them before they can touch his forehead, but it’s something else entirely that bunches his other hand in the front of Cas’ coat and yanks him forward. Cas tumbles gracelessly on top of Dean, and Dean doesn’t give either of them time to think.

At the first touch of Dean’s lips, Cas melts. A tiny sound escapes him, not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, and he’s grasping Dean’s shoulder like it’s the only thing preventing him from falling into the footwell. Their mouths part with a soft, wet noise and Cas meets Dean’s eyes, almost too close to focus on.

His arm is pressed across Dean’s chest from his fall. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat, galloping like an outlaw with the sheriff on his tail, and he understands the feeling.

“Dean.” He croaks.

“Yeah.”

“Do that again.”

Dean nuzzles their noses together, nudges Cas’ mouth in a barely-there brush of lips. Cas touches Dean’s face, dizzy with it, feeling stubble rough on the skin of Dean's jaw. He presses forward, holding Dean’s face like the beloved thing it is, and kisses him reverently. Dean sinks against the door until he’s lying across the seats and shoves his arms up under Cas’ suit jacket, encircling his back.

The crickets play them a love song. It’s entirely lost on them.

When Sam returns, approaching the Impala with caution, he finds his brother asleep with his angel hugged against him like a large, man-shaped teddy bear. Cas glances up, clocking the motion of Sam leaning over to peer through the driver’s window, and there’s a smile on his face that Sam’s never seen on him before.

If happy was what he had been, then this? This is pure, unfiltered bliss.

Sam slides carefully into the back seat and shuts the door as gently as he can.

“I’ll save my I Told You So, but only because you look so cute.” He whispers.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

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onecanonlife · 3 years

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In which Tommy has a nightmare, and enderwalk!Ranboo is of the opinion that grass blocks make everything better.

(word count: 1,413)

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Tommy jolts out of a nightmare that he doesn’t want to remember, and a few seconds later, finds himself hyperventilating outside on the grass.

It’s not on, is what it is. He hardly asked for this, for these awful dreams and this inability to sleep for more than a few hours at a time at best, for this creeping certainty that Dream is breaking out, is going to come for him, and that it’s only a matter of time before something awful happens. He didn’t ask for any of this, but he has it, and he’s not moving out of his house, because that would feel like a concession, but on nights like these he wakes up and the dirt walls press in around him and he can’t breathe, and it is completely and utterly the worst.

So. Outside. Grass. Hyperventilating.

Calming himself down is old hat, by now. He figured out how to do it a long time ago, around the time when he realized that there wasn’t going to be anyone holding his hand anymore, that he was well and truly on his own, without a friend in the world. Other than—but no, he doesn’t go there. He knows better, now, even though his brain still tries to play tricks on him sometimes, tries to convince him that Dream is the only one who actually has his best interests at heart.

The point is, he knows how to do this. He’s used to it. And frankly, he’s glad that he is, glad that he can do this on his own, because he doesn’t want anyone else around him when he’s like this. Doesn’t want anyone else to see, doesn’t want anyone else to know that this happens, doesn’t want anyone else to be able to point at him and go, look, the great TommyInnit brought low.

So when he regulates his breaths and swipes the tears from his face and unclenches his fingers knuckle by knuckle, he looks up and most definitely does not expect anyone to be crouched in front of him. When he sees that there is, he scrabbles backward and lets out an incredibly manly scream, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for it, because what the fuck?

“Holy shit,” he wheezes, “holy shit, you can’t just—” And has to stop, because it’s not just any weird crouching person. It’s his fucking—what’s the word for when a very irritating and terrible person marries your best friend? What’s the title for that? Annoyance-in-law?

In any case, it’s Ranboo.

“What,” he says, “the shit are you doing?”

Ranboo makes a sound that is not words at all. In fact, it sounds very similar to an enderman vwoop, which, alright, the guy’s half enderman, that checks out. Except, his eyes are also purple, and he looks rather taller than he normally does, even crouching down, so something is weird here. Something is very, very weird.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Go and, go and raise your shitty child or something. Sing ‘im a lullaby. Go on.”

He makes shooing noises with his hands, like one might do to a dog, or a persistent crow. Ranboo tilts his head very slowly, like a complete fucking weirdo, and then rises in one fluid motion, and goes walking off somewhere. Tommy stares after him, because he hadn’t really expected that to work. But alright, he’ll take it.

“That’s right,” he mutters. “Just fucking, fucking leave, go on.” He stares down at the grass, running a shaking hand through his hair. He is, maybe, not quite as recovered as he’d like. He’s usually not, after the initial panic, usually can’t make himself relax until the sun has crested the horizon and the sky has begun to lighten. He’s ruined for sleep tonight, that’s for sure.

But it’s alright. It’s alright, he’s used to it. He can do it. He can do this. He’s a big fucking man, and he can survive on a few hours of sleep a night, and he can avoid looking at himself in the mirror and remembering another face, eyebags just as dark, hair just as wild, eyes only slightly more desperate. He doesn’t have to remember things. Not if he doesn’t want to. He’s great at not remembering things, him.

Footsteps. He jerks, looks up again, and Ranboo is standing over him, and why is he so fucking tall?

Ranboo makes another vwooping sound. And then a little trill, almost like a bird, if a bird gargled gravel and then turned into an eldritch monstrosity. He crouches again, and then holds out his hands, and there is something in them, something that he is offering him, and—

Tommy squints. It’s a grass block.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Could you just stop being so fucking weird?” he demands. “For five minutes? I don’t think that’s too much to ask, really. God, you’re just. The worst.”

Ranboo shifts a bit closer, still holding out the grass block. Like he wants him to take it.

“I’m not taking your stupid block,” Tommy says, and accepts it.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Why would you even—” he says, burrowing his fingers into the dirt. A bit of it crumbles to the ground. He doesn’t understand how endermen manage to do this, keep these blocks in perfect shape, grass and all. “Why would you even give me this? What are you trying to pull on me, eh? It won’t work. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, pal. You’re up to something. Why are your eyes all purple?”

Ranboo vwoops.

And then—Tommy remembers something. Something he wasn’t particularly trying to remember, and usually, that’s not such a great thing, but it’s not so bad this time. Because this memory is from just a couple of weeks ago, in Snowchester, one of those times that he was trying to hang out with Tubbo, but Ranboo was just there and wouldn’t leave, and Tubbo wouldn’t make him leave, so Tommy spent the entire time being vaguely pissed off. And he was trying not to pay attention to Ranboo, really, he was, except he remembers him saying something about how he gets anxious, and how holding blocks of things and putting them down places helps him. At the time, he made a point of not acknowledging him, because Tommy’s not an idiot. He knew what he was trying to do, and he didn’t appreciate it.

But—

He stares at the block in his hands. And then back at Ranboo.

He wants to be angry, at the idea, at the presumption, because who the fuck does Ranboo think he is, trying to patronize him like this? But Ranboo keeps up his soft warbles, and he finds his eyes filling with tears instead.

“Are you,” he says, and his voice is not choked, it’s not, “are you trying to help me?”

Ranboo vwoops. Chirps. And then reaches out, slowly enough that Tommy doesn’t feel the urge to flinch, and runs gentle clawed fingers through his hair.

“Oh,” Tommy says. And doesn’t lean into the touch. He doesn’t. But if, hypothetically, he does, that’s between him and Prime on high. Or at least, it would be, if all his muscles didn’t go lax a few seconds later, and if he didn’t accidentally on purpose tip forward against Ranboo’s chest.

The dirt slips through his fingers. But that’s alright, because one of Ranboo’s arms wraps around him, and the other keeps carding through his hair, like Wilbur used to do when they were younger and things were better and they were two halves of a whole rather than puzzle pieces that got bent out of shape. The way his head is, he can feel vibrations running though Ranboo’s chest, like the purr of a cat, and it’s going to lull him to sleep if he’s not careful.

He can’t let that happen. He has more dignity than that.

Except he’s very tired. And Ranboo is clearly—sleepwalking, or something. Not all there in the head at the moment. So maybe he won’t remember this in the morning, if Tommy makes sure to wake up first. And that would be alright.

“You’re still terrible,” he mumbles, but the words are slurred, and Ranboo’s arms are very warm and comforting, and he’s drifting. He can feel it.

So he lets himself. Ranboo’s warbles follow him into sleep, and he dreams of stars.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #tommyinnit #ranboo #enderwalk ranboo #allium duo #/rp #cw swearing #cw panic attack #cw past manipulation #cat writes fic #i should let y'all know that tommy deffo does not wake up first #the conversation the next morning goes something like this:#ranboo: why are we here??? why are you on top of me????#tommy: i'm attacking you #ranboo: ??????#tommy: i'm winning

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woogyu · 3 years

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A World Tinted Gold | Mingyu; Chapter Four

Kalon; beauty that is more than skin-deep

streamer!y/n x werewolf!mingyu

notes; werewolf au

word count; 2402

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summary; The only werewolves you encountered were the ones living inside your video games. They were nothing more to you than mythical creatures you often had to kill in order to complete objectives. You had a good thing going with your online gaming setup. Your supporters were kind and usually tipped well during streams. Sure it meant you had to deal with the occasional creep sliding into your DMs, but it was worth it. Playing games online was putting you through college. Little did you know your quiet life was about to be turned upside down at the hands of someone you didn’t think existed outside of the virtual world.

»»————-　♡　————-««

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, squinting as bright light flooded your vision. You didn’t remember falling asleep, hell you weren’t even sure what day it was. Flashes of wolves and fangs came back, your eyes flying open as your body woke up. It took you a second to take in your surroundings, you were inside and in bed, but it wasn’t your bed.

“Awake, are you?” a voice asked, your eyes snapped up to a male in the corner of the room. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair falling slightly over his eyes. You had no idea who he was or where you were... what happened to the wolves that saved you? A million questions flashed through your mind as you starred wearily at the man. You clenched and unclenched your fists, maybe you would be able to outrun him.

“I wouldn’t try a grand escape if I were you. You’ll re-open your wound and I don’t really want to stop the bleeding again” he admitted, smirking when your eyes widened in surprise at his correct guess. He moved toward you, his hands raised to show he meant no harm. Your eyes flashed down to your leg... right the wolf had left you wish a nasty gift. Soft white gauze was wrapped around the appendage. You were surprised to find that it didn’t hurt much when you flexed the muscles. This guy had taken care of it. Why would he do that?

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and we will do our best to answer them” he promised, he seemed tired just thinking about it. You blinked a few times, eyes moving back up to focus on him as you tried to sort out your thoughts.

“Where am I and how did I get here? Who are you?” you asked, surprised when your voice came out gravely and uneven. He gestured to the glass of water on the nightstand next to you, which you gladly took and gulped down. You figured if he wanted you dead, he would have just let you bleed out.

“My name’s Soonyoung. You are at, er, my friends and I and live in this house. It’s just outside the city” he began, chewing on his lip nervously as he dodged the one part of your question that was important.

“How did I get here?” you asked again, this time more forceful. When he didn’t immediately answer you let out a sigh. “Last thing I remember is these wolves that saved me from this other other wolf” you explained further, eyebrows drawn together as you tried to piece together this situation on your own.

“Mingyu, she just woke up, you can’t just...” a voice called from outside before the door to the room you were in was thrown open, a tall male with sandy brown hair standing in the doorway. His body seemed to visibly relax when he saw you, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You’re okay… thank god” he breathed, leaning heavily on the doorway. You could see traces of blood along his shoulder and a mark that seemed to resemble a wolf bite. Maybe he had been attacked by the black wolf as well…

“Okay, who the hell are you and why am I even here?” you demanded, patience short as you starred down the three males within your view. They obviously didn’t seem to be a threat to you, but it confused you more as to why they seemed to actually care about your safety. The brown-haired boy, you assumed his name was Mingyu, seemed confused by your question, his head tilting to the side like an overgrown puppy. You had to admit, it was a little bit cute.

“What do you mean? I’m the one that saved you” he said like it was totally obvious.

“Hey! You would have been another wolfs snack if Seungkwan and I hadn’t heard the growling” a different auburn-haired boy chimed in, hitting the, Mingyu, on the back of the head.

“Idiots” Soonyoung grumbled, turning to glare at the others standing outside of the room. “I hadn’t exactly gotten around to explaining everything yet” he said through clenched teeth, the 3 males outside shut their mouths and averted their eyes awkwardly.

“What do you mean saved me? It was a wolf…” you trailed off, your eyes narrowing as you inspected the taller boy. That hair… you could have sworn… No, nope, there was no way, you must have hit your head on something because obviously you weren’t thinking clearly.

“Yeah so you see…” Soonyoung started, turning around to look at you with a tight-lipped smile. He clasped his hands together before letting out a nervous laugh. “We are kind of like werewolves… well the full moon stuff is all a myth and we can shape-shift whenever we want. Really, we are more just like overgrown dogs” he tried to make it sound better, less scary for you, but it wasn’t really working.

Okay so maybe you had hit your head harder than you thought and this was all just some weird fever dream. You smiled and nodded along, maybe if you pretended to believe them, they would let you go.

“Oh yeah, totally, that’s so interesting” you said in a fake sweet voice, moving the blankets to the side as you started to get up. “You know I’m really late to this thing I have to go to, so I do really need to be getting home now” you said with mock sympathy. Your path through the house was blocked, but maybe the window would be a good escape option. It was obvious that whoever these men were, they had a few screws loose and you weren’t eager to figure out their motive for having you here.

“You think we’re making this up, which you know, is really valid” Soonyoung admitted, pursing his lips, seemingly thinking about something. “If Seungcheol was here he would probably have a better way of breaking this down for you, but I think the fastest way would just be to show you” he decided with a bright grin. Your fingers played with your clothing uneasily, unsure of how you felt about this idea.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea…” Mingyu spoke up, it seemed like he could almost sense how you felt about all of this. The more you starred at him the more you found similarity between the boy and the wolf that saved you. The strange feeling you felt when you looked into the wolfs eyes were echoed when you looked at Mingyu. Every time you forced yourself to look away, your eyes found their way back to him; it was almost magnetic.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine…” Soonyoung said, you weren’t sure if he was trying to convince the rest of you or himself. “We don’t really have a choice here… If we leave her with questions, there will just be more problems later. Better to just explain it all upfront” he continued; well you did want answers. There must be some logical explanation to all of this, men couldn’t just magically transform into wolves, that only happened in video games.

“Normally we have a rule not to expose ourselves to humans, for our protection mainly, but since you’re Mingyu’s ma-“ Soonyoung continued speaking, seemingly without thought until Mingyu roughly cut him off.

“Since I saved you, that rule can be bent a little bit” Mingyu quickly finished, flashing Soonyoung a pointed look. You weren’t sure exactly what was going on anymore… but honestly this was far from the weirdest thing they’ve said since walking into the room. Your eyes widened when you caught a flash of gold in Mingyu’s eyes. It must have just been the lighting.

Mingyu walked over and helped you up, supporting most of your weight along his shoulder as he led you outside. Well at least now you had a better chance if you did want to run. As Mingyu set you down on one of the front steps your fingers brushed along the back of his neck. You could have sworn you felt a spark when your bare skin met his. You didn’t have much time to think about it, as Soonyoung pulled your attention back to him.

“Okay, try not to be too amazed okay” he said, his hands emphasizing his words and a cocky grin on his lips. You rolled your eyes and leaned against the railing, Mingyu standing to your right but slightly in front of you. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was taking a protective stance. A few of the other men in the house filtered in behind you, their names either unknown to you or forgotten.

You watched Soonyoung as his body began to tremble, and then right before your eyes you watched a man turn into a beautiful silvery wolf. Paling, your eyes bulged… no there had to be some sort of trick going on… this wasn’t real. You watched as the wolf, Soonyoung? Trotted over to you, seemingly proud to prove you wrong. You didn’t really care about being wrong right now, whatever this was you wanted nothing to do with it.

“I want to go home” you announced, voice shaky as you stepped away from the wolf and men surrounding the house. You wanted to run, get as far away from these people as you could, but you knew your leg would never allow that. Your eyes shifted around nervously, prepared for one of them to stop you, to grab you and lock you away somewhere. Mingyu’s eyebrows drew together in concern and you watched as he took a step toward you.

“I can take you home” he promised, sincerity in his voice. “Just don’t put too much weight on that leg” Mingyu begged, his eyes flickering down from your face to your injury. You nodded a little bit, shifting your weight onto your good foot as you leaned away from him.

“Now… I want to go home now, please” you spoke, the words directed to him. You didn’t want to admit it to yourself, but you were scared. You didn’t know what was going on and no matter how hard you tried to find an answer you came up with nothing. You were eager to put all of this behind you and move on. Never think about wolves or these men ever again.

“My car is just over there” he pointed toward a white SUV along the side of the house. Before you could start to walk toward it, he came up next to you.

“Here, let me help” he all but whined. You didn’t have the heart to deny the aid, your leg already starting to throb from being over exerted.

»»————-　♡　————-««

The drive back was quiet. Mingyu didn’t try and explain things further which you were grateful for. Your brain was pretty much maxed out on weirdness today. You spoke up only to give him directions back to your apartment.

As Mingyu pulled up next to the building he paused, his hand reaching out to wrap around your wrist before you could step out. When his flesh met yours you nearly recoiled due to the warmth that radiated off of him. It wasn’t painful, but the comfort that accompanied it startled you.

“This has the address of the pack house and my phone number written on it… and y/n… please… don’t tell anyone about what happened” Mingyu pleaded, pressing a piece of paper into your palm. You wanted to throw it away but to avoid offending him you stuffed it into your pocket. You nodded numbly at him, pulling your wrist away from his clutch before you could get too comfortable with whatever feeling rising up within you. He didn’t have to worry about you telling anyone anything… you didn’t ever want to think about it again.

“Thanks for driving me home” you mumbled, stepping out of the car and closing the door. You didn’t spare him another glance before turning and limping into the safety of your apartment. Your feet were sluggish as they struggled to carry you up to your room.

Only when you were within the safety of the familiar walls did you allow yourself to fully relax, the day’s events crashing heavily upon you. What the hell had you gotten yourself involved in? No, if you started asking questions like this then you were admitting to yourself that whatever you saw out there had been real. You weren’t ready to face that. You needed to move on, forget about whatever magic tricks those men could perform and get back to your life.

Shit… Ciri had been expecting a call from you and your phone was likely in a wolf’s stomach. You pulled your laptop off of your desk and situated it into your lap. Ciri answered on the first ring, her features laced heavily with worry.

“Oh my god y/n, I was two hours away from calling the cops to do a search party” she breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing your face. You managed to force a small smile, stretching your legs out in front of you.

“What the hell happened to you? You look like shit” she winced, leaning back in her chair and gave you a concerned look. You didn’t even know how to go about creating a fake story for what happened. Maybe if you just kept it vague enough, she wouldn’t ask questions.

“Got hurt while I was filming… broke my camera too… I lost the footage, I’m sorry” you explained, voice impossibly small as exhaustion weighed heavily on you.

“I don’t give a damn about the footage, you are okay, right?” she asked, biting his bottom lip as she watched you, obviously not satisfied with your story.

“I’m fine, I promise” you said, forcing an unconvincing smile. “Hey, I think I’m going to head to bed, still a bit tired from it all” you explained, trying your best to maintain a tone that wouldn’t raise further suspicion.

“A… alright” she conceded, frowning at you through the camera. “Just… let me know if you need help with anything… yeah?” she moved closer to the camera and offered you a small wave.

“I will” you promised her, returning the gesture before closing your computer. Maybe if you slept for long enough this really would turn out to just be some incredibly realistic dream.

#seventeen werewolf #werewolf!seventeen #werewolf!mingyu #seventeen x reader #ultkpop #seventeen fanfic #seventeen #svt #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #kim mingyu #mingyu fanfic #mingyu imagines #mingyu scenarios #Werewolf!AU #werewolf!svt #mingyu x reader #seventeen mingyu

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i-ate-the-whole-entire-pie · 3 years

Text

Call Me Mother, Chapter One

I languidly drained the last breath from my cigarette, the drag filling my lungs. My garter straps hung down lazily, tickling my thighs, as they awaited their purpose. Music thumped rapidly, and whoops of delight resounded through the hall. The dressing room door swung open; a small, but curvaceous woman behind it.

Her eyebrows were tweezed to perfection, eyes deeply shadowed, eyelashes false and curled into large feathery swoops; her mouth was like a plump strawberry. I’d always harbored a mild curiosity about how it tasted.

“Mary, you’re up in 10 minutes. I want you at the curtain in five," Cristella said, her hispanic accent thick.

“Is that a new corset?” I asked. Cristella turned me around, and yanked the laces of my corset together. Thank god I haven’t needed to breathe for the last 150 years, I thought. I floated a small influence her way. Gentler, please. She complied, unwittingly. They always do.

I don’t normally use my influence on people I like, but I’m far too hungry to risk her pinching me with this corset. I couldn’t forgive myself if I lost control. She was far too kind to die a death that violent.

“It is. This papí chulo I’ve been seeing said he wanted me to wear it for him. Maybe he’ll tip better," she said, carefully pulling the slack out of the lower half of my corset. I placed my hands over my belly, holding everything in place.

“What’s the crowd looking like?” I tucked the ties away. She jutted a hip out, and began counting off on her impeccably manicured fingers.

“The usual crowd. Old Man Carraway, that one divorcee who drinks like a fish. College kids. Oh, there’s also these dudes in silver masks. Low-key kind of demonic. And some weird guy in like, face paint? He’s painted up like a calavera. I figured they came from that concert that was in town. You know, the one that church was protesting? Say they like worship Satan or something?”

“Sounds about right." I bent down to attach my straps to the garters of my stockings.

“They’re probably here for a private room, so I figured I’d put you on now. You’re good at handling the weirdos." Cristella giggled, watching me struggle to get the backs of my stockings attached. She and I broke into fits of giggles, as she chased me in circles, trying to help me attach my stockings.

“Let me get that. Hurry up and get on stage!” she said, giving me a playful smack on the ass. I pranced out of the room, trying to avoid her grasping mitts.

“Hey! No bruising the merchandise!” I giggled, linking arms with her as we strutted backstage, perfectly in step with one another. She grabbed the microphone from Mike the Mic Guy, gave me a wink, and stepped through the curtain.

“Aaaaand we’re back! Now, this next lady I’ve got lined up for you is quite a treat. She’s as pale as cream, thicker than a bowl of oatmeal, and will definitely step on you. Well, she might if you tip well. For legal reasons, we can’t call her “Elvira,” so I guess we’ll settle for… MOTHER! MARY!” That was my cue. I sauntered through the curtain, my hips moving like a figure eight. I moved across the stage, “Lullaby” by the Cure playing. I always chose various genres of rock for my acts. Not that I have anything against the other girls’ music choices… but there’s only so much female rap you can play in one night. As I began to dance, I noticed the group that Cristella had mentioned earlier. They were sitting front and center, near the edge of the stage.

Seven of the masked figures sat around the Painted Man, as I had labeled him. Two of the masked figures seemed effeminate, and the other five seemed more masculine. They all ranged in different shapes and sizes. Maybe the masks are a fetish thing? Cristella did say that they came from a concert… Something about them seemed off. I did a swing around the pole, dropping into a fireman, trying to catch a scent. It was a whirlwind of scents, none of them too out of the ordinary. Except the beefy one. He smelled like midnight. I don’t know how to explain it. What really caught my interest though was the Painted Man. Specifically, his eyes. One of them was grey, the iris almost black. The other eye had a pale, white iris. It suited him, and it was beautiful, in an eerie way. Those eyes looked at me, as I danced around the stage, and they knew me. If I had a working heart still, it would be racing.

As Robert Smith crooned, I descended the stairs of the stage as sensually as one could in Pleaser heels, making my way to the Painted Man. If I wanted to know what these people were, I’d have to get a closer look. The Painted Man patted one of his legs with a gloved hand, and cocked his head to the side. I took the invitation, but not before I teased him. I crouched between his legs, running my hands up his thighs. As I rose, I walked my hands up his thighs, bringing my face closer to his. His breath graced my skin, smelling faintly of licorice. As he leaned in, for what I could only assume was a kiss, I rose again, strutting over to one of the masked beings. It was the smaller of the male ones. I sat in his lap, letting him run his hands over me as I began to grind on his lap. His growing erection told me I was going to have a busy night.

“Your boss is a little too eager," I whispered, getting a good whiff of him. He smelled faintly of smoke. I put my hands on his chest, trying to keep my balance. No heartbeat.

“What makes you think he’s my boss?” The being asked petulantly. He grabbed onto my waist, as he began to grind with me. I moved his hand to the small of my back, and leaned back in a dip. The being ran his other hand over my belly, in between my breasts, and up to my throat, bringing me back up to his masked face.

“You’re the one wearing a uniform." I darted my tongue out to lick my lips. What is he? My mind raced as I tried to run through every supernatural creature I’d ever known. But then I heard it. I barely even understood it. All I picked up was price and one night. It was Ghoulish. The taller female ghoul was asking about what I can only assume was my hourly rate. Most strip clubs in this part of Vegas were just fronts for brothels. However, it’s hard to sell the idea of prostitution to Mid-Western vanilla tourists. So most of my income was made from stripping. I usually had one or two clients I went to bed with a night. It wasn’t very stable, but then again, I had less expenses than the average stripper, considering my “condition."

“Tell your friend my basic hourly rate is $500. My Ghoulish isn’t any good." I stood up, and made my way to the female ghoul’s lap.

“How do you know Ghoulish?” she asked, a bit of surprise in her tone. I bent over in front of her, shaking my ass for her. She put a couple of bills in the waistband of my panties, punching my previous ghoul in the arm. He forked over some cash as well.

“I’m not human. I’ll leave it at that," I said, stuffing the cash into the top of my corset. Dear lord… All hundreds… The female ghoul rubbed my thighs, turning me back around slowly, so as to admire my ass.

“Could we get a room after your number? I think a private dance is in order," she said, in broken Ghoulish. I nodded, and as if on cue, the lights and music began to fade out. As I began to walk back up the stairs to the stage past the Painted Man, his hand darted forward to smack my ass. God, it really is not the night for this shit. My more animalistic nature took over, and before I could stop it, a hiss left my lips. As if of their own accord, my fangs sprung painfully through my gums. I heard a snap, and looked over to see the largest ghoul stand up. He shook his head. Thank god the lights were low. Embarrassed, I covered my mouth, and made my way across the stage.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Mike the Mic Guy asked, handing a mic to Cristella. I still had my hand over my mouth. Cristella looked worried.

“Are you okay Mary? I can get you some tea if you’re keyed up." I shook my head.

“Please get a room ready. The Freak Parade wants a private dance," I said as I walked away, silently cursing myself. Once back in the dressing room, I threw open the mini-fridge I normally kept padlocked. I looked to the last bottle I had left in my stash. Hopefully it hasn’t clotted, I thought, throwing the bottle back. This wouldn’t end my thirst, but it would certainly quell the burning in my throat. You nearly lost it. You need to bag one of these stupid fucks tonight, or else. I hadn’t had a bad case of blood lust in decades, but the combination of winter holidays, my strict schedule, and FOSTA-SESTA had really cut off my food supply.

The door opened, and Cristella came in with a cup of tea. She looked at the flask in her hand and cocked a brow.

“And you didn’t offer to share. What is that? Cuervo? Henny?” she said, reaching for the flask. I shook my head, and put it back in the fridge, closing the padlock.

“It’s cough syrup. I keep it under lock and key because of that bitch Ronnie. She’s not fooling anybody. You ever see how much her hands shake? Too much caffeine? Yeah, right. We all know what the DTs look like." I began changing into a burgundy velvet bra and panty set, pairing it with some burgundy gloves and stockings. Finally, I found a pair of sparkly Loboutins Lydia had left me. My mind rolled back through the streets of Paris to 1991, when Louboutin opened its first salon. Lydia smiled, as I kissed her shin, helping her into the heel. She looked down at me, her eyes full of love, and the corner of her mouth hiding a kiss just for me.

“Yeah, she is pretty suspish. What happened with those weirdos out there?” Cristella interrupted my memory. I shook my head. Are you just imagining your heartache?

“Oh the big guy was just mad because I didn’t get around to him. That’s why I wanted you to get the room. Plus, I might be able to secure a nice check from these guys. They all seemed absolutely randy," I said. Cristella shook her head, giggling. The gloss in my hand made a popping noise, as I pulled the wand from the bottle. It was my favorite flavor, watermelon.

“I can ask one of the boys to sit in, to keep them from getting too handsy," Cristella said. I shook my head. It would only keep me from getting too handsy, I thought to myself. Bless her heart. I could never make a kill here. I loved the crew here far too much. Plus, I didn’t have a coven. No one to protect me when I fucked up. They kicked me out long ago. It’s the main reason I ended up in Vegas, avoiding the sun when I could, doing my best to keep a legal and convenient profession. Where else could get a job with only night shifts, and a never-ending supply of useless assholes no one cared about?

“I’ll be okay Crissy. Even if they do try something, we have a panic button in there. Don’t worry." I gave her a slimy, glossy kiss on the cheek, earning a shriek from her strawberry mouth. She batted at me, narrowly missing me as I bounded out of the room.

As I approached the bigger of our three private rooms, I noticed two of the larger male ghouls standing outside the door. All of the ghouls dressed similarly, including the female ghouls. But I now noticed the alchemical symbols dangling from their belt chains. The shorter one had a quintessence symbol, the other larger one, an earth symbol. The earth one opened the door, and the quintessence one escorted me in.

“Thank you, Aether. Back to the door with you. Come, have a seat. Dewdrop says there is more to you than meets the eye. Let me pour you a glass of wine, cara," a thick, Italian accent beckoned to me. I walked to the ottoman in the middle of the room, where I usually found myself during private dances.

“I don’t drink during work hours, love. Now, what should I call you?” I looked into the mismatched eyes of the Painted Man.

“You can call me Papa. I’m Papa Emeritus, the fourth. My close friends call me Copia, but I suppose we are not quite there yet, sí?” he said, leaning forward to take my chin in his hand. I nodded.

“While I would love to marvel at your undoubtedly exquisite body, There is some business we should take care of first, piccolina. Do you like Type O Negative?” Cue the record scratching. The dreamy look I normally adopt when with my clients evaporated.

“Excuse me?” I whispered. Papa laughed.

“The band, cara. I was going to have you dance for me later. However, you must have a preference."

“I really don’t understand what you mean," I whispered. Papa laughed again, a big booming laugh.

“I know your secret cara. The ghouls told me. One of my predecessors, Papa Nihil, told me if I were to ever come across your kind, I should try to win your allegiance. Your kind have interesting abilities, specifically the power of influence." Of course that’s what he’s after.

“I don’t do that," I said, looking down to avoid his gaze. Papa tsked.

“I think you will. The ghouls say you smell lonely. Where is your famiglia?” He asked. I shook my head. Lydia’s pained screams echoed in my ears, our last moment together wrenching my heart out of my chest decades later.

“We split because of artistic differences," I said softly. Dewdrop and his companions giggled behind me.

“Forcing people to allow you to exsanguinate them for sport is not ‘artistic differences,’” Dewdrop hissed. The other ghouls laughed. Papa shook his head, and raised a hand to silence them.

“Now now, Dewdrop. It is hard to control one’s basic nature. Sí, tesoro? Tell me, how long has it been since your last drink?” He looked at me with concern. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I knew what he saw. Weak, pathetic, useless… The words were like a disgusting mantra, swirling through my mind, angry and acidic.

“Weeks… It’s been weeks," I whispered. He tsked again. I heard the ghouls chatter amongst themselves. Their pity made me feel disgusting, like a child with sweaty, clammy hands, and odorous armpits.

“What if I told you I could offer you a job and a home? A home where you wouldn’t have to hide your nature. A home where you’d never go hungry again?” I looked up at him.

“What kind of job?” I asked. The ghouls laughed again. Papa shot them a glare.

“I would make use of your gifts occasionally. Nobody would get hurt. You would warm my bed whenever I asked. Maybe pick up a trade or two once back with the Clergy. And in turn, you would get protection, and all the blood you could ever need," he said. I finally mustered the courage to look him in the eyes. What do you have to lose? Besides, you’ve done infinitely worse things.

“You swear on your life, nobody will get hurt? Not a single person?” I asked. Papa nodded.

“I’ll do it. I’ll also require a salary as well," I said, extending my hand. Papa nodded, taking my hand in both of his.

“Anything you need, cara. But first, I think you need a drink. And then we will get the night I paid for," he said. He waved his hand towards the door, which the shorter female ghoul scurried to open. I noticed she sported a pocket chain with an air symbol.

“Bring in one of the more rosy siblings, Cumulus. I suspect our new friend will need the sustenance before we get too far into our plans for the night," Cumulus nodded, and shut the door behind her. Papa stood up, and began removing his suit jacket and gloves; rolling up his sleeves. I could see his blue veins pulsating, causing me to become aroused in a way I cannot quite explain. Involuntarily, my pussy throbbed, and my mouth watered.

“Now now, little one. Be patient. Your drink will be here soon enough. But for now, you will seal our little deal with a kiss, so to speak. On your knees," Papa ordered, gesturing to the floor. I slipped from the ottoman to the floor, crawling on all fours to him. His breath hitched as I slid my hands up his thighs. I didn’t break eye contact as I unbuckled his trousers, nor when I reached into his pants to pull out his sizeable cock.

The door opened, and I heard mumbles, as well as a struggle, and a thud. Of course, both my hands and mouth were preoccupied. I watched Papa intently as I sucked him off. His eyes were rolled back, his mouth slack, and his hands threaded into his hair, as he let out an ungodly moan. I kitten licked his frenulum, stroking his shaft, earning another moan. He bucked his hips into my throat. Sit still, I whispered in the back of my mind. Papa grabbed my hair, and pulled me off his cock.

“Never again, my little bat. Continue," he said, grabbing either side of my face as he began to fuck my throat rigourously. Someone behind me cleared their throat. I wasn’t able to look up, due to my current predicament.

“Can’t you see I’m busy, Cirrus? What is it?” Papa let out a grunt, as his cock twitched in my mouth. I began to fellate him with my hands, wrenching more breathy sighs and groans from him. Within seconds, his warm seed was flooding my throat. I heard Dewdrop cheer, and then a slap, which I assumed was a high five. Papa rolled his eyes and smiled, as I dabbed away the bit of cum that had spilled over my bottom lip.

“Just in time. I needed something to wash down all that salt," I stood, and walked over to the person Cumulus and Cirrus stood in front of. It looked like a plumper woman. She was wearing what looked like a nun’s habit, her red ringlets spilling out from under her wimple.

“All for you cara. Come find me when you have finished your meal," Papa walked out, which left me with the ghouls and my prey. Dewdrop, and the other male ghoul, who sported a water symbol, helped the little nun onto the couch.

“You’re going to let me fuck that tight ass later, right? Nearly busted watching you and Copia earlier," Dewdrop said to me, softly enough for just me to hear. I giggled and nodded, batting him away after he began nibbling on my neck. He patted my ass, and began to pull the wimple from the nun’s head.

“I’ve got this. Why don’t you and the rest of the ghouls get started? I’ll be done pretty quickly." Dewdrop nodded.

“C’mon, Rainy. Come play with my cock, while we watch Mary drink," The water ghoul nodded, grabbing Dewdrop’s hand. I turned my attention back to the nun. She began to stir. I pushed back her hair.

“This is going to hurt a little bit. But I will make this quick and painless. You deserve an easy death." The nun, barely awake, nodded, and turned her head. I cradled her head, and brought her throat to my mouth. With a final kiss to her soft, peachy flesh, I sank my teeth into her throat, not letting a single drop of her blood go to waste.

It felt like drinking water after being stuck in a desert for a week. Her blood was sweet, clean, and thick, and it quenched my thirst quickly. Her body began to go limp in my arms, and her skin turned cold. It’s still not enough. I had to force myself to stop. Never drink the last drop. It might just be the last thing you do, my old mentor’s voice reminded me. I let the little nun drop back to the couch, and turned to face the ghouls. Cirrus sat with Cumulus, each with a hand in the other’s pants. Rain was bobbing his head up and down slowly, as Dewdrop played with his hair. Dewdrop looked up at me.

“Hot," he said. Cirrus nodded, and refocused her attention on Cumulus. Rain moaned, causing Dewdrop to hiss. I looked at them all, lust clouding my gaze.

“Make room. It’s my turn," I said. Dewdrop pulled my mouth to his, not fazed one bit by the blood coating my lips. Cirrus began to explore the space between my thighs with her long, gorgeous fingers. Rain held my hair, kissing and nipping at my neck. A girl really could get used to this...

Hours later, after all of the ghouls had had their turn, even the two from the door, I was back in the dressing room. I opened the envelope the earth ghoul, Mountain, had handed me on the way out. My eyes grew like saucers as I counted the money inside. I had only expected eight grand; two hours, eight clients, multiplied by $500. But as I counted, I realized I had 15 grand in my hands. The door opened, breaking my wealth-induced trance. It was Papa.

“If you would really like the job, come to this address in two weeks. Bring only what you must. Put everything else in storage," he said, handing me a card. I was confused.

“Why two weeks?” I asked. Papa smiled.

“Because it’s polite, cara. Don’t forget your letter of resignation."

--------------------------------------------

This is the first thing I've wrote in years! I hope you all enjoy it! A special thanks to @gasolineghuleh for all of their help!

#the band ghost #popia #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #mountain ghoul #aether ghoul #cumulus ghoullete #cirrus ghoulette #duckydaydreams

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snackhobi · 4 years

Text

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 8.8k / genre: smut, established relationship, driftracer!au

summary: Jimin’s been pretty busy recently and you’re starting to feel neglected. Guess you’ll just have to make him pay attention somehow.

warnings: sexually explicit content (NSFW), unsafe driving (back at it with the street racing), cursing, mild degradation, fingering, spanking, unprotected sex (it goes without saying but please use protection guys), creampie, controlled orgasm (delay), multiple orgasms (f receiving), dirty talk, pet names

THIS IS A FOLLOW UP TO ‘CATCH YOUR DRIFT’— please read the original first

a/n: to everyone who was asking about a cyd follow-up—here it is! it’s basically a pwp with the flimsiest of plots lmao. enjoy!! x

“Jimin's up to something.”

“Huh?” Jungkook looks away from where he’s been fiddling with something in the Pontiac’s engine. “What?”

“Jimin,” you repeat, slowly. “He’s up to something.”

Park Jimin. Breathtaking, captivating, gorgeous Park Jimin—unstoppable in his sleek black Nissan Skyline GTR, a master in his element, relentless, incredible. Your rival and main competitor on the track. The one person who challenges you, who you measure yourself against, who you always strive to beat.

Park Jimin. Your boyfriend.

“He’s been… weird lately,” you say, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Jungkook looks a little baffled but also concerned, eyes darting over in the same direction as yours. Jimin’s already kissed you good luck, a soft, lingering touch of his lips against yours before returning to his own car, and you’ve been watching him get ready for tonight’s race. He lounges against his black Skyline and laughs at something that Yoongi and Taehyung are talking about, looking every inch the king that he is.

Jimin is as striking and dazzling as always, jacket covered in jewels that burst outwards like fireworks, the cut of his metallic shirt low enough to reveal his collarbones and smooth skin of his chest. The only understated part of his outfit is the pair of unadorned silver hoops in his ears, simple and elegant. A gift from you that he wears every time you race.

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise a little. “What do you mean he’s up to something?”

Honestly, being with Jimin is a dream. At first you’d been concerned that your competitive natures would clash and that being opponents on the drifting circuit would cause friction in your relationship—but it actually works out really well. Jimin makes you strive to be a better person, the best you can be, both on and off the track. You’re both as invested in giving each as much attention as you do to winning races, and the truth is that a lot of the fierceness you show on the track melts away entirely when you’re alone together: it just highlights how multifaceted and incredible Jimin is.

He’s a ruthless competitor. He’s also sweet and caring and kind and he always makes time for you.

Or at least, he normally does.

“He keeps saying he’s busy, and he seems to be distracted when we’re together,” you admit to Jungkook in a low hush. There’s no one within hearing distance of your Pontiac but you’re still cautious. Your relationship with Jimin is well known throughout the circuit now and you don’t want people overhearing intimate details about it. It’s none of their business. “I don’t know, Kookie, it’s… it’s concerning. I guess.”

You’re usually self-assured and confident but right now you sound unsure. Jungkook’s known you for years and years and is one of your closest friends, but even so, admitting this to him is difficult—and he knows it.

Jungkook pulls the hood of your car down, shutting it with firm hands before he leans across the metal towards you. “Have you tried asking him about it?”

“Of course.”

“What did he say?”

“We, uh, got distracted,” you say, and Jungkook makes a face at the implication.

“Maybe next time you’re trying to have a serious conversation you shouldn’t let yourself get ‘distracted’?” He raises his eyebrows as he lifts his hands to make air quotations at you and you pout.

“But his ass is just so perfect, can you blame me?”

“Okay, that’s it, I’m out,” Jungkook says while looking pained, and you can’t help but laugh.

Later, though, when you beat Jimin in the race, he lavishes attention on you like he always does—you’d barely inched out ahead of him tonight and so he takes his time when he works you up, touch light and teasing as he runs his hands over you. Your head tilts forward as you pant, bent over the hood of his car as he fingers you open, deep and slow. Just the way you like it, even if you’re hungry for more.

“Jimin, please.” Your voice is desperate as you beg and try to rock against his fingers, get him to move faster. “I need you inside me, god—”

Your words choke off when you feel a sharp smack against the bared skin of your ass, a small punishment for your impatience. You let out a gasp that turns into a quiet moan, turning to hide your face in your elbow to try and stifle the noise as Jimin’s hands immediately soothe over the touch, soft as he rubs over your heated skin.

“Patience, baby.” His voice is low. “You’ll get my cock when you’re nice and ready. Okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur, a little breathless. “I just want you so bad.”

You’re still turned away from him but you can hear the affection in Jimin’s answer as he leans forward to kiss the sensitive skin just behind your ear. “I know, sweet thing.”

Once he finally sinks his cock into you, it doesn’t take long for him to pull you over the edge, your nails scraping against the warm metal of his car as your body goes tense and you cum. Jimin follows soon after, spilling himself inside you as you shiver and clench around him, trying to draw him in as deep as possible; no matter how many times he fucks you open it never gets old, the way you can feel his body move against yours, the way he gasps and moans as he reaches his own edge, the way he holds you close as you both go lax against each other, warm and tender.

“Are you free on Saturday?” You’re perched on the hood of his Nissan afterwards, arms curled around his neck as you pull away to look up at him. “I thought you might want to come over for dinner and a film? You can choose which one we watch, I’m not picky.”

A quick expression flits across Jimin’s face, faster than you can identify, before it turns apologetic. “Sorry, baby. I’m busy this Saturday. How about next week?”

“Oh,” you say. “Okay. Um. Do you want to… grab a quick lunch instead? Or something? When you’re free?”

Jimin turns his face into your hair, nuzzling into your scalp before he kisses the crown of your head. “I think I’ll be busy all weekend, but I’ll let you know, okay?”

You pause and try to hide the surprising amount of pain and confusion that shoots through you at his subtle dismissal, schooling your features before Jimin pulls away to look at you. “Okay baby,” you say brightly. “I hope you have a good weekend, either way.”

Jimin cups your face gently as he smiles at you, all warmth and open affection before he dips down to softly kiss you on the lips. “I will.”

If you didn’t trust Jimin so much you’d think he was cheating on you.

You know that Jimin has his own life outside of you and you’re okay with that. You honestly are. It’s not that you want to monopolise his time, but he’s usually so willing to give it to you without you even asking—so now that it seems like he’s pulling away, it’s all the more pronounced when it happens, and you can’t help but wonder why. You’re trying not to be pushy and you haven’t outright demanded Jimin tell you what he’s so busy with; it must be important if he’s prioritising it over you and keeping it a secret, right?

Right?

You’re not needy or overbearing or clingy, but you are a tad possessive, and you can’t help but feel jealous of whatever it is that’s catching Jimin’s attention so much.

“Uh.” Taehyung’s eyes are wide. “Y/n, uh… your bra is? Kind of? Showing a little bit?”

“I know Tae, but thank you.” You take one last glance at yourself in your wing mirror before straightening up, content with how you look tonight. “I can assure you it’s entirely intentional.”

You usually opt for feminine outfits when you race, but they’re never normally this revealing; it’s borderline scandalous, really. Your bra is visible through the lace mesh of your shirt and your skirt is hiked so high it barely covers your ass, pleats fluttering each time you move. The thing that’s covering you the most is actually your pink leather jacket, but even that’s not enough to hide you from any eyes that are roving over you.

But the real kicker—the part of the outfit that would let anyone with discerning eyes know that you’re aiming for aesthetic over practicality—are your shoes. Your over-the-knee suede boots have a killer heel and they have got to be the worst things to drive with, the heels making it hard to shift your feet when you need to slam them onto the pedals, but you don’t care.

“I still think you should try talking to Jimin instead of doing… this,” Jungkook says, waving an arm at you.

“You just gestured to all of me.” You raise a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Not that you don’t always look good, of course, but tonight you’ve pulled out all the stops and it shows.

“That’s my point,” Jungkook groans. “If I nearly catch sight of your butt cheeks one more time I’m going to call the police. I’m feeling distinctly harassed.”

“You should be grateful.” You blow him a kiss and Jungkook makes a face.

“I’m going to call 911.”

“We’re not in America, Kookie,” Taehyung says. Jungkook just sighs.

Seokjin’s organised the meet at a car park in Gangnam tonight, and you watch as the lot starts to fill up, tweaked Supras and Skylines and Fairlady Zs whose engines rumble as their drivers descend into the underground level, filling the basement with noise. There are unfamiliar faces you don’t recognise, rich residents of Seoul’s most expensive neighbourhood rolling out to show off their money by way of their beautiful cars.

You know a lot of these people won’t be racing tonight and they’re just here for the novelty of it all. Good for them. You have other things on your mind.

(If Jimin isn’t going to give you time when you want it, then you’re not going to let him take it when he wants it. He hasn’t turned up yet but you know the second he sees you he won’t be able to keep his eyes off you—but tonight you’re not going to let him have you.)

You’re perched on the hood of your flame-red Pontiac as you wait for everyone to finish turning up, pretending to be absorbed in checking your nails as you cross your legs; you don’t have to look up to know that people are staring at you and your shameless behaviour.

They can watch. You’re not doing this for them.

You glance up at the sound of a deep rumble, almost a purr, and your eyes widen at the sight of the next car that rolls into view. It must be the only time you’ve ever been caught off guard by an unfamiliar vehicle and you don’t even have to pretend to be overawed, breathless as you take in the gorgeous sight.

She’s low and sleek and magnificent, stark black cut through with a thick ribbon of blood red that rises over the car's bonnet and roof, matching the crimson wheel trims and strip of colour that trails over the edge of its spoiler. The LED headlights glow white and red, crimson halo rings shimmering through the pristine and unmarked glass. She’s all smooth lines and curved edges, every contour a graceful stroke that builds up into a masterpiece, heavenly and bewitching all at once.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, and for the first time since you started racing, you approach someone’s car before you even know who they are.

The driver is a man you don’t recognise. He’s stepped out of the car and is leaning against it casually, arms crossed and head tilted as he surveys the other motors lined up nearby, running a hand through his dyed brown hair to push it away from his forehead. He’s tall and handsome with his defined cupid’s bow and hooded eyes, and he’d almost look sleepy if he wasn’t watching you so intently, noticing your approach and keeping his eyes on you as you step forwards.

“Oh my god. A Dodge Viper?” You can’t begin to imagine the exportation costs for this thing and how much it must have cost to get the parts to modify it, let alone maintain it. (But Gangnam is an incredibly wealthy area, after all, so you’re not too surprised.)

“You like it?” The Viper’s owner tilts his head at you, a small smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “I can take you for a drive later if you’d like, beautiful.”

“Trust me, if I was sitting in this car, I’d be behind the wheel,” you say. “I bet she drives like a dream. How did you get your hands on an SRT-10 ACR? In Seoul?”

His smirk grows wider. “Brought it with me from Chicago.” He shrugs carelessly, as if it can’t have cost him a small fortune. Like the money means nothing to him. Pocket change. Holy shit. “You wanna take that seat behind the wheel to see if it suits your fancy?”

It does. You run your hands over the leather seats and tilted wheel, pretending to hide a laugh behind your hand as the driver, Johnny, leans into the car to adjust the seat for you; you spread your legs so he can reach between them to pull the bar before he can move the chair, helping you hitch it forwards so you can reach the pedals with your feet, your legs shorter than his. It’s nothing lewd but it’s undeniably flirtatious, even if you’re more focused on drinking down the car’s beautiful interior than pandering to his attention on you.

Johnny holds a hand out to help you step out of the low car and back onto your feet, taking a second to steady yourself on your heels. You’ve been so focused on the Viper that you haven’t been paying attention to the other vehicles that now fill the parking lot, but over Johnny’s shoulder you notice a car that’s as familiar as your own by now—Jimin’s black Skyline.

Your hand is still lingering in Johnny’s as you take the sight in. Jimin looks surprisingly flashy today, jewel embellished bomber jacket catching the eye, Gucci shirt tucked into leather trousers that are cinched tight against his waist by his belt, highlighting his thick thighs and perfect ass. Still pink-haired and always gorgeous. Your beautiful, charming, wonderful boyfriend.

When you make eye contact with him for the first time that night, a hot shiver shoots through you, goosebumps rising over your skin. Jimin’s lips are a firm line and his eyes are dark through the soft touch of faint eyeshadow, and he looks almost impassive, cold; even when you’d first met, back when you’d been nothing more than opponents, he’d never looked like this.

He’s furious.

He doesn’t come over to wish you good luck today and you don’t approach him either. Even if this hadn’t been your aim to begin with, who can blame you? You’ll work with this. Maybe it’s passive aggressive, maybe it’s petty, but if Jimin isn’t going to give you the time of day you can’t be blamed if you’re feeling starved for attention, right?

Johnny might be watching, and others might be staring, but at the end of the day you’re only ever aware of one man—and Jimin knows that.

You’ve been driving your Pontiac for long enough that adding heels to the mix doesn’t throw you off as much as people might expect (besides, you’ve been practicing). Even so, it wouldn’t matter if they did, because you’re not wearing them to help achieve a victory—for the first time ever, you don’t care if you beat Jimin today. Not on the track, anyway. You wanted him wound up and frustrated, desperate to touch you, and it seems like he is.

It shows in his driving. He’s always a sight to behold when he races, swaying his body into the motion of his car as they dance together, every motion practiced and sure. But tonight his actions are sharp and angry. Jimin curls his Skyline into each turn, hard and fast; the Nissan almost seems to float as he pulls the steering wheel and sets the wheels at the perfect angle to achieve his drift, swinging effortlessly around the crescents of safety cones of today’s course.

He beats you.

And yet you’re the one who’s smiling. You step out of your car and take in his frosty expression; your heart pounds in your chest but you pretend to be unaffected, disappearing into the throng of fans who are hollering in excitement for the after party now that all the races have finished.

“Oh, hey, Y/n!” Hoseok seems unperturbed when you loop your arm through his, staying cheerful as you latch onto him. He’s still one of the few drivers who you actually like and trust to not be lecherous towards you, no matter what you’re wearing. “Wow, you’re a lot taller than normal. Where’s Jimin?”

“Don’t know,” you say. It’s true—he’d disappeared after the race and you have no idea where he’s gone, but you know you’ll find him eventually. Or he’ll find you. You always find each other in the end. “Where are the drinks? Is there anything non-alcoholic?”

Hoseok manages to find some cans of coke, much to your delight. He tilts his own can against yours in a cheers motion as you continue to cling to him, sipping your drink, eyes scanning the crowd for where your boyfriend might have disappeared to.

By the time your can is empty and drained of liquid, Jimin has yet to appear. You frown. It’s not like him to be gone for so long, even if he’s angry right now. You unravel your arm from Hoseok’s and pat his cute cheek as a thank you for letting you hold onto him for so long before you slip away from the after party; you’re uninterested in keeping up the facade of having fun if Jimin isn’t around.

The elevator is deserted when you step into it, pressing the button to take you to the roof, where you’d left your Pontiac after finishing the race earlier. It’s starting to get chilly and your sheer top does nothing to protect you from the nip in the air. You draw your leather jacket closer around you once the elevator doors open, stepping out onto the rooftop and towards your Solstice.

There are no lights up here but you don’t need any. Gangnam never sleeps, lights from billboards and skyscrapers washing over each of the buildings, and the sky is clear tonight too—the moon is shining down, silver and bright. You spot a familiar silhouette, bathed in white light where he sits atop your Pontiac’s hood, leaning back on his palms in the way he always does.

Jimin’s the only person who's allowed to touch your car like that.

You let your jacket fall back open as you approach. Jimin’s eyes flicker over to you, his face remaining hard as he watches. A cold shiver runs down your spine but you hold your ground—you’re not about to bow down immediately in the face of his quiet frustration.

Jimin’s eyes slide over you, taking every inch of you in; each part of your revealing outfit, your flawless makeup, your boots, their unnecessary heel. Even though you know he’s angry right now you can tell he likes what he sees and you can’t help but feel pleased about it.

“Come here, sweet thing,” he says. He spreads his knees apart so you can stand between his legs, because of course you immediately comply with him; he lifts one hand off the car’s bonnet to grasp your chin in his hands, tilting your face down towards him. He doesn’t let go. His grasp is firm. “Any reason why you’re so dolled up today?”

“Nope.” You pop your lips loudly around the p. “No reason at all. Why, do I need a reason to want to look pretty?”

Jimin’s grip tightens and his eyes narrow. Wrong answer. A small puff of air escapes you, knees weak—you’ve never seen Jimin so affected by anything and you feel weirdly powerful at this realisation. There’s something thrilling to know that only you can get under his skin like this.

“Of course not.” Jimin’s voice is deceptively smooth and low, something burning in his gaze. “Just seems to me like my baby wanted everyone’s eyes on her tonight, for one reason or another.”

You stay silent. You don’t want everyone’s eyes on you: you just want his.

Jimin crooks one of his eyebrows at you as you remain quiet. He takes his hand off your chin and lets it fall, dragging it over the lace of your top, through the valley of your breasts and down your stomach before slipping under the hem, splaying his hand over your belly. You can’t help but shiver, body singing under his touch when he draws his nails lightly over your skin. The sight of his hand against you, visible through the netting of your shirt, sets the blood to rising in your veins.

“Oh? Shy all of a sudden, baby?” His eyebrow is still raised as he watches your movements, the way you react to him so easily, always attuned to his touch. “Where was all that shyness earlier, hm? You seemed so bold behind the wheel of that little Viper.”

“I was just having a look,” you say, acting a little pettish. You hadn’t been planning on letting Jimin touch you, but—but you’re so weak for him, and besides, you don’t want him thinking that you’re shying away from his hands because you’d been talking to Johnny earlier.

Jimin rises, pulling his hand from under your shirt as he does. “And everyone was looking at you,” he says. You know he can be possessive and it’s fine, because you are too, and you have no eyes for anyone else but him; normally he likes it when people look at you, because they don’t have a chance and he knows it. “Do you like it when people watch you, sweet thing?”

He punctuates this question with a movement of his hands, one coming to rest at your collarbones, the other sliding between your legs with no warning, running his fingers over the material of your underwear. You jolt in surprise, sucking in a breath.

“You want me to take you right here, hm?” His fingers are rubbing small, tantalisingly light circles over your clit, your panties a maddening barrier between your skin and his. “Bend you over and fuck you on this rooftop where anyone could see?”

Your cunt clenches, entire body going tight at the idea, and Jimin’s eyes darken when he notices. He flips your positions, and your hand fly out to brace yourself against the hood of your car as Jimin shoves the material of your skirt upwards, bunching it around your waist, revealing the scalloped edges of your skimpy lace underwear and the two tiny bows that adorn the centre line of them.

“You want me to call everyone up here? Let them see how well you take my cock?” Jimin continues to run his palms over the flesh of your ass as he speaks. He digs his fingers into your skin and a moan slips out of your lips, the pain shooting through you and dulling into pleasure. “I bet you want them to touch you too, don’t you?”

“No,” you insist. “No, Jimin, only want you—”

“You expect me to believe that you’re not a hungry little cockslut, dressed the way you are tonight, hm?”

You’re blindsided by the arousal that floods through you. You know that Jimin doesn’t think that, not really, but the way he lets the degradation fall from his lips has your toes curling.

“I only want your cock,” you say, trembling. Any rush of power you felt earlier is gone. Jimin is entirely in control now and you both know it. “Wanted you to look at me—dressed pretty for you—”

“Oh, sweet thing,” Jimin hums, sounding indulgent. “You were just feeling needy, was that it?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, need you so much.”

God. You’re so weak and needy right now, and it’s crazy how much power Jimin has over you; you’ve never been so ready and willing to surrender yourself up before, your earlier planning and resolve slipping away almost as soon as Jimin had laid his hands on you. But what you have with Jimin is built on trust, and you trust him enough to be vulnerable in front of him, to let him see how hungry and desperate you are for his touch.

Then again, he’s always hungry for you, too.

He strokes his hands down your ass and thighs before he circles his hand around your throat to pull you up. He puts no pressure behind his fingertips but you feel helpless anyway, breathless as he pulls you flush against him, your back to his chest, head tilted upwards with how his hand is resting around your throat.

Jimin’s voice is pitched low and his breath is warm against your ear as he lets the words curl out of his mouth. “What does my baby need?”

Oh, he does so love to hear you beg. Your eyes flicker towards a sudden flash of light; there’s someone using the elevator, panel lighting up, letting you know they’re on the way to the rooftop.

“Jimin—”

He presses closer to you, trapping you against your car, helpless. “If you don’t tell me what you need you won’t get it,” he says, and you shudder.

“Need you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Need you to make me cum—need you to fill me up—want you so bad—”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

Jimin steps away just as the elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal a gaggle of people, fans crowding around a few drivers. The smile on Jimin’s face is wicked as you turn around, and you almost hate how nonchalant he looks while you’re so affected. You have no doubt the flimsy material of your underwear and the high hem of your skirt is doing nothing to hide how slick you are, so you’re grateful that the rooftop is only lit in dim light.

One of the drivers peels off from the group and you realise that it’s Johnny. He approaches you despite how Jimin wraps an arm around your waist, hand sliding under your jacket—you let yourself relax, leaning against Jimin’s familiar body, settling against him in a way you don’t even have to think about any more.

“Nice driving,” Johnny says. He hadn’t actually raced himself, but his Dodge is a powerful and vicious beast, so you’re not surprised he didn’t want to risk damaging her in the tight corners of the car park. She thrives on the open road, not indoors. “Want to put those skills to the test in my Viper?”

“She’s busy.” Jimin pulls you even closer. He has his usual mask on now, distant and aloof. You’re the only one who sees his softness, or his lust. (That’s only for you.)

“Wasn’t talking to you, man.” Johnny doesn’t even spare Jimin a glance, ignoring him despite how Jimin had beaten you earlier—he just stares at you. You can’t help but feel insulted on your boyfriend’s behalf. He’s a fantastic driver and he deserves every bit of attention that Johnny is lavishing on you.

“Thank you, but it’s true, I’m busy,” you say. Jimin’s thumb is slowly brushing up and down your side; just a small, tiny motion, but you’re hyperaware of it. You lift your hand to rest on Jimin’s chest, over the raised, glittering Roman numerals of his shirt. “Enjoy your Viper. She’s beautiful.”

Johnny stands there for a second and then shrugs. “Aight,” he says. “I will. Have a nice night, I guess.”

He wanders off and gets absorbed back into the group of people he’d appeared with. Jimin turns his head and kisses your cheek, and then your ear, dipping his head to mouth at your neck, and you grip the hand that’s resting on your waist.

“Jiminie,” you say. “We need to go.”

He laughs against the skin of your throat. He sounds smug, the desperation obvious in your tone. “Always so needy, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “Haven’t heard the saying all good things come to those who wait?”

Jimin’s making you pay for your earlier boldness and you know it. There’s an ache between your legs, one that needs to be satisfied, but he seems happy to wait, unruffled. You’re so riled up right now and he seems unmoved, even if the iciness around him has melted now.

“I’ve been waiting all night.” You squirm a little, tightening your thighs, trying to offer yourself some relief; Jimin can always turn you on so fast and you can feel a physical throb of arousal in your cunt, lips swollen, begging to just be touched.

He lets out a little sigh, as if he’s being put upon right now. You’re torn between wanting to kiss him or shove him away from your car.

“Fine,” you say, making your tone a petulant one as you turn your nose up. “I guess I’ll just go home and grab my vibrator—”

Jimin tugs you against him, his forehead against yours, staring into your eyes. His voice is quiet but undeniable. “No, you won’t. I’m not done with you, sweet thing. You’re always so impatient.” He loosens his hold so he can pull his head away and then he’s smiling at you; there’s something behind that smirk, something in his eyes. “Come on, baby.”

He gives you no chance to question him. You drive beside him in your Solstice, trying to ignore how your skirt is hitched up and you can feel yourself dripping on the leather seat; the rumble and vibrations of your car provide the barest of reliefs, nowhere near what you really want.

You know Jimin’s apartment will be deserted tonight, Yoongi staying with Taehyung, leaving you and Jimin alone, but he still teases you even as you step inside. You try to crowd up against Jimin, get him to touch you— you know that he wants to and he usually gives in once you’re this wound up and aching, but tonight he seems content not to. At one point you try to guide his hand under your shirt again and he grabs your wrist, giving you a look that makes your knees go weak, even if you scowl at him. He hasn’t even kissed you properly yet.

“Be patient,” he says.

There’s a note of warning in his voice. Normally you’d be more willing and pliant, ready to listen, but this entire escapade started because you’re feeling neglected and ignored—this is just the icing on the cake.

“I have been! Come on,” you whine. “Don’t you want your reward for winning tonight?”

Jimin’s mouth is a hard line. “I’m going to claim my prize,” he says. “But it seems like you’re making this about you, aren’t you? Always so greedy, sweet thing. I guess I’ve been too lax with you, haven’t I?”

You pause. He has that look in his eye, one that you’ve started to recognise the more you see it, and you can feel your pussy throbbing when you realise that he’s starting to take complete control of the situation. You’re equals on the track, and equals in this relationship, but recently in the bedroom you’ve been giving up your position at the helm sometimes, letting Jimin control the pace.

Because you trust him.

“Maybe,” you answer, and Jimin smiles. “But you can’t blame me for that.”

“No, that’s true,” Jimin says. “That’s why I’ll only punish you for your earlier shameless behaviour, not your impatience. I’ll give you five.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate on what he means. Five spanks. Barely anything, really. You scoff. “Five? Why even bother at that point?”

Jimin’s eyes darken. “Another five for answering back. That’s ten altogether. You want to keep going, baby?”

Do you? You’re not sure. Jimin’s helped you discover that you enjoy spanking, sure, but do you really want to waste time on more spanks when you could be getting something better?

You’ve clearly been quiet for long enough that Jimin finds it concerning. “What’s your colour, sweet thing?”

A warm flush of affection spreads through your chest, the reminder that no matter what happens, you have your safewords: that even though you feel like Jimin is controlling the direction of the night, you have the power to stop it if you need to. You decide that ten is enough. “Green,” you say. “I’m green, Jimin.”

You watch as he smiles at you, pleased, before he pulls the rings off his right hand, dropping them to the coffee table and ignoring the clatter of metal against glass. Once his hand is free and unadorned he takes a seat in the middle of the sofa, patting his thighs. “Boots off, and then I want you over here, baby.”

You shrug your jacket off and let it fall to the floor before you pull the tie-string at the top of your boots, letting them sag open before you kick them aside. You try to ignore how slick your folds feel and how wet you are as you make your way over to him, draping yourself across his lap; his thighs feel so thick and firm under your stomach, shifting forwards so that your ass is tilted up towards him, settling over his knees. You glance over your shoulder to look at Jimin but he just tuts.

“Eyes forward.”

You bite your lip but obey, facing forwards again as you stretch your arms in front of you, staring at your hands. You can’t see what Jimin is doing but you focus on the sensation of each of his motions. How he pulls your skirt up like he had earlier, how the air of the room is cool on your skin.

You choke in a gasp when he takes the material of your underwear and tugs it up, revealing the bare skin of your ass when he pulls them tight; the pressure against your clit feels so good but it’s still not enough, even when you try to roll your hips forwards into the sensation. He clicks his tongue and then pulls them down instead, letting them settle at your knees, nothing better than a flimsy restraint.

“I want you to count them for me,” Jimin murmurs. He’s rubbing his hands over your skin, your lower back and ass and thighs, getting you ready; he swats your skin lightly a few times to get you prepared, each quick slap a glancing touch that quickly fades. “One to ten. Okay?”

“Okay.” Your voice is shakier than you thought it would be, so wound up and desperate for any sort of relief. Even though the light hits that he’s raining down on your skin fade almost instantly you can feel the coil tightening inside you, the anticipation building up, ready to burst.

The first real smack has you jolting in his lap. The pain quickly fades into pleasure and you clench your hands as the sensation rolls through you. “One,” you count as Jimin rubs his palm over your skin, soothing it.

The next smack is on your other buttock, Jimin’s flat palm leaving a stinging sensation against your skin that tingles outwards and into your core. “T-two.”

You continue to count out each smack. Jimin varies the intensity and speed of them, alternating between caressing your skin or squeezing the flesh of your ass between each one; you can never anticipate how he’s going to move, each slap against your skin a sharp pain that instantly melts into pleasure, sensation dulling and spreading into a tingling sting that settles into you.

By the time you’re ready for the last hit you’re almost sobbing with pleasure, trying your best not to squirm in his lap, trying not to think about how much you’re dripping. Jimin dips his fingers lower, glancing over your sodden folds, and you gasp out loud at the teasing, desperate for more.

“One more.” Jimin’s voice is low. “You’re doing so, so well, baby. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you confirm, and then his hand is coming down against the swell of your ass for the final time. “Ten,” you gasp.

Jimin’s hands are all over you, stroking you, praising you with his words and touch. He turns your head towards him so he can crane forwards and kiss you. It’s an awkward position but you can’t help but lean into the kiss, the first time his lips have touched yours tonight, ample reward after the punishment you’d just taken.

“Did so well,” he praises. “How are you doing, baby?”

His hands are rubbing over your sore flesh. Your skin stings but the ache isn’t bad, although you can’t help but think that you’re not going to want to put any pressure on your ass any time soon. “I’m good,” you say. “So good. Thank you, Jiminie.”

He lets out a tinkling little laugh. “Thanking me for a punishment, sweet thing?”

You feel loose and relaxed, limp in Jimin’s lap, all the endorphins from the spanking running through your veins. “I deserved it,” you sigh.

Your head is turned to one side so you can glance at Jimin, though the angle still prevents you from seeing anything in any sort of detail—so you’re caught completely off guard when he pushes a finger into you, your lower lips parting so easily for him, and you let out a reedy cry when he presses another one in when he realises you can take it.

“You’re fucking dripping,” Jimin breathes, and you writhe as he presses in deeper, his pretty little fingers sinking so easily into your greedy cunt. You can’t spread your legs properly with how your underwear is hooked around your knees and you feel so tight around his fingers, especially when he presses a third one in, the slight burn fading so quickly into pleasure. “Oh, just look at you.”

The slick sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of you is lewd. You’re so, so wet, only growing wetter as he continues to move his hand; he doesn’t touch your clit and when you try to rock against his thighs he uses his other hand to hold you still, splaying his fingers over the heated flesh of your ass.

He knows how hard you find it to cum without any stimulation to your clit and doesn’t touch you where you’re desperate to be touched, focusing on turning you into a quivering, needy mess in his lap. Your skin feels overheated and your nipples are hard in the cups of your bra, almost painful, and you’re so, so hungry for your release.

“Jimin, please,” you sob. “Please, please—”

He pulls all of his fingers out of you all at once. Tears of frustration spring to your eyes and you kick your feet as you clench and unclench your hands, but then Jimin is guiding you off his lap, putting his hands around your waist to move you. His hands are quick and fast as they tug your skirt down your legs, though he’s still careful to ease the waistband over the curve of your hips and ass, avoiding the stinging skin. You feel the lace of your top rip as you both hastily pull it off, but you really don’t give a shit, fumbling for the clasp of your bra as soon as you can; you’re naked and needy in front of a fully-clothed Jimin, who’s looking at you with hooded eyes as he stands.

Normally you take the time to touch him, feel his soft skin under your hands and lips, tease him and work him up with his cock in your mouth, but tonight it seems like he’s too impatient to wait. When you reach out for him he takes hold of your wrists, his grasp gentle but firm, and he guides you into the position he wants— knees on the sofa, hands braced against the backrest, looking over your shoulder so you can drink him in as he gets undressed.

First, that beautiful embellished bomber of his, carelessly cast to one side. Next, the shirt, tugged out of the tight loop of his belt and pulled over his head, revealing his beautiful chest and stomach, the tattoos you’ve grown familiar with still beautiful as ever on his skin. The belt, unbuckled, leather trousers shoved down and kicked aside, and then he pulls his socks off and he’s finally, finally done. He looks so beautiful like this, naked save for the jewellery on his body— the chain around his neck, the bracelets at his wrists, the rings on his left hand, and of course, the simple, silver hoops in his ears.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” you breathe.

Jimin’s expression is clouded with lust but you can see how his eyes go soft at your reverent tone, and he bends forwards to catch your mouth against his again; it’s deep and slow but messy, sloppy with the desperation you have for each other. “You’re gorgeous too,” he murmurs against your lips, and you smile, leaning into him. “My pretty baby.”

One of his hands settles at the curve of your waist, and the other grips his cock, ready to press into you. You’re almost shivering, so, so ready for him, entire body on edge; you choke in a gasp when you feel his cockhead brush against your folds, the slide so wet and easy. You feel how you part for him once he breaches you, your inner walls opening for his familiar hardness, pulling him in deeper and deeper until he bottoms out.

The skin of your ass stings where he’s pressed against it, but it’s just another sensation on top of the pleasure singing through you, settling in your lower belly and between your legs. Jimin wastes no time and starts to snap his hips forwards, one hand at your waist and the other at your shoulder to give him leverage to drive into you, curving your spine as you struggle to hold yourself up— the slap of his skin against yours and the wet sounds of his cock breaching your cunt is almost deafening, but then he leans forward to hook his arm around you, taking his fingers and rubbing tight, quick circles on your clit, fingers still wet from where they’d been sunk into you before.

The noise you make when you finally cum drowns out the other sounds that have been filling the room. You cum so hard your legs shake and you slump forwards, thighs trembling as you fold your weight into your arms, ripples of pleasure skating through you from your dripping cunt, still stuffed full of Jimin’s hot cock.

Jimin slows his thrusts, though he’s still pumping in and out of you, aftershocks trembling through your body from your orgasm. He puts a hand in your hair and tugs, pulling you against him, the skin of your back pressed against his chest. “Is my baby still feeling needy, hm?”

You nod your head, still grinding back against him, chasing the pleasure of his cock shifting inside you and the ache of your stinging skin dragging against his hipbones. “Yes,” you say, breathless. “Yes, need more.”

Jimin laughs, a triumphant little sound. You’re too far gone to even feel embarrassed at how shameless you’re being right now. “I knew it,” he says. “Greedy little cockslut, aren’t you?”

You clench around him, swallowing down a moan. “Only for you, Jiminie.”

“No one else is ever going to be good enough, are they?” He circles his hips and you shudder against him at the feeling, how his cock drags against your inner walls. “No one else knows how to please my baby like I do, do they?”

“No,” you agree. “No, no one else, only you— oh—”

Jimin stays inside you as he turns you around, hands firm around your waist as he sits down and pulls you with him, seating you in his lap. You lean back against him, rolling your hips and arching your spine when he cups your breasts in his hands, kissing down the length of your neck before sucking marks into your skin. Once it seems like he’s satisfied with how clearly he’s marked you as being taken, as being his, he starts to bounce you in his lap, thick thighs cushioning your fall each time you drive your hips back down.

“Can you cum again for me, baby?” His fingers are digging so firmly into your hips now that you wonder if it’ll bruise, but you can’t help but want it, want more reminders that you’re his. Reminders of his touch. “Can you give me one more?”

“Y-yes,” you hiccup, breath driven out of you with one particularly hard rock of Jimin’s hips. “Wanna come with you, Jimin.”

You can tell when Jimin’s close to his release. You don’t need to look over your shoulder to know—you can picture the sweat in his hair, the set of his brows and the curve of his mouth as he moans. You know the cadence of his gasps, how the motions of his hips start to speed and go off rhythm; you know exactly when to let your hand fall between your legs, rubbing at your clit so that you can cum with Jimin, your entire body wound up and ready to tumble off the edge with him. He puts his hand over yours, pressing the pads of your fingers down harder on your swollen bundle of nerves as your fingers grow slick with your wetness, and you’re gone.

You hit your peak with a breathless, wanton cry, throwing your head back against Jimin’s shoulder as your toes curl and you cum again. You’re swept up in the sensation of pleasure washing through your body when you feel how Jimin shudders underneath and inside you, how your cunt is still clenching as his cock twitches, as he empties himself into you. You’ve never cum the same time as someone before. It’s almost like you’re pulling the cum out of him, drawing it deeper inside you with each wave of sensation that ripples through your core, and you slump back against him, your chests heaving as you both ride out your highs; the tremors slowly subside as Jimin strokes his hands over your skin, and you twist your head so you can kiss each other slowly, lazily pressing your lips together as you catch your breaths, pleasure from your orgasms settling into every inch of your bodies.

“My pretty baby,” Jimin says, quiet and sweet against your mouth. You smile and rub your nose against his, pressing a swift kiss to the swell of his cupid’s bow.

“All yours,” you say, leaning into the tight embrace that Jimin wraps you in.

You feel blissful and fucked out, lying on your side on the sofa to save putting pressure on your still sore ass, watching Jimin as he moves around the room. He gathers up your clothes and you see how he pauses when he reaches your boots. It’s like you both remember all at once what lead you to this moment, and you see how Jimin turns his head to you with a question on his lips—he knows you well enough to know that everything you do is thought out and measured and that there would have been a reason that you were dressed so provocatively. You wouldn’t have done it on a whim, just because you felt like it.

“Y/n,” he says, and you look away from him, suddenly embarrassed. Every touch tonight has cemented the fact that Jimin cares about you and gives you time and attention, so now you just feel like some sort of dumb petulant child who was being greedy—you didn’t think you were monopolising Jimin’s time, but you obviously are. “Why—”

“You kept saying you were busy,” you interrupt, though you keep your eyes off him, staring up at the ceiling instead. “I was just—I was just feeling neglected and I wanted you to look at me. I wasn’t trying to get anyone else’s attention, I just wanted you to want to spend time with me, because you’ve been so busy recently and you won’t tell me why,” you finish, your voice quiet. You feel silly even as the final words come out.

“Oh, sweet thing.” Jimin’s voice is warm and gentle. You glance away from the ceiling to see him carefully setting all the clothes and mess to one side, heedless of the tangle of expensive clothing, and he crouches by the sofa to cup your face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, nuzzling into his lovely hands, into the now-familiar sensation of his fingers against your cheeks. “I was just being greedy.”

“No, you weren’t, you’re right.” His hair is mussed and his eyeshadow is smudged, as is yours, the two of you vulnerable with each other in ways you never are with anyone else. His eyes are soft and his face is open as he dips down to kiss your forehead, brushing the loose hair away from your face. “I have been very busy and I’ve been unfair by not telling you why.”

“You don’t have to,” you insist, but he shakes his head.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” he says. “Hold on.”

You watch him leave the room and pad down the hallway, past Yoongi’s bedroom and into his own, and you sit up when you see him reappear with a small collection of papers, print-outs that you try to catch a glimpse of before he spreads them on the coffee table for you to see.

“I’ve been going on apartment viewings,” he says. “I was trying to work out which place was best. What’s in our budget, where’s between my work and your garage—I’ve been trying to narrow it down.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. He’s smiling at you in that way of his that you love so much, the one that squeezes his eyes and lets you see his crooked front tooth—the smile that drives home that Jimin is flawlessly flawed, perfect with his imperfections, overwhelming in his beauty.

“Jimin,” you breathe. “You want to move in with me?”

“More than anything,” he says. “I thought it would be nice if you didn’t have to worry about anything because I would have already done all the legwork. I wanted to surprise you.”

Your face crumples. You don’t mean to, but you can feel tears welling in your eyes; Jimin moves instantly, pulling you close to him as you try to swallow down the sudden rush of emotion, overwhelmed. You’re both still naked, your skin pressed against his as he holds you, but there’s no lust behind this touch—it’s all love and affection and you still can’t believe that Park Jimin is yours. You’ve never felt so lucky in all your life.

“You should have told me,” you sniffle. “Apartment viewings suck. I could have helped.”

Jimin laughs, a light giggle that ends up muffled against your scalp when he noses into your hair. “That would have defeated the purpose of the surprise, sweet thing,” he says. He pulls back so he can look at you, and just like when he’d seen you cry before, there’s no judgement on his face—just warm empathy and fondness. “They do suck, though. It’s taken so much longer than I thought. I never meant to make you feel neglected.”

“I was being stupid.” You huff out a breath into his face. “Like—okay, sure, maybe you weren’t spending as much time with me as you normally do, but you weren’t neglecting me. I just got so used to having you whenever I wanted you.”

Jimin smiles. He keeps hold of you, pulled close in his embrace, and you know then that you’re never going to let Park Jimin go. “When we move in, you will,” he says, and you shiver at the promise of future pleasure—not just sex, but closeness, intimacy, a promise to one another that this is going to become more.

But, like, also the sex, too.

God, Jimin is so gorgeous.

You let Jimin thumb your small tears away. You hate crying in front of anyone, hate feeling weak, but Jimin never judges you. He makes you feel safe, like you can be open with him, and you know he’ll never betray your trust. You press a kiss to his Adam’s apple before you peer at the printed sheets on the coffee table, wanting to see the fruits of his labour. “So are these the ones you’ve narrowed it down to?” Your eyes flicker over the pages. “Take me through them.”

You end up curled in his lap, looking through each of his choices together—and hey, if you get distracted by each other halfway through the selection, who can blame you?

---

TAGLIST: @beyoncesdragon

#jimin smut #jimin x reader #jimin x you #bts smut #bts #jimin oneshot #jimin fanfic #bts x reader #joy.masterlist

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tamakissimp · 3 years

Text

K.B- here to stay

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: Bakugou wasn’t the only captive the league of villains had, you were one too. A captive they took for your quirk; drinking just a drop of your blood could heal any injury. After being rescued, you and Bakugou got separated. But not for long.

𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: fem!reader pronouns (used once) kidnapping, blood, knife, fluffy ending, captivity, cursing

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 𝟚𝟛𝟡𝟟

request: anon - Hi! I saw requests were open, could you please write a scenario for Bakugou, where during his time kidnapped by the lov, they had another captive. A girl who is his age, but she has been there for a few months. The reason why she is there is because of her quirk. Her blood can heal others, all they need to do is drink some of it, the bigger the injury the more blood. They are saved together but then separated. It’s been two years of no contact when Bakugou goes to recovery girl to find the same girl who was a captive now learning under recovery girl. They hit it off. Hi please?

You're a hallucination his mind made up, Bakugou is sure of it. A bright imagine his mind made up to keep himself from going insane. You're too pure to be in such a shit-filled place as the league's hideout.

Though the chains shackled tightly around your ankles say differently. The bloodstains on the ground scream that you’re here. The various scars and wounds that those villain bastards put on you prove you're real. Your arms gently wrapping around Bakugou's shaking body convince him that you're real.

You're here, you're real and you're hurt. Hurt because he can't keep those bastard's hands of you. Though you never fret about it.

Bakugou screams his throat raw every moment he can as league members do as much as breath in his direction. Even their muzzles can keep his mouth shut. Though you never say a word when they plunge syringe after syringe into your skin. Tears never roll down your cheeks as they cut your skin up to their liking.

He wonders if you ever were rebellious. If there was a time when you kicked and screamed at the villainous hands reaching towards you. All he knows is your time with him. The times in which you would gently gather the blood seeping from your fresh wounds onto your thumb and stick it into his mouth. The times in which you forced your quirk on him, even if he bit down harshly on your fingers. Just so he could have a chance at recovering before Shigaraki ordered a new wave of pain onto him.

All he knows are the nights - or days, time grows weird when you're kidnapped - when you're running your hands through his hair. The nights at which you promise him that someone will rescue him. Even if no one has tried to do during your imprisonment. You promise him that you will get out here so he can show you the friends he's been telling you about.

"Denki, you'll-you'll love him," he says. His voice cracks. Either from sadness or the amount of screaming he has done today, he doesn't know or care. "He's stupi- I mean, he's kind. A fucking goofball.".

You hum at him as you continue to play with his spiky hair. You like to imagine that it's normally soft. Soft and bouncy. But now it's matted by sweat and crusted bits of blood. That and facts that it hasn't been washed for well over a week.

"And Kirishima," Bakugou continues. He thinks back on the times spent with his friends. Times were they dragged him along to go on stupid adventures. Times were they laughed their ass off for no reason. He hated this times back then but he yearns for them now.

"He's great. He's kind. A-And he's sweet. The type of guy to be everyone's friend. The type of guy....to be a hero.". Tears roll down his cheeks at his words.

A hero. It's hard to imagine himself being one now. He can't even handle being kidnapped by some low life bastards without breaking down.

"I can't wait to meet them," you whisper back. "We'll get spicy pork noodle together, yeah?". Bakugou nods. You'll get out of here, both of you. You're going to get out of here and he's going to take you to a stupid mall to eat some goddamn noodles.

You continue to play with his hair. Running his locks through your fingers while humming subconsciously. The soft movements lul Bakugou into a sleepy state. His body grows warm and his eyes grow droopy. "We'll do that," he whispers before letting his eyes fully close.

☆◦ 。＼｜／。◦☆

Dabi's burning hand wraps around your arm. Red indents in the shape of the pads of his fingers get pushed into your skin. Screams erupt from your throat.

"Don't be so fucking annoying," Shigaraki spits out. You simply shake your head as sobs wreck through your body. Dabi's hands warm up further, excelling boiling point. You scream again.

Dabi's free hand lifts to slap your cheek harshly. The red handprint on your skin makes pride swell up in the bastard's chest. Finally, Dabi's burning hand unwraps itself from your arm.

He lets you curl into yourself, carefully cradling your burned arm. "Just give us some fucking blood," Shigaraki says he as walks away from his place in the shadows.

Dabi steps aside to make room for his boss. Shigaraki slowly crouches down in front of you. You keep your eyes trained on the chains secured tightly around your ankles. Fucking bastard.

Suddenly, four of Shigaraki's cold fingers wrap around your neck, forcing you to look at him. Crazed eyes and cracked skin look back at you. He expected you to beg for forgiveness. For you to fall to your knees and beg for your life. Instead, you stare at him with lifeless eyes.

"You better cooperate with us. You don't want to piss off the end boss," he says. His wobbly voice makes you want to cut his tongue out. Since that isn't an option, you opt for the next best thing; spitting in his voice.

Shigaraki stumbles back a bit like a thick glob of spit runs down his nose, hitting his upper lip. He roughly wipes the spit off his face as you give him a shit-eating grin. "Suck. My. Dick," you say.

Within a second, he has you turned around. Your cheek is planted firmly against the cold, stone wall as your arm is bent in a painful angle. "Crispy, give me a fucking knife," Shigaraki says while making grabby hands towards Dabi.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you here the man behind you shuffle around. Screams rip through your throat as you feel the cold edge of a knife press harshly into your skin. Drops of blood audibly hit the floor. Maybe complying would be easier.

☆◦ 。＼｜／。◦☆

The chair is always the worst. You can't speak to him, you can't help him. All you can do is look at him while he trashes against the restrains. All you can do is long to touch him while a muzzle covers his face.

You cower away in the corner. Any rattling Bakugou's chains make only cause you to curl into yourself more. You wrap your arms around yourself in pseudo protectiveness.

Broken whispers of apologies fall of your tongue along with whimpers. Bakugou's screams are still more than audible even with the thick metal covering his mouth.

He must be scared, of course, he is. He told you about that glob monster that had pushed itself into his throat. Did the muzzle remind him of that? It must have. Otherwise, he would be aggressive, rather than scared.

"I'm sorry," you repeat time and time again. You can't even remember if it was your fault. Though it most likely was, it always is.

It's smart of the league you, you have to give them that. Punishing someone else. Playing mind games like they always do. They could have just roughed you up a bit. Thrown a few punches and left it at that. But punishing Bakugou instead of you, that's fucked up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.". The meaningless words bounce through the room. I'm sorry won't get Bakugou out of that chair. It won't even calm him down. Maybe it'll scare him even further.

☆◦ 。＼｜／。◦☆

Salvation is supposed to taste sweet. It's supposed to feel like drinking a cold glass of water after being lost in a desert. Instead, it left a foul taste on your tongue. It left your body shaking with fear.

The loud explosions and bang going on outside the door make you push your head into Bakugou's chest. His arms are wrapped securely around you.

He wants to fight, God knows how much. He wants to blow off that goddamn door and blast the league's faces off. But he also knows that if he gives in to his reckless impulses, you'll be left by your self. And you don't have an aggressive quirk as he does. Basically meaning, if he leaves you alone now you're fucked.

"It's okay," Bakugou says. His voice is broken and ragged. After days of doing nothing but screaming his vocal cords ultimately took some damage. He winches at the dryness in his throat. "No one's gonna hurt you.".

You nod against him, fisting the fabric of his shirt. Suddenly, the door bangs open. You pull yourself out of Bakugou's grasp. He steps in front of you and shields you behind his broad shoulders. Though his defence drops once he sees the person in the doorway.

"Mister Aizawa," he says. The teacher nods as he quickly walks over to the boy, turning his attention towards the chains linked to his left wrist.

"Who's this?" he asks as he looks over at you. You take a step back from the unknown men, looking at Bakugou like a deer in headlights.

"Y/n, she's been captured too," he gruffs. The raven-haired nods before moving on to loosen your shackles. You subconsciously reach out and grab a hold of Bakugou's hand. He gladly grabs a hold of it, rubbing soothing circles on the top of up.

Once Aizawa is done, he moves away from the two of you and mentions towards the door. "Let's get you, kids, out of here," he says. Bakugou's eyes shoot over to you. You sent him a reassuring nod.

"Let's go home.".

☆◦ 。＼｜／。◦☆

Life without you is dull. The sparkle that once lit up Bakugou's life is now gone. He went from relying on you to get him through the day to not seeing you all. Last he saw you, you were both in the hospital getting your wounds treated. He heard whispers that you attend the UA now but he doesn't let himself believe in such rumours only to be disappointed.

His friends had noticed the change, how could they not. Bakugou went from being a hothead to not saying a word to anyone except Kirishima.Being a shut-in was his new thing, instead of being a fireball. He overworked himself in training. He pushed his quirk until his hands were raw and burned.

His aspirations to become a hero has seemed to double. The fact that no one has come to save you for months seemed to fule his dreams to make sure that happened to no one else.

At unholy hours he allowed himself to think of you. He let his mind wander to dark corners as he lays in bed unphased by sleep. The possibility that you had never recovered from your injuries was likely. Maybe you died in the hospital and he's going with his life hoping that fate will miraculously bring you two together.

Those thoughts always seem to spike a place in his heart. All he knew about you was your name. You let him ramble about his life. You took away his pain, his fear and his injuries. All that and he never returned the favour. You had never told him about yourself, your fears or your family. He beats himself up of that.

He pushes himself in the gym for that. Forces his body beyond breaking point because - in his mind - he deserves it. He deserves all the pain he could never take away from you.

"Hey, Bakugou!" Denki calls out. Bakugou's head perks up for a second. his eyes fall over his electric friends before turning to gaze out the window again.

Denki looks over to Kirishima who gives him an encouraging nod. "Can't you just tell him?" Denki asks. Kirishima shakes his head.

"Nuh-uh, you tell him," He says.

"Tell me what?" Bakugou sneers. Both boys look up at their friend who has suddenly turned his full attention to them. Denki shoots Bakugou an awkward smile.

"They're uh," Kirishima begins. "There's someone at Recovery Girl you might want to see.". Bakugou nerves light up. Could it be you?

He quickly dismisses the possibility. Getting his hopes up will only get him hurt in the long run. Still, though, he quickly pushes himself out of his chair and rushes towards Recovery Girl's office.

The walk is short, two minutes tops. Maybe it's because he's focused or maybe it's because he's powerwalking through UA like a mad man. Who knows.

Muffled voice is audible from behind the door. One voice, in particular, spikes his attention. Without thinking, Bakugou rips the door open. There he sees Recovery Girl standing next to a sitting down Izuku, who broke his arm again. However, another figure is standing beside them.

"Deku?" Izuku says. Bakugou's mind doesn't get the time to catch up as his body rushes itself towards you. His arms wrap around you instinctively as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug.

"Katsuki!" you squeal out as you return his hug. His nerves are on fire and his mind is in overdrive. The feeling of your warmth against his body calms down anxieties he didn't know he had. Your familiar scent fills his nose.

He pulls away slightly to see your face. His calloused palm rests against your cheeks. You melt into his touch. "I thought...". He doesn't have to finish the sentence for you to understand.

"I know," you say. "But I made it. And I'm not going anywhere.". Warmth swells up in Bakugou's chest at the words. Salty tears prick in his eyes though he makes no attempt to wipe them away.

Deku is damned, he's going to cry whenever he likes. If you had asked him a year ago, he would have said that crying makes you weak. Though he knows better now. Emotions don't make you weak. They make you stronger. They make you human.

"I'm going to the UA now. I'm doing a special healer's course," you say. A goofy smile is plastered on your lips as tears start to well up in your eyes as well.

Izuku awkwardly dismisses himself from the room. Though a smile is still present on his lips. It does him well to see how much his childhood friend has changed.

"You're gonna stay here," Bakugou repeats your words. You nod at him. Your hand reaches up to run through his hair. Like you thought his locks are silky smooth. Now unphased by layers of sweat, standing up proudly in high pikes.

"I'm going to stay.".

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dilly-oh · 3 years

Text

The Office War

Kakashi had been stealing his pens again, Iruka was certain of it. His particular favorite was sitting right there out in the open on that bastard's desk, the orange one with the ugly troll cap that'd been a present from Naruto, as well as several others he'd bought at his own personal expense because the quality of pens the company provided for employees was a damn joke. Iruka had standards.

Those are my fucking pens, douche-bag, Iruka thought as he sat at his desk, seething with righteous fury. Get your own.

He could see the smarmy asshole's hair poking up out of his cubicle, gray and spikey and in desperate need of brushing. As he watched, his computer chair tipped back and Kakashi came into view, lazy-eyed and tapping one of Iruka's own pens against his weird medical face-mask in thought.

Just let it go, Iruka told himself before he could get truly riled up. He didn't need another talk with HR after the incident with Genma eating his lunches. That had gotten pretty out of hand - there had almost been a lawsuit involved. It's just a few pens, right? Nothing to start a fight over. It's not a big deal.

And then Kakashi poked the pen under his mask and started chewing.

That did it.

Time to confront the bastard. With passive-aggressive guilt-tripping.

Iruka stood up from his cubicle and sauntered over as nonchalantly as possible.

“Hey, Kakashi. What's up?” he greeted. Kakashi gave a distracted grunt in reply, eyes glued to his computer screen. “Sorry, can I borrow a pen?” Iruka went on, baring his teeth in challenge more than smiling. “Mine seem to be...missing.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, sure,” Kakashi said, immediately handing him the one from his mouth, covered in teeth-marks and spit. Iruka recoiled in disgust.

“Maybe...not that one. How about...that one?” He pointed to the orange one on his desk. Kakashi shrugged and handed it over. Iruka's eyes narrowed. Time to go in for the kill. “Wow. This pen is really nice. Where did you get it?”

“Dunno.” Kakashi shrugged again. “Picked it up somewhere.”

Okay, screw passive-aggressive. Time for full-on confrontational.

“Okay, cut the shit!” Iruka burst out impatiently. “Those pens are mine! Give them back!” He reached over and quickly snatched them up, hugging them protectively to his chest. “And...” He paused, eyes raking over Kakashi's sloppy work station. “Is that my stapler?”

“Oh, is it?” Kakashi said innocently.

“Yes it is!” Iruka snatched it away as well. “What else of mine do you have?”

“Just some papers and binders and stuff. Oh, and I borrowed your pencil sharpener last week but it crapped out after sharpening my hundredth pencil-”

“That was YOU?!”

“I needed them for a seminar.”

“That thing cost like thirty bucks!”

“I thought you wouldn't mind,” Kakashi said simply.

“Normally, no, I wouldn't, but YOU take things and KEEP them. That I mind. Plus you don't even have the common courtesy to ASK first.” Iruka turned away with a huff. “Don't touch my shit again.”

And with that, he stomped back to his desk, arms full of his reclaimed supplies.

That'll teach him.

---

Apparently, it did not.

The next day, all of Iruka's paperclips were missing. He spotted them on Kakashi's desk, bent into abstract shapes. Mostly dicks.

That son of a bitch.

This called for war.

---

After an entire weekend of planning, Iruka was ready.

On Monday, he took a screwdriver to Kakashi's computer chair, subtly loosening the screws at the base of the seat so it would break when tipped back at a lazy angle. He heard the crash from the break-room and almost choked on his granola bar laughing.

On Tuesday, he drained half of Kakashi's pens of ink and rigged the other half to explode, splattering everywhere when used. All of Kakashi's reports that day were sent back and he had to stay an extra hour just to re-sign everything.

On Wednesday, he jammed the copy machine. Kakashi, the procrastinating prick, wasn't able to print out the dozen or so information pamphlets he needed five minutes before the important presentation. The meeting was rescheduled for the following day, much to everyone's irritation, most of all Kakashi's, who prided himself on his copying skills.

On Thursday, he stole every single staple in the office. Kakashi, who had finally managed to print the copies for the presentation, was forced to tape all of the papers together. The strange looks he got from the others as he passed them out was well worth the effort.

On Friday, he sabotaged Kakashi's coffee cup to spring a leak when he took a sip. Iruka heard him curse from across the room and looked up to see a satisfying amount of hot coffee had spilled all over Kakashi's shirt and face mask. Hissing in pain, he stood and stomped to the nearest bathroom. Iruka couldn't resist following the other man inside for a victory gloat.

“So...” Iruka said smugly, joining Kakashi at the sink where he was attempting to dab the stain away with wet paper-towels, “had enough?”

“Of what?” Kakashi asked distractedly. “Coffee?”

“ME, you idiot! It was all me!” Iruka exploded. “Your chair, the copy machine, your coffee! All ME! Are you ready to admit defeat yet? Have you been thoroughly chastened?”

“Well, I'm mildly annoyed, if that counts,” Kakashi said, quirking an eyebrow. “I can't believe you went to all that trouble. You should put that effort into your work.”

“I should put more effort into my work?! You're the one sneaking naps in your cubicle!!” Iruka sputtered furiously, his face burning with rage, then cut off as Kakashi reached up and removed his mask and his face started burning for an entirely different reason.

Oh, shit.

Kakashi was hot. Kakashi was really hot. Kakashi was hot enough Iruka wanted to go to HR and lodge a complaint – He's too fucking hot. It's not fair. Fire his ass.

This changes nothing, Iruka told himself as he broke into a sweat. He's still an asshole, he still deserved it all, the stupid son of a-

“Damn. It's not coming out.” With an annoyed tsk, Kakashi smoothly removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and stripped it off, his shoulders and chest rolling obscenely with the motion. Iruka's mouth went dry.

...This may have backfired, he thought, eyes glued to the slope of Kakashi's back as he bent over the sink, scrubbing at the stain.

“I...have to go,” Iruka said blankly.

“Well you came to the right place,” Kakashi replied, focused on his work.

“No. I mean. Leave. I have to leave. Like right now.” Iruka slowly backed up, hit the wall, then slithered along it til he found the door, desperately snatching at the handle, his eyes still riveted by Kakashi's sculpted chest.

“You're leaving early?” Kakashi glanced up at him. “Aren't you out of earned time?”

“Just take it out of my paycheck gotta go bye,” Iruka blurted before finally wrestling the door open and tumbling out into the hallway, shoving past a confused intern as he bolted towards the exit.

---

The sight of Kakashi shirtless haunted Iruka all weekend long.

He considered calling in sick on Monday, but didn't because Kakashi was indeed correct – he had no more sick leave left after Naruto gave him food poisoning for his birthday by being cheap and trying to bake a cake.

Also, he wasn't a coward.

So, come Monday morning, he marched right back into the office at 8 A.M on the dot, rode the elevator with his head down, pointedly ignoring everyone while also on the lookout for a certain silver-haired individual, and walked straight to his desk.

Which was covered in a stunning array of brand-new office supplies. Pens, mechanical pencils, highlighters, large and small paperclips, all sitting there still wrapped in plastic with that new-store smell. Iruka almost burst into tears at the sight.

“Whose dick did you suck to get all those?” Izumo whispered, his voice thick with jealousy.

“No-one's!” Iruka snapped at him as he sat down, mystified. He tentatively picked up a box of pens, delighted to see they came in a variety of colors.

“Do you like them?” Kakashi asked, leaning in over his shoulder. “I was gonna get flowers, but I figured you'd appreciate these more.”

“Kakashi!” Iruka bolted up out of his chair like he'd been shocked. Which, frankly, he had been. “Wait. You did this?” He gaped at the other man in disbelief, then his stomach dropped like a weight. Oh, God, of course this wasn't real. It was too good to be true. The supplies were probably all fake, rigged to break or explode or-

“It was the least I could do to apologize.”

“...Apologize?” Iruka blinked. “Why?”

“Some kid came by looking for you on Friday, after you left,” Kakashi went on, scratching at his face mask in an almost nervous gesture. “Seemed real upset about an orange pen missing from your desk. Said it was a present from him. And, well...I connected the dots.” He nodded towards Iruka's desk, where Naruto's gag “Worst Big Brother Ever” mug sat in its place of honor beside his monitor. “I'm sorry. I didn't know that pen meant so much to you.” He dropped his gaze in shame. “I shouldn't have taken it. Or any of your other stuff, for that matter.”

“It...it's alright, Kakashi,” Iruka said quietly, looking at him in a whole new light. Perhaps he should reevaluate his opinion of the other man. Sure, he was a lazy, procrastinating jerk sometimes, but he seemed to have a good heart. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. “And...thank you for the supplies, they're very appreciated, but honestly, there was no need to trouble yourself-”

“Want me to take my shirt off again?”

And maybe he was just an asshole.

Kakashi smirked down at him, and Iruka could imagine how, under the mask, it pulled at the stupid beauty mark on the side of his mouth.

...A really, really hot asshole.

“...Yeah alright.”

(Written for @kakairu-fest Kakairu Month 2021, Day Six Prompt: Office AU)

#kakairu #KakaIru Month 2021 #hatake kakashi #umino iruka #naruto #office au #don't fuck with Iruka's office supplies #he will cut a bitch

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years

Text

PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 1

Rating: Explicit. 18+

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it's own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV.

Summary: You're Peter's classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don't know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you're lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: Bad girls are sad girls! Always wondered what goes through the mind of a spoiled, rich but intelligent and perceptive teenager? Have you found yourself craving that adrenaline rush, the danger of a forbidden fruit? Okay. That was cheesy as hell. Gross.

Let's try again. Sarcasm? Check. Vine references? Hell yes! Crude humour? Check. Blunt honesty? Double check. We're living in a Lana del Rey song, ladies.

The author doesn't actually condone codependent relationships in real life. This is a filthy little fantasy. Enjoy, deviants.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings

Beta read by the lovely and patient @miscmarvelwritings ! She deserves all the love 💙

Pining. I was pining after Stark and it made me upset. I thought I was better than that. Better than acting the part of a lovesick puppy, begging for scraps of attention- a kind word, a pat on the shoulder, a blanket thrown over me in my sleep. Even if he was my Mount Olympus, I wasn't exactly on board with starting the whole damn journey in the first place.

Most of all, I hated being a cliché. I tried my best to avoid showing how I felt and with time, I think I excelled at it. I am really good with things if I really put my mind to it. Was it a blessing, or was it a curse? Only the future will tell. I try not to think about it, as I prefer not to stress out too much. Peter was the anxious kid and I was the calm one. I was the Ying to his Yang. He flipped his shit often and I always calmed him down and cleaned up after him. No complaints there, Pete is pure and precious and I would kill everybody and then myself if he actually got hurt.

I'm only a year older than him and that year feels like an uncrossable bridge to me. We get along like a house on fire and I delight in the way he starts smiling when we're paired together for a project. Deep inside I'm sure he thinks of me as one of his best friends, his homies but-and there's always a but-I can't reciprocitate that. He goes to decathlon after school with his wholesome BFF duo, I go to a local dive bar with a fake ID I'd made sometime when I was about 15.

Peter has everything I wish I've ever had. Good for him. I'm not going to mess that up, no matter how much my angst demands I throw a tantrum and become, like, a supervillain or something.

I banter, instead. I chit-chat. I laugh and I repeatedly make a joke out of myself. Nobody suspects a thing, and I'm not surprised. People always see what they want to see. I've been the weird loner since middle school. Not the sad kind, of course, my pride wouldn't let me. I'm too good at things to be completely ignored. Teachers adore me, the event planning committee approaches me every year with tentative pleas for advice. The list goes on and on; what they don't understand is that it's just High School. Another year and I'll be out of there and nobody will be wiser.

I feel like a liar every time I'm excited. Because I'm not that - I don't care about their stupid field trips or collaborative projects. My mind is five steps and two hops ahead of that bullshit. It has to be or I just won't make it in the world.

"Parker-pen, Mr. Stark. G'day, sirs," I nodded, entering the lab, looking straight ahead. They both were hunched over... Something vaguely mechanical and I was terribly, horribly hungover. Saturday night was Science night but I'd gone to bed around 2PM after a party ran way too late.

"Hi," and "Powerpuff girl," came from them respectively, and they didn't even lift their heads.

I wondered if I could just skedaddle and leave them to their big brain time. "Is this a bad time? I can come tomorrow instead," I immediately regretted speaking, even to my own ears my voice sounds scratchy.

"No, actually, Dr. Ban-Bruce-wanted to talk to you," Peter mumbled out half-coherently. Tony kept ignoring me and I was fine with that. The less temptation I have the less trouble there will be.

"I'm not playing with his zucchini again," I groaned, causing the intricate pile of metal to squeak sadly as Pete tripped over his own damn body, jostling the prototype in the process. I could have sworn the room got several degrees hotter from the boy's blush alone.

Tony cackled, shuffling away from the newly ruined prototype. "He won the damn contest, you should've seen the judges faces," The engineer's grin threatened to split his face in half. I poked at my phone in muted interest. "Hold up, Friday has a recording. I definitely recorded the thing."

A holo-screen popped up. Tranquil scenes of a local fair, gourds and other assorted vegetables of various grotesque sizes were scattered throughout the square. An unmistakable mop of curly greying hair posed proudly next to a zucchini half the size of Hulk - I was fairly certain genetically engineering the plant was cheating and warned him so but somehow Banner managed to persuade the judges into letting him participate, and ultimately win, the competition for the Biggest Zucchini. Some of them were quite shocked at the size of that thing and well - well, their glances were quite contemplative to say the least.

"Damn, Tony, that blonde chick's face tells me all I need to know," I gave a lopsided smirk in the engineer's general direction. That was our thing, you see? He called me these ridiculous cutesy nicknames and asked me about getting my nails done or going to the mall and I'd make salacious comments and go on an occasional flirtatious spree. That was comfortable. We both enjoyed making Peter blush and giggle like the little schoolboy that he was.

"Our Brucie bear is a freak, don't let him tell you any different, Princess," Tony winked at me.

"Oh, I know all about it, Tones," I suggestively wiggled my eyebrows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter groan and palm his face. I briefly bumped my knuckles to Tony's outstretched hand and made my way to the adjacent lab that hosted the second resident crazy scientist.

"Bruce?"

"Oh, hi there, come on in," He smiled warmly at me and I relaxed, shrugging off the tension in my limbs that seemed to appear every time Tony was around me. Banner's soft, friendly nature always made me feel welcomed and appreciated.

We made small talk as I threw on a lab coat and some protective glasses and discarded my bag in the far corner, away from any possible explosions. I congratulated him on his recent victory - here is when I say that despite what most will say, Banner has a serious competitive mean streak and isn't afraid to get down and dirty when it comes to matters of his personal pride.

That's what makes us alike, I think. I have too much dignity and self-respect to walk around Tony with stars in my eyes and hang around his neck like yesterday's tie.

The quiet, even pace of doing lab work made me completely lose track of time. Some time passed as I felt the crick in my neck become noticeable, and the deep ache in my calves from standing and dancing yesterday worsened. I hopped onto the nearest table, hunched over a tablet, eyes skimming over research articles - most of it didn't register at all in the wake of a dull throb behind my temples. My hair limply hung over my face - I had to wash it to get rid of the stench-hard liquor and cigarettes - but I was way too lazy to style it properly.

I ignored the swaying strands until a large palm gently tucked them behind my ear, a white lab coat coming into my field of view. "You okay?" Banner's quiet voice interrupted my reading. I lifted eyes enough to see he was wearing a dorky button-up in some gross shade of blue under the lab coat. His eyes were affectionate behind thinly rimmed glasses.

"Rough Friday night?" He questioned.

I chuckled. "Yeah, I'm hungover as fuck." There was no point in hiding the obvious; I'm sure the bags under my eyes already had tattled on me.

He chuckled, too, leaning his hip against the table, one broad arm coming to wrap around me in a hug. Usually he wasn't so touchy-feely; but I wasn't complaining. Banner was really, really warm. "I'll spare you the lecture on underage drinking," He said with another chuckle.

"Yeah, it's pretty pointless. You'd be three years too late."

A deep sigh left him, both of his arms wrapping around me in a comfortable embrace. I rested my chin on his shoulder, trying my best to really avoid showing how touch-starved I was. I was a hundred percent sure they all figured out my family life was difficult; the last thing I needed was their pity.

"Y'know, we should sit down and talk someday," He said after a brief moment of hesitation. "About your future. College, maybe?"

I gave a non-committal hum, basking in the warmth of the hug, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes - behind the glass divide, I could faintly distinguish Tony's and Peter's shapes, still bent over that bench the pile of metal.

"You have a lot of potential," Banner continued, his tone developing a gently admonishing hint. "I understand if you want to take some time off from your studies but I'd rather you succeed and not let all that potential go to waste," He finished, patting me on the back with a gentle hand.

I tried not to preen under his touch. "Are you attempting to guilt-trip me over a party, doctor Banner?" I teased him, expecting the smile that I felt being hidden by my hair. Sometimes I felt that I could read the man like an open book, he was so earnest about his interactions.

"I just - we want you to stay safe, okay? Don't blow your future for a little bit of fun," He shrugged carefully.

"Okay, Bruce," I simply replied, meaning it this time

He kept hugging me, running his hand over my back absentmindedly. Probably thinking about his recent science bender. I wasn't upset: my own brain tended to get tangled in personal projects, too. I had only one complaint and it was that the cuddle was making me sleepy.

I yawned, startling the man. Pulling away from the hug wasn't really an option. He was broad and quite strong, probably courtesy of the Hulk and radiation in his blood.

"Why don't we put you in a guest room for tonight?" He inquired and I nodded. "Call your parents for me, okay?"

"My mother is in Vancouver for the week and I doubt she would care anyway," I rolled my eyes. "She's in the middle of some shitstorm with OsCorp and their marketing department." If anything, I was grateful my mother was preoccupied with her job. Being around her was like hanging out on top of an iceberg in the far end of the ocean.

I felt Bruce's frown. His body tensed briefly, blink and you'll miss the hunch of his shoulders. "What about your dad?"

I cringed. "He's been in Ibiza since the season opened, no doubt snorting miles of coke and... " I hesitated. "You can guess the rest."

My dad was kind of a dick, but I don't blame him at all for being the way he is. My parents have been married for twenty years. They were happy, once - I saw their college pictures with my mother's bright smiles and bushy hair, and my dad's terrible fashion sense and their dog, a funny little runt with an atrocious name. Then mother had me and for a while, they were happy too, but it lasted about until she landed her first prospective job. Kind of cliché.

Bruce sighed again. "Okay. You hungry?"

"No, I'm not going near food until tomorrow. Nu-uh," I fake-retched next to his ear, making Bruce shiver and playfully pinch my side.

"It'll help with your hangover. Doctor's advice."

"You're not even that kind of doctor," I laughed, very gently poking him back, somewhere around his stomach. He squirmed.

"I have seven PhDs," Bruce smiled as he rested his chin on top of my head as he adjusted his torso to prevent my fingers from reaching his ticklish spots. I poked him again in retaliation, fully enjoying the snort and squirm I caused. Soft™. "Let's go get you settled in," Bruce, seemingly without any difficulty, picked me up, propping me against his hip like a toddler. It probably looked awkward but what the hell, I haven't been carried around since I can remember myself. My legs wrapped around his hips for balance, butt resting on his forearm.

"You're a showoff," I couldn't help but snort, getting a lopsided smirk in return.

He made his way over to the elevator with me dangling and examining my nails in an expectant fashion. Tony's jokes aside, I really enjoyed getting them done and weird colors were a quest of entertainment for me. I obviously couldn't have them very long because I worked in a lab so I chose outrageous prints and decorations instead. This week, each of my nails had a different style - thankfully my aesthetician was professional enough to make it look somewhat put together even if it took a good chunk of my allowance and an hour long Uber ride to get to her salon.

I noticed the dimmed lights in Tony's lab and none of Peter's usual mess scattered on the tables, figuring he'd already left. Stark himself stood propped against a table, watching something, smoothie in hand.

For only a brief moment, I let my eyes rake over his body, his beautiful, sculpted physique hugged by a pair of fitted jeans and an old Led Zeppelin tee. Tony's handsomeness wasn't obvious, it wasn't in-your-face kind of appearance like Captain America's, but the engineer was built sturdy and his arms - the only bare part of him - were riddled with scars. He used his strong, bulky body for work.

I turned away before I got too ahead of myself. Bruce smelled like lab equipment and rubbing alcohol, something that made me sober up and snap out of my daydream before Stark took notice and started teasing me about ogling him. My once-over lasted barely three seconds yet with Tony's genius, I always had to be on my toes.

I saw movement in my peripheral. Banner waved before entering the elevator - at Tony, probably, so I looked back, seeing the man watching us, content replaced with a contemplating frown. I waved at him, resting my cheek on Bruce's shoulder. "Tony's having a big mood," I noted quietly in the scientist's ear.

"You know Tony," Bruce sighed, adjusting his hold on me as the car ascended to the housing floors. "His brain runs a mile a minute and he can't make sense of it for the biggest part. Give him some time and he'll be back to his annoying self."

I didn't see Tony as annoying in any way, but then again, I was severely biased. The billionaire was quirky venturing into absurd but also clever and brilliant.

We had reached our destination and Bruce carefully set me down on my feet once the door to my room was open. A large queen bed, TV and another door to an adjacent bathroom. It was really simple but luxurious nonetheless - I had the exact same carpet at home, having heard my mother bitch about it's cost after seeing me spill soda on it way too many times.

"I'll let you get settled in. Ask Friday if you need something," Bruce awkwardly shuffled his feet, taking off his glasses and briefly examining them before putting them back on again. "Breakfast here is on the 74th floor starting around 7AM, someone will probably get you around nine if you sleep in," He finished, giving a shy tilt of his lips.

"Thanks, Brucie-bear," The nickname easily slipped from my lips. I didn't resist the urge to hug the kind scientist, quickly wrapping my arms around his middle, delightfully sighing when he immediately returned the gesture.

"Good night, Princess," I had to suppress a happy squeak when the man kissed my forehead before retreating and closing the door behind himself. A quick shower and a quest to find a power outlet to plug my charger into preceded my less than graceful flop into the bed. It felt like sleeping on a cloud, honestly, it had nothing on my mother's orthopaedic memory foam mattresses. I passed out faster than I’d ever had.

#Bun writes #party favours #Tony Stark x y/n #Tony Stark x reader #Bruce Banner x reader #Bruce Banner x y/n #Stephen Strange x reader #Stephen Strange x y/n #We're going to Hell y'all

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stovetuna · 4 years

Text

This is for @bardingbeedle who yelled at me in the tags and then on messenger and ultimately inspired me to write some “lorge soft steve” and tbh who am I to refuse. (also high-key inspired by this masterpiece of fanart I RBed [again] earlier today)

(takes place shortly after the events of Avengers Assemble episode 2x07, aka the best fic none of us ever wrote)

(heed the READ MORE!)

***

Tony is hustling from one meeting to the next, all but literally running into the kitchen for a cup of afternoon coffee, when he spies Steve Rogers bent over the communal living room coffee table. That in and of itself isn’t exactly outside the realm of normal Steve Rogers activities—the man does love a good brood, even if he won’t admit it and doesn’t do it as often as he used to.

But Tony wracks his brain for possible reasons why Steve would be hunched up around the shoulders like he’s expecting a body blow any minute and keeps coming up empty. Not even fresh coffee makes his synapses fire faster. Did they forget his birthday? Impossible. Did someone send Captain America hate mail? Uh, doubly impossible, especially because Tony’s got lawyers screening their mail for that kind of stuff (they’ve got more than enough pressure in their day-to-day lives, time-slip dinosaurs and age regressions notwithstanding).

Maybe Steve found a piece of upsetting news, or some fact of modern history that isn’t sitting well with him? That’s a lot more likely.

Before he can remind himself that Pepper’s waiting in his office to put him on a call with the president of MIT—something about a commencement speech, if memory serves—Tony is sauntering into the living room, nonchalant, tongue already prickling with some smart remark. He’s got it all written out in his head like a perfect line of code up until the moment he’s standing in front of Steve and sees the expression on his face.

“Whoa, who ran over your puppy?”

Tony winces, wishing for the millionth time that his mouth and his brain could work together simultaneously, but no. Worse, Steve doesn’t even answer him—he just frowns harder, if that’s even possible, and folds in on himself like his shoulders alone don’t take up half the length of the massive couch. Tony lowers the hand holding his coffee and blinks.

“Steve?”

“Oh!” Steve jumps upright, and quick as a flash moves something vaguely folder-shaped behind his back. “Tony! I didn’t hear you walk in—don’t you have a meeting right now?”

Something in Tony’s chest squeezes at the sight of that smile and at Steve’s impeccable attention to detail. But really, ever since the incident with the Time Stone, when he’d jolted back into his adult body and come to in Steve’s arms, he’s felt completely knocked off-balance. Now everything about Steve Rogers—the man, not the superhero—is a revelation. Every smile, every word, every look has Tony tripping over his own feet, tongue, thoughts. He may be back in his adult body, but he’s never felt more like a prepubescent teenager with a crush, fidgeting in place under Steve’s gaze.

“It got postponed,” he lies, because whatever has put that pinch between Steve’s eyebrows is way more important right now. “What’s up?”

“Nothing!” Steve replies, too loud and too quickly. Tony gives him a look. Steve flushes, shrinking in on himself even further, like he wants the couch to devour him. “Uh, nothing important. Just an anniversary I forgot about.”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to frown. He likes to think he’s got a solid mental calendar of important dates for all of his teammates memorized at this point—Natasha’s move-in, Bruce’s lab incident, Sam’s SHIELD acceptance, Steve being found in the ice—but none of those are today.

“Got room for one more?” Tony asks, nodding at the scant space next to Steve on the couch when the man gives him a questioning look. Steve’s cheeks immediately go a charming shade of pink, which churns the coffee in Tony’s empty stomach with a vengeance. Steve shifts to press himself against the arm as Tony moves to sit down next to him, almost crushing the folder Steve had hidden earlier in the process. There’s a gasp, and a lightning-quick hand, and then Steve, pale and breathless, is holding a manila folder against his chest like it’s the secret to the Super Soldier Serum.

It’s weird—Tony knows Steve trusts him, and vice versa. They wouldn’t have solved the riddle of the Time Stone if they didn’t trust each other. So to sit next to Steve, who’s gone from morose to terrified in the three minutes since Tony walked into the room and feel a wall between them is jarring. And upsetting. He’s only been nursing this crush for a few days, and Steve’s not that perceptive…is he? Maybe he is. Maybe this is Steve weeding out Tony’s feelings before they’ve even had a chance to grow.

Tony shakes his head at the thought. No, Steve’s a lot of things, but cruel isn’t one of them.

“Care to share with the class?” he asks, gently so he doesn’t spook Steve. It seems to work: Steve relaxes, tension falling from his shoulders as he eases into Tony’s presence. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, but keeps the folder pressed securely against his sternum. Tony tries hard not to steal a glance at the way Steve’s shirt pulls across his broad, thick chest as he breathes.

“It’s nothing.”

“Cap, if it was nothing, you wouldn’t be trying to Honey-I-Shrunk-Myself into the couch right now.”

Steve Rogers in active wear doesn’t cut quite the same figure as Steve Rogers in full Captain America regalia, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean he’s small. Like this, he’s just as large and has just as much presence as he does in uniform; it’s just…more human. Less Captain, more Steve. Both are devastating in their own way, but only Steve—friendly, blushing, awkward, unassuming Steve—makes Tony acutely aware of the distance between their bodies, down to the last electrified hair.

Catching his own breath, Tony puts his full mug on the coffee table and drops his hands into his lap, turning his head to watch Steve chew on whatever words are fighting to come out. Be patient, he tells himself. Whatever this is, Steve’s struggling with it, and Tony can have some tact when he wants to.

Finally, Steve closes his eyes and sighs. When he lowers his hands, the folder goes with them. Tony glances at the cover and almost swallows his tongue.

“Is that—?” Steve makes a noncommittal sound, like a ‘yes’ but softer, uncertain, like he’s not sure Tony’s reaction is a good one. Tony swallows his excitement with a wince. “Is that the Project Rebirth file? I told Fury to give it to you a long time ago, but I wasn’t sure he did.”

Tony is so preoccupied looking at the folder he doesn’t hear Steve’s gasp or notice his eyes lock onto him. “He did,” Steve replies quietly after a pause. “But that’s isn’t…that’s not what this is about.”

That’s kind of a surprise. The sudden appearance of the Project Rebirth file would explain Steve’s face and body language, but if it’s not that…

Steve hands the entire folder over to Tony without another word.

“Uh,” Tony gapes, too awestruck to achieve any kind of higher brain function.

“Look at the date,” Steve says. It’s not an order, just a gentle request, but it doesn’t prevent a shiver from rippling down the length of Tony’s spine. If he was hyperaware of the space between their bodies before, it’s even worse now with Steve leaning every-so-slightly toward him and reaching out a hand to point directly at the date written on the faded label.

22 June 1943

Tony blinks. “It’s the anniversary…of you?” He opens the folder without a second thought, and the first thing he sees is a picture of Steve. There are other things in the file—sheaves of what look like medical reports, heavily redacted memos, and carbon copies of typed letters—but the only thing Tony can focus on is Steven Grant Rogers circa 1943. The Steven Grant Rogers of before.

He’s touching the photo before he can stop himself, being so, so careful as he traces the narrow shape of the man in the photograph while the real, supersized thing sits next to him.

“It’s the first time I’ve really had a chance to sit and think about what it was like, before,” Steve says, unprompted. “Everything happened so fast once I got the serum, I didn’t have time to just…take it all in. And then I went into the ice and—well. You know the rest.”

All skin and bones, this man, back then. But the jut of his jaw is the same; the serum didn’t change that, or the flinty stubbornness in Steve’s eyes, or the proud set of his shoulders, just daring the world to try and fuck with him. Tony smiles—Steve before the serum is like a matchstick, short and thin and always one spark away from bursting into flame. He really didn’t change a bit.

When Tony finally looks up from the photo (not gazing, of course not), he sees Steve’s expression has gone pinched again, his arms now crossed in front of his chest.

“Alright, there’s that face again. Out with it, Cap.”

Steve really shouldn’t bite his lip—it’s bad for Tony’s health. But Tony’s comment does get him to smile a little bit, which is good. “I guess…it’s been over seventy years since I got the serum, but most days I still feel like that skinny guy in the picture.” Tony watches him as he speaks, taking in the faraway look in Steve’s eyes, the shrinking posture, the downward turn of his mouth—who says I can’t be observant, Tony thinks—and wishes he and Steve were the kind of friends who hugged outside of catastrophic cosmic events. God knows it looks like Steve could use one, as wound up and tense as he is right now.

“I’ve broken so many things by accident because I keep forgetting I’m this, now,” he says, gesturing broadly at himself with one hand. Frowning, Steve uses that same hand to brace his forehead, elbow dropping down onto his thigh. The man is the picture of misery, and Tony aches to comfort him. It’s a physical pull in the pit of his stomach, urgent and needy—like if he doesn’t get his arms around Steve Rogers right this second, something important inside him is going to malfunction.

Tony shoves his hands under his thighs and nods. “Dr. Erskine could turn you into a super soldier,” he says softly, “but he couldn’t erase the first 27 years of your life.” He doesn’t speak his next thought aloud—that if there was in fact a way to erase those years, Tony would have signed up for the very first clinical trial. It’s a grim thought, and not something Steve needs to hear right now, but it’s been on Tony’s mind ever since his brief return to adolescence, and it’s a hard one to shake.

But what Steve heard seems to help. He peeks at Tony through his fingers and swallows loud enough even Tony can hear it.

“Yeah,” he rasps, “something like that.”

“What else?”

“What?”

“What else is bugging you? About this?”

Steve lowers his hand and stares at Tony. Stares. It’s such a feeling, being stared at by Steve Rogers, Tony can feel the heat climbing up from underneath his t-shirt. Even the arc reactor feels a bit warmer in his chest.

“How could you tell?”

“You’re still doing your level-best impression of a Shrinky Dink, Cap,” Tony replies. “Kind of hard not to notice.”

“I have no idea what that is,” Steve laughs, a hoarse, dry sound, “but you’re not wrong. I guess…I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words.”

“Try.”

Seriously, when Steve looks at him like that—like he did when Tony soared through the air as Iron Kid, all awe and pride and warmth—Tony feels capable of anything. Anything. He’d bottle that feeling, if he could, just like he’d bottle the color of Steve’s hair in the afternoon light coming in through the living room windows right now, all warm, pale yellows shot through with gold. If the photo in the file were in full color, Tony would bet his fortune Steve’s hair would be the same shade it is now.

Because Steve Rogers has always been perfect. Damn him.

“I still feel small,” Steve says, and any thoughts of hair and perfection derail abruptly. Looking into the middle-distance past his nose, he continues, “I don’t fit in this body. That doesn’t make sense, but—it’s like the super soldier is a mold, and I’m just there rattling around inside it, too small to fit. Does that—does that make any sense?” He looks at Tony imploringly, begging him with his eyes to understand. Tony feels that tug again, worse now, to wrap his arms around Steve and hold him tight. Call it returning the favor for the other day with the Time Stone, call it acting on his crush, whatever.

No one so large has ever looked as small as Steve Rogers does right now.

“It does,” Tony croaks.

“Really?”

“Really. I mean, how do you think I feel inside the suit?”

Steve makes a sound at that—not a whimper, not a gasp, but something hovering between the two that splits Tony’s heart right down the middle. “I never thought of it that way,” he whispers. “But that’s it. That’s exactly it.” Visible relief fills Steve’s lungs and makes his entire body go lax, leaning closer to Tony in the process. Tony, of course, is hyperaware of Steve’s size—everyone except Thor and Hulk is small compared to him—but now he’s equally aware of who’s operating the Cap-suit, so to speak.

“The only difference is, I can take my super-suit off,” Tony says, pinching the underside of his own thigh to cut off a laugh—Steve hasn’t seen The Incredibles yet—and continues, “you can’t. That’s bound to make a guy feel uncomfortable, even you, Mr. ‘I can handle anything you throw at me.’” He elbows Steve a little, good-naturedly, for emphasis, and gets a full, beautiful smile for his efforts.

God. Skinny or huge, Steve Rogers is gorgeous. It really shouldn’t be allowed.

“Yeah, good point.” Face still split by a smile—I put that there, Tony preens—Steve leans against the back of the couch and sighs. “There are things I miss, though. About being small. I didn’t think I did, until…” He glances at Tony, then, and there’s no missing the blush creeping up his neck.

“Until?”

“The other day,” Steve replies. “When you de-aged, and I—when we—” Tony bites his tongue so hard he’s pretty sure he tastes blood. Don’t interrupt. Let him get it out. Steve laughs breathily. “When I hugged you, I was so glad I was in a position to protect you, physically, like that. But later on I kept thinking about how much I miss being the protected one, sometimes. Not always, but. Sometimes.” Steve looks at the photo and sighs. “I keep thinking about what it felt like when ma looked after me when I was sick, or when Bucky put himself between me and the bigger guy because he knew I couldn’t take another hit…sure I resented it a little, being so weak, but I liked…that.”

“You liked being cared for.”

The look Steve levels at Tony could drive away a storm.

“Yeah,” he husks. “I did.”

“And now that you’re—” Tony waves a hand at Steve’s everything, “—this, you think you don’t, what, deserve care?”

“Maybe?” Steve blinks. “I don’t know.”

“Cap—Steve,” Tony says, putting his hands palms-up in his lap so Steve can see all of him. No threat, no judgment. “Everyone wants to feel cared for. It’s human nature. And just because you’re superhuman doesn’t mean you’re inhuman.”

Damn if those therapy sessions Pepper forced him into aren’t paying off big time right now. If the sheen in Steve’s eyes is anything to go by, Tony’s hit the nail right on the head.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Tony smiles. Butterflies be damned, he moves the project file onto the coffee table next to his now-cold mug and turns toward Steve. Slowly, he opens his arms. “C’mere,” he says, so quiet only Steve would hear if anyone else was around. As it is, they’re alone in the tower, and Steve doesn’t hesitate—one moment Tony’s arms are empty and the next he’s got 240 pounds of solid muscle curling into his chest and Steve’s tucking his big head under Tony’s chin like the world’s neediest Bernese mountain dog.

Thankfully, Tony’s arms are just long enough to fit all the way around Steve’s massive shoulders. And even if they weren’t, he’d find a way to make it work.

Knees knocking together, feet brushing up against each other on the carpet, Steve shifts and adjusts until he can wrap his arms around Tony’s waist. Once he settles in, he sighs right into the notch at the base of Tony’s throat. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Anytime, big guy,” Tony replies, softly with a warm smile he thinks Steve can’t see.

#bardingbeedle #steve rogers #tony stark #pre-getting together #stevetony #stony #stony fic #superhusbands #rachel writes fic #HAPPY JUNE 22 #KINDA #ignoring the fact that I'm posting this at 0130 on June 23 :3 #insecure steve rogers #insecure tony stark #tony and I see the same therapist lol #stovetuna writes #and yes 22 June is apparently the MCU date of Project Rebirth #PERFECT TIMING

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downywrites · 3 years

Text

Bird found a cracked prompt and wanted to write it. Wilbur is a dragon. Bird has no words.

...Wilbur is a fucking dragon. I can’t even. Bestie, I can’t. I have no fucking words for how weird this prompt is. Like, no words. Enjoy the shitpost fic.

All was silent on the grounds of church prime. The bells had not been rung, the pews unpolished and undusted. Light rays streamed through the windows, sending shadows scurrying for cover from the dancing squares of lavender-tinted light. The sound of a person stepping onto the marble floor echoed softly. Soft, fluffy feathers puffing up to give him as much warmth as he could possibly get from the cold, imposing building, he shivered, cursing lightly in Spanish as he went. He huddled up to the largest window, basking in the relative warmth there. Quacking happily, curling up on the nearest pew and closing his eyes in bliss.

A similar creaking noise pierced the air, signifying the entry of a new person. Quackity paid it no heed, waving it off as a normal churchgoer. The worst thing one of those people can do is call him weirdchamp. And sure, it would make him cry, but it was only for the subs, you know? A man like him would never, you know, actually cry because someone called him that. (He totally does. He’s really, really sensitive to being called weirdchamp.) Boots drummed on the marble as they walked, a dull thump emanating occasionally when they knocked into something. Confused, he perked up a little, peeking ever so slightly over the pew to look at the source of the noise. A small gasp escaped his mouth. There, in all of his (not at all undead) glory, was Wilbur Soot.

The so called ghost of the SMP sighed loudly, placing his guitar on the floor to play with his belt and inventory a little. He pulled out a small flint and steel, smiling sentimentally, before putting it away in favor of taking out a guitar pick. Quackity’s mind was racing a mile a minute. ‘What? How that fuck? Did Dream actually revive him? No fucking way. Let me get closer.’ He shuffled closer, looking in shock at the very obviously living and breathing person in front of him. Wilbur himself failed to notice the duck hybrid sneaking closer, starting to strum out a few chords on his guitar, wincing slightly at how off-tune it had become from his journey to the church.

He plucked each string with a sense of gentleness in the gesture, as if he was tuning someone’s soul instead of an instrument. His hands danced over the strings and the tuning pegs as quick as the wings of a dove beat while spiraling through the air. Soft, almost timid tuning noises filled the place of worship. Quackity watched, transfixed, as the tuning died down to a few notes, then to nothing once more. Wilbur looked down at the beaten-looking guitar, relief etched onto his face. He sharply inhaled, ready to play the first chords of his song. The sound of his voice reverberated through the space, making his voice sound just as otherworldly as his winged father. The beauty and elegance in his voice contrasted with his words, keeping the duck intrigued by his song. He bounced along to the beat of it, going so far as to quietly trill along to it every once in a while. He let his eyes flutter shut, basking in the warmth of his song. All of a sudden, the music stopped.

“Quackity?” Wilbur’s voice rang out in disbelief. “Why are you here?” Panic welled up in Quackity’s chest. His eyes snapped open, wings splaying in an effort to right himself as quickly as possible. He squeaked loudly, ducking a little underneath the pews in an effort to conceal himself. Trembling, he sat there, not breathing, not moving. A few downy feathers shook themselves free from his wings, settling to the ground gently. The hesitant sound of him approaching made him shake even more, small whimpers of fear escaping his mouth against his will. “Quackity? I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked at the musician, small tears in his eyes. “Y-you promise?” He nods, confused by the turn of events. “Of course I promi-” “See you later, sucker!”

He hopped over the pews, flapping his wings to gain more jump height. The duck hybrid whoops, a great contrast to the emotions he was displaying moments before. He slams open the door, wood creaking dangerously from his sudden burst of strength. The sound of beating wings, muffled by the crunching of snow outside, made Wilbur facepalm internally. He groaned, irritated by the man’s extreme reactions. He looked out of the church door to see Quackity’s receding form. Growling lowly, he sucked in a breath, determined to make him freeze in his tracks. “You know I can fly too, right? And that I’m faster than you?” He grinned slightly. Quackity whirled around, turning to look at him midair. He cupped his hands to his mouth, trying to project his voice. Wilbur strained to hear his voice through the wind. “...you...sure...about that?” That was unmistakable. “You really want to test me, Quackity? Nobody’s supposed to know I’m back yet.” Quackity flipped him off for his efforts to communicate. With a small hop, he warmed up his legs. “You’re going to regret that when I catch you.”

He bent his knees just right to give him a good jump, pushing as hard as he could with both of his feet. He soared through the air a little, giving himself just enough airtime to spread his wings open. They unfurled from behind his back, leathery webs catching the chilly air with practiced ease. He winced at the sharp chill of the snow touching the appendages, before beating his wings strongly to catch up with the fleeing duck hybrid. The wind howled in his ears, prompting him to cover them with his beanie. Within moments, he had almost completely caught up with Quackity.

The latter of the two panted with exertion, failing to notice his shadow looming over him in his tired haze. He turned to look behind him, triumphant in his so-called victory of not being caught. “Haha, sucker! Who’s faster...now?” He looked from left to right, puzzled by his disappearance from his vision. “Where did he…” “Hello, Quackity.” He looked up slowly, eyes dilating in fear at the shape above him. “H-hi…?”

Wilbur pushed him off course, just enough so he wouldn’t get hurt. Quackity yelped, tumbling through the air and flapping his wings wildly. He struggled to keep himself upright, but deep down, both of them knew that his small, fluffy wings wouldn’t be able to support such a maneuver, much less continue to fly in the same path. He half-fell, half-floated to the icy ground below, heart banging in his chest. Wilbur glided down lazily, leathery wings making little to no sound in the gusty area. Quackity’s shoes touched the floor, making him sigh in relief.

“Oh, thank god. I thought I was going to die..”

With an elegant flourish, the musician touched down, wings folding in like origami and disappearing from view. “Hello.” Quackity couldn’t help but make the deal worse for himself. Before he had even thought of something else to say, he blurted out, “You know, saying hello like 10 times isn’t going to make you look cooler.”

His slitted eyes narrowed at the hybrid. Grabbing the duck’s shoulders firmly, he pushed him back down to the ground. His back made contact with the chilly ground, making him shiver a little. Eyes wide, he stared at the musician in slight fear. He scanned his face for any sign of joking around, for any hope in his survival. He found none. Wilburs countenance looked set in stone. “Ehehe, buddy! My friend, let’s talk about this, ok?” His grip tightened considerably, crushing his biceps and shoulder muscles a little bit more. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry, dude! Please, chill out!”

Wilbur’s eyes softened a little. “Fine.” He huffed lightly, letting go of the hybrid completely and crossing his arms over his chest. His wings stretched out around him, covering him in a warm-looking cappuccino-colored blanket. Quackity stared at the pair of limbs in wonder. “When did you get these?” He wasn’t going to question how or why he was back in the first place, but he really, really wanted to know when he upgraded from his earlier pair of wings to the monstrosities that grew out of his back presently. Maybe, if he asked nicely, he’d get a pair. (In truth, he was certainly going to do something else to get it rather than ask nicely. He’s Quackity. What’s life without a little fun?)

“Hey, Wilbur? Can you hear me?” No answer. “Wilbur?” His wings shifted around him, covering up more of his body. “Come on, man! You can’t just leave me in suspense!” He scooched over to him, poking at the leather slightly to get his attention. To his surprise, the musician giggled quietly from behind his wings. “Don’t do that.” He poked him again, signature ‘:]’ smile slowly growing on his face. He traced a vein on the other’s trembling wing, listening to the musician’s charming giggles ebbing and flowing.

“Quahahackity...Stohop…” He opened his wings a little, before choosing to close them again instead of stopping him. Quackity raised one of his eyebrows questioningly. “Oh? Did you just decide to not stop me, hm? Do you actually like this?” Wilbur said nothing to deny it, simply giggling louder and pushing his wing into the duck’s hands more. He let his hands roam over his wing, dragging his nails lightly over the soft webbing. His other hand dug gently into the skin of the wing, feeling its silky smooth texture under his palms and fingertips. All the while, Wilbur laughed away, making no move to stop his fellow musician.

Quackity began to grow tired of his quiet giggles. He dug his hands deeper into his wings, coaxing out louder barks of laughter. The other finally pushed him away. “Ahahalright, thahat’s enough.” The duck hybrid was not amused. “No, I think you need a little payback for that stunt you pulled in the air, dude.” He pounced on the other, pushing him down to the ground in a similar fashion as before. Playfulness glimmered in his eyes. Although the positioning meant that Wilbur could leave whenever he truly wished, he still felt butterflies dance lightly in his stomach. He looked away from Quackity’s wiggling fingers, cheeks burning slightly. “J-just do it.” He didn’t have to say it twice.

Quackity dug his fingers into his sides quickly, eliciting a high-pitched squeal. The hispanic’s hands darted underneath his sweater, swiping at his sides and hips. He moved from spot to spot fluidly, keeping the man underneath him guessing. Wilbur’s laughter squeaked when he rubbed and scratched at his hips, prompting him to torture that spot for a little longer. His wings flapped weakly behind him, trying to help him fly away, even though he was flat on the floor. He covered his face with his forearm, laughing behind it freely. “Duhuhuck-bohohoy! Stohohohop! Ihihit tihihihickles!” Quackity pretended to be offended.

“Duck boy? Oh, that’s rude!” He gestured at the man in mock offense with one hand. “That deserves a bit of a punishment, don’tcha think?” He grinned, a look that could scare any casino regular with a hand on their wallet. His hands wandered over to the other’s wings, laying his hands on the very bases. His entire body tensed underneath Quackity’s hands. Wilbur’s eyes widened, snapping to look at him with an intensity he hadn’t seen in ages. “Wait, Quackity- no, no, nOHO!” Quackity scribbled at the seams of his wing, rubbing at the web carefully. Wilbur arched his back almost violently. “NOHAHAHAHA! QUAHAHAHACKIHI- IHIHITY! PLEHEHE- AHAHA!” Ignoring his pleas, the duck dragged his fingers over the base again and again, relishing in the sound of the musician’s charming laughter. His exploration was cut short by a small cracking noise. He stopped for a moment, confused. “What was that noise?”

He looked around for any signs of ice around them, confusion painted on his face. “What-” “Quackity.” Wilbur’s amused voice made him turn back to look at him...to see a dragon, tail, wings, horns and all. “What.” The tan colored dragon underneath him waved at him, a familiar beanie caught in his horns. “I think the spell did more than just give me wings.” His voice sounded amused, but his mouth made no facial expressions. He pushed the duck off, shaking himself out like a dog. Quackity gaped in shock.

“You- wha- how-” The dragon’s jagged shoulders shrugged. “I’m not sure, but Dream’s spell sure did a number on my body, apparently. Want a ride back? I don’t suppose you can fly back without a running start.” He leaned down, letting him get on his back. Quackity marveled at the horse-sized creature, running his hands over his rough scales. “Woah.” He winced when his hand caught on one of his scales, waving his hand around a little bit. Wilbur, completely unknowing of his situation, crouched and took off with a loud beat of his wings. The wind battered the duck like a punch to the face, leaving him reeling. He held on to Wilbur’s scales for dear life, hoping to god he doesn’t fall off on the way back.

It didn’t take long for them to reach church prime. Wilbur landed gracefully on the grass nearby, wings battering the plants that grew nearby and, in some cases, ripping them out of the ground. “You good up there?” He craned his neck to look at him, chuckling lowly at the shellshocked face he saw peeking out from behind his wing joints. He unfurled a wing, placing the tip on the dirt. “You can come down now.” Quackity dragged himself over the scales dramatically, sliding down with a groan. “Dude, your flying taxi skills are shit…” He groaned, holding a hand over his mouth as if he was going to puke. “Bleck!” The dragon laughed, a deep rumbling noise that shook the server. “You’ll be fine, you wimp.” He got ready to fly again, wings stretching out as much as he could allow.

“What the fuck? Why is there a dragon?” Wilbur groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. “Ah, shit. Here we go again.” There were a lot of things to explain that day. It seemed that Wilbur needed to catch up with the rest. And all the while, Quackity giggled at the (newly dubbed) dragon hybrid. After all, what else is Quackity here for, other than the pure chaos?

#downywrites #dsmp tickle #mcyt tickle #my writing #lee!wilbur #ler!quackity #I have no words #why #sfw tickling

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

11 hours - part three

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: we got some spicy things happening this chapter folks!! a lot of natasha too and plot and a tiny bit of fluff at the end. i hope you enjoy!! let me know what you think. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist

part one | part two

Mrs Shoreditch had agreed to meet you at the cafe you’d been inhabiting daily as you kept watch on Steve’s shop, and you’re waiting for her now at your usual table with unusual trepidation. Your leg is bouncing under the table, you’re darting looks left and right down the street trying to catch sight of her. You have to finish this job - seeing Bucky last night confirmed that. Looking into his friends and his life feels wrong, and you want to end it as soon as possible. It’s none of your business unless Bucky wants it to be.

She’s late, one o’clock ticking by and then some, anxiety hiking with every passing minute. The file on her husband sits unremarkable on the table in front of you, and you drum your fingers against it unconsciously. The sooner this meeting is over the sooner you can move on with your day, maybe go see your dad, take on some normal clients who don’t have eery connections to your personal life and keep you up at night.

Someone approaches the table and you’re about to feel relieved, until you look up and instead of seeing Mrs Shoreditch apologising for her tardiness you find Natasha standing before you. She blocks out the sun, a ring of red wisps escaping her ponytail lit up like a halo behind her head but the calculating look in her eyes is nowhere near angelic. She looks nothing like the girl you met at the party - gone is the sundress, replaced by an outfit weirdly similar to yours. Leather jacket, skinny jeans, Docs and chipped black nail polish you catch as she wiggles her fingers at you in that same, condescending wave.

“Natasha?” You can’t believe she’s caught you, but you’re technically not doing anything wrong right now - you just feel like you are, with the way she’s looking at you like a ‘gotcha’ moment not gone your way.

Natasha nods, smirking, and says, “What a coincidence.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, but you know neither of you believe it. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Steve,” she says. It takes everything in you not to glance over at the tattoo shop, giving yourself away. You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes trained on hers, furrowing your brows in an approximation of confusion. She waits a beat, you don’t think you’ve convinced her, but then she says, ”He works over there.”

She jerks a thumb to the tattoo shop and you nod, following her finger with bone-deep relief. It doesn’t last long, tension eating it’s way back up your spine as she asks, “What about you? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Been here every day, lady, you think, but say with a tap to the folder on the table, “Work. Meeting a client.”

“Oh?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. She doesn’t question you further, but that in itself is suspicious. Everyone always presses for more with your vague answers - client? For what? Announcing you’re a private investigator kind of ruins your confidential reputation so you often have to work a lot harder than this to keep your work life private. Natasha doesn’t press it, though. Like she already knows. Dread curls low and heavy in your gut.

At that moment, Mrs Shoreditch finally shows up. She doesn’t seem harried, out of breath, or concerned she’s late in any way, shape, or form. She takes the seat opposite you, offering you a smile and placing her ridiculously expensive handbag on the table. With blonde hair tossed over one shoulder, to your absolute horror she looks up to Natasha and smiles at her, too. Recognition, as Natasha returns it.

“You should come over to the shop when you’re done,” Natasha says to you but it sounds more like a demand than a request, shattering the silence with a sledgehammer. You’d miscalculated, somewhere. Something isn’t right.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, making eye contact with Mrs Shoreditch and hoping Natasha understands. You hardly think Mrs Shoreditch would want you going in there after you reveal that’s the place her husband has been shovelling her money into for months. Mrs Shoreditch avoids your gaze, however, picking at her perfect manicure. It clicks, then. You’re so fucking stupid.

“See you in a minute,” Natasha says, ignoring what you said entirely with a sparkle in her eyes that doesn’t bode well for you. She crosses the street, gone in a second, and you turn back to Mrs Shoreditch as a numbness creeps into your veins.

She’s a typical socialite, perfectly up-kept in every aspect and dressed to the nines even for a rubbish cafe in Red Hook. You didn’t think she was capable of hoodwinking you, and maybe that’s where you first went wrong. She finally meets your eyes, apologetic and almost tearful. She reaches a hand out, resting it on the file you’d prepared as if she realises last minute trying to touch you is a bad fucking idea.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, “I’ve been wasting your time-“

“Natasha hired you to hire me,” you say, cutting her off with the coldness in your voice. She nods mutely, retracting her hand back to her lap as if burned. “You already knew about Mike’s other bank account.”

“Yes,” she admits, rolling her lips together. At least she has the decency to look ashamed. “Ms Romanoff said she’d pay off an instalment of Mike’s debt if I hired you, and I- I didn’t ask questions. I’m so sorry, you seem lovely-“

You don’t wait to hear her finish, standing from the table and leaving your useless file behind without a second glance. You head across the street, for the first time approaching the front door of the tattoo parlour. Natasha knew you’d come here eventually, knew you’d see Steve and start putting dots together. She baited you here, but why? You were Bucky’s fuck buddy, nothing more. Why play this game at all?

You take a deep breath before shouldering the door open, entering the permanent twilight of the shop you’d come to know so well through the lens of your camera. It’s cool in here, the street noise dampened so all you can hear is pop-punk playing low through speakers and the buzz of the tattoo gun. Steve is at the back, bent over someone’s arm and doesn’t break concentration when the bell above the door rings, announcing your entrance. Natasha waits, however, hip propped up against the counter and smiling as she sees you stop at the door, not daring to enter further.

“What do you want?” you ask, calling out across the shop. It draws the attention of the two guys in leather, Steve’s regulars, sitting on the couch in the waiting area. They eye you suspiciously, as does the kid who mans the cash register you often see doing homework instead of his job. Natasha pushes off the counter, beckoning you to the back of the store where you know Steve’s office to be. You follow, heart in your mouth, aware you’re walking further into the trap you hadn’t even known had been set for you.

Natasha closes the door behind you and takes a seat at the desk, covered in stencil designs and files which she seems to entirely disregard as she crosses her feet on top of them, dirt smears be damned. You sit in the chair opposite, back ramrod straight with how uncomfortable you are, and wait for an answer.

“You’re smart,” she says, which is not what you were expecting. You blink, confused by the compliment, and Natasha smirks. “And a lot more observant than Bucky gives you credit for.”

“It’s my job,” you say, unsure of what to give away. Obviously she knows you’re a private investigator or you wouldn’t be in this mess, but she doesn’t know what you know. Not yet, anyway.

“I know,” she says, inclining her head, “I googled you.”

That makes you uncomfortable. Bucky doesn’t even know your last name, how does she? All that she would’ve found is your business website because you’re not stupid enough to put your life online, but still, the thought that she had been trying to look into you makes your blood run cold. You’re starting to really regret going to that party with Bucky - if Natasha’s weird behaviour then wasn’t a tip off, then your deep-dive into their secret lives has clearly shown you there’s a lot more to Bucky than he was ever intending of letting on. Natasha’s intervention in your job merely confirms what you’d already figured out.

“Why did you get Mrs Shoreditch to hire me?” you ask. Natasha regards you for a second, thinking, and it’s a look that reminds you eerily of Bucky.

“I wanted to see what you’d find,” she says. You feel your jaw clench, despite yourself - she’s being evasive even now, and it’s like she can read your frustration because she smiles then, says, “And I wanted to see if Bucky’s choice to trust you was a wise one.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” you say, defensive, too quick. She raises her eyebrows. Frustrated at this cryptic and frankly dramatic conversation, you ask, “Can you just tell me what you want? You’ve wasted weeks of my time and I think I deserve to know why.”

“As I said,” Natasha said slowly, clearly amused at the rise she’s managed to get out of you, “I want to see what you found.”

“Are you going to pay for it?” you snap. You don’t want to tell her - you don’t know why. Clearly, she already knows far more than you ever will, but this is the only thing you have over her and it feels like the most important thing in the world in this moment.

Natasha rolls her eyes and says, “You’ll be well compensated, don’t worry.”

You have a small stare off with the red head before you huff, conceding. That was a fight you were destined to lose, anyway. You grab your laptop from your bag and send a quick email of everything you’d collected to Steve’s business email. His monitor pings with a notification and and you raise your eyebrows towards it, watching Natasha unfold her legs off the desk and lean forward to start reading. You don’t trust her with your laptop as far as you can throw it, so you make sure it’s shut down completely before placing it back in your bag.

Natasha reads for a long time, because you’d found a lot. Her eyes dart across the screen almost too-fast, the set of her mouth growing tenser and tenser as each silent minute passes. You feel a weird, sick sense of satisfaction at that - clearly, you’d surpassed her expectations.

You had been thorough. Pictures of Steve, the kid working the counter, the regulars who park their bikes at the back, the bikes themselves, the inside of the shop from your window vantage point, Sam at one point, Natasha at others, meetings they held and rough angles of deals gone on inside the shop. You couldn’t get a clear shot, but you saw them exchanging money with leather-clad strangers for something. The long hours after closing they spend at the tattoo shop doing everything but tattooing is all captured and saved on your computer. You’d written up a run-sheet of the shop’s routines as well, based on what you’d observed from your little cafe spot - Natasha spends longer looking at that then anything else, mouse hovering over the word you’d written at the bottom. Gang?

You’d researched them all, except for Bucky. He never appeared at the shop while you were watching it, and it gave you the perfect out to leave him alone in your investigation. Steve and Sam had wrap sheets longer than your arm, and Natasha notably had nothing online at all. None of them had social media, which is weird, and the only photo you could find dated back to a highschool cross country picture of Steve and Sam, first and second medals respectively. You refused to look for Bucky. It made you sick just thinking about what you’d find on him, so you decided you just didn’t want to know. Not like that, behind a computer screen in your apartment with a bottle of red-wine half gone beside you. Bucky doesn’t belong there.

You could have kept digging, given more time. It had been eating at you, though, consuming the hours you were supposed to be sleeping and waking you up when you finally closed your eyes. It didn’t matter how much you found, ten more questions would arise from it, and you were becoming obsessed. So you decided to end it. Clearly, you’d come to that conclusion a bit too late.

“Bucky doesn’t know your last name,” Natasha says, suddenly, shocking you enough to flinch. She doesn’t look away from the screen, but goes on, “He doesn’t know you’re a PI, where you live, what you do in your spare time. He knows noting about you, but he doesn’t seem to care. I told him that was stupid.”

You swallow past the hard lump in your throat. You knew Natasha hadn’t exactly warmed to you at that party but you hadn’t expected this level of- what would you even call it? A threat? You feel threatened, a metaphorical knife to your throat as Natasha finally looks at you again, pinning you down with a cold green stare.

“He’s not in any of this,” she says, tapping a fingernail on the keyboard to emphasis your research. It’s not a question, but you know what she’s asking.

“I wasn’t hired to look into Bucky,” you say, refraining from adding because I have self control and I don’t need to invade his privacy to have sex with him. “Anything I need to know, I can get from him.”

Natasha is silent for a long time, staring at you, and you don’t dare look away. This, too, is a test. After god-knows how much time has passed, she stands and you do too, hurrying to grab your bag and meet her at the office door she holds open for you. Conversation over, you suppose - you’re starting to get used to Natasha’s cryptic ways even if they piss you off beyond belief.

“Delete everything you just sent me,” she says. You scoff, rolling your eyes at her, but she stares you down with the darkest, scariest look you’ve ever received from someone who’s a head shorter than you. You think about that word you’d written in your notes, gang, after one too many red wines and thinking back to the way Natasha looked at you when you described them all as a family. Maybe you shouldn’t argue with her, given everything you’d experienced today.

“I’d cover that window if I were you,” you say, instead of answering. A muscle ticks in her jaw but she says nothing else, so you take your leave. Steve waves awkwardly as you go but you ignore him, shouldering out of the shop and practically running down the street.

Energy burns in your muscles that you can’t seem to get rid of, even as you chose to walk all the way back to your apartment which takes over an hour. It’s anger, you realise, fisting your hair and pacing around your apartment like a crazy person. Uncontrollable rage at being played with, tested at every turn, and for what? You never asked to be a part of this game. You’d never done anything but exactly what Bucky asked and it still wasn’t enough.

Your phone begins to ring, Bucky’s name flashing across the screen, and with a scream of pure frustration you throw it full-force into the nearest wall. It makes a dent in the drywall, falls to the ground and the impact shatters the screen but that won’t stop it vibrating uselessly against the floorboards as Bucky rings and rings and rings.

You won’t pick up. This time, or ever again. And not just because you’ve now fucked your phone beyond repair, either. You never asked to play this game, so now you’ll take yourself out of it.

***

This is exactly why you keep yourself so guarded - cutting people out is easy when they have nothing to hold onto. You change your phone number when you go to get it fixed, and it’s like Bucky never even existed. He doesn’t know where you work, where you live, and you don’t go back to any of the bars you went to with him. It’s easier than breathing to remove him from your life.

The same cannot be said about removing Bucky from you.

He’d crawled inside your ribcage and stayed there, burnt a cigarette hole in your heart to claim it as his and you hate that. You never allowed him to do that. So he might not be physically in your life anymore but he’s still there, a ghost of a hand on your throat and an ache that might mean you miss him.

His friends are crazy and he’s in a gang, you tell yourself daily, like it’ll help. Like you believe it even slightly. It’s better this way.

“You’re quiet, kroshka,” you dad says, handing you a cup of tea. You remove your thumb from your mouth where you’d been gnawing at a hangnail to take it, smiling up at him in thanks. He doesn’t go back to his armchair, though, rather kicking a cushion off the couch to sit beside you. You dip with his added weight, closer to him, and he allows you to rest your head on his shoulder while you both blow on your teas in unintentional tandem.

“Kroshka is tired,” you mumble. He clicks his tongue at you, which is fair. Shit excuse, anyway. You sit up, twisting to face him, and ask, “How do I know if I’m overreacting to something?”

“With you, overreacting is baseline,” your dad says, grinning as you slap him on the arm. He takes a sip of tea and says, “Tell me.”

“No,” you say, aware you’re being a brat, but what are you going to say? This woman tricked me and she’s smarter than me so I cut the guy I like out of my life because I can’t let anyone in or I feel like I’m going to die? Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.

“Well,” he says, giving you an unimpressed look, “If you’re questioning whether you’re overreacting, I would say there might be some truth to the feeling. It’s not like you to be unsure, though. Are you sure everything’s ok?”

“Yes, papa,” you sigh, going back to leaning on his shoulder. He might have a point. “You’ve just raised an idiot.”

“I did no such thing,” he says, placing his tea on the side table to pull you into a hug. You feel small, like you’re a little girl again, and you close your eyes against your father’s chest. Maybe you can just stay here and forget about the mess you’ve made of your life. He rubs circles into your back and says, “You’ll figure it out.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya, luna,” you say softly. I love you, moon. You’ve been saying this since before you can remember, your dad whispering it into your hair when he tucked you in at night or you calling across the playground when he’d drop you off at school. In your secret language so no one else knows, a message just for him - from you to your entire world.

“Lyublyu tetbya bol’she, zvedzdy,” he responds, kissing your hair. Love you more, stars.

He sends you off with a bag of donut holes, an obvious reminder you’re both not actually Russian but New Yorker to the bone, and you eat two on the subway ride home while you think. Deleting Bucky from your life is instinct, protection - he’d gotten too close. But really, when you allow yourself to examine the tight knot of feelings sitting in the base of your throat, what’s making you run is guilt.

You crossed a line, investigating his friends. You pried into the life he very purposefully kept you away from and you’d changed your number not because you didn’t want Bucky contacting you anymore, but because he might decide not to and you couldn’t live with watching your phone for a notification that would never come. Natasha will have told him everything by now, probably even showed him, and he’ll never trust you now. You’d blown it. You could be angry at Natasha for baiting you into doing it, but she never would have felt the need to if you had just been honest.

You stuff another donut hole in your mouth to stop yourself from crying. It works only a little bit.

The apartment feels colder, lonelier than it ever has even though being alone was what you thought you wanted. It just allows you to think of Bucky some more, curled up on your couch with the bag of donut holes now empty on the coffee table, sniffling into the sleeve of your hoodie. His smell, the way he always runs hot, the callouses on his hands probably from working in his garage you’ll never get to see now. Stubble, short-shaven hair, tattoos all down his left arm you never gave proper attention to. You can’t remember them all. Just the star, red and big in the middle of his deltoid. You thought you had more time.

“Fuck it,” you say, fishing your phone out of your jeans pocket. Bucky might not have your number anymore but you have his. Maybe if you just called him and heard his voice for a second, just that rumbly ‘hello,’ it might scratch the itch driving you insane. Before you can dial though, you get a notification from your banking app - a deposit from a new contact.

Natasha Romanoff jumps out at you, stopping your heart in your chest. Does she have a sixth sense for any time you so much as think about Bucky? She’s transferred you an obscene amount of money, and it takes you far too long to realise she’s paying you for the Shoreditch case that turned out to be one giant trust test you spectacularly failed. The reason you’re being a pathetic mess alone in your apartment pining over a guy who, as Natasha said herself, doesn’t even know your last name. Get a grip, Jesus Christ.

You open up the notification just to check it’s real and she really did triple the quote you’d given Mrs Shoreditch. That’s when you read what she’s written as the name of the transaction - an address for somewhere in Queens. You should probably at least think about jumping up, grabbing your jacket and practically sprinting from your apartment to an address sent to you by someone you’re 99% sure is part of a biker gang, but you don’t. You have a pretty good idea of what that address means, and curiosity is your biggest vice. Natasha’s sending you a cryptic message and you might not quite understand what it means just yet, but you’re certainly not going to ignore it.

Half an hour later you’re standing across the street from White Wolf Mechanics, hiding in the gaps between street lights and watching Bucky fix up a motorbike. The three huge roller doors are all open, letting light spill out onto the street as well as the thump of a baseline from a song you recognise, because you showed him it. Natasha sits on the work bench cross legged, scrolling on her phone and occasionally handing Bucky tools as he asks for them. He stands, wipes his hands on his skintight black t-shirt and says something into the depth of the shop. Sam appears, grinning wide and tossing a greasy rag at Bucky’s head which he catches easily.

He seems well, and that makes you happy. It’s only been a couple of days since you last saw him but it might as well have been months from how much you’ve spiralled. He might not have even noticed you’d separated yourself from him, and that thought makes you sick. You should go. You need to go. But your feet carry you across the street, jogging into the shadows so they don’t see you. You’ll hear his voice and then you’ll go.

You linger by the farthest roller door from them, sticking outside the pool of light and half-hiding behind the wall of the shop. You can still see them, though, Bucky’s face now turned towards you as he learns over the bike. Brow furrowed in concentration, and you want to smooth out the dent between them with your thumb but that’s not for you anymore. It never was.

“Have you talked Sam about it?” Natasha asks Bucky. You watch him glare at the part he’s holding in his hands and his whole body stiffens. He keeps his back to Natasha so you can see the anger play across his face clear as day.

“What’s there to tell?” he snaps. “You’ve taken care of everything, fuck what I want, so what’s the point?”

“Cut it out, James,” Natasha snaps back, “You know I was protecting you.”

“When did I ask,” Bucky grits out through a clenched jaw, throwing the part to the ground so the clang of metal on stone echoes out onto the empty street, making you jump. He balls his fists up at his sides and says, “You were out of line.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says evenly. She unfolds herself from the table with an unfair amount of grace and steps behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Bucky sighs, shoulders curling in and tension leaking out of his body. You want to hug him, but you will yourself to stay where you are.

Eventually, Bucky shrugs off Natasha’s touch and says, like a moody teenager, “Whatever.” Natasha rolls her eyes, watching him go back to work on the bike with a bit too much aggression that is strictly necessary. She hands him the part he threw silently, and it takes him a beat to unclench his fists and take it. A peace offering, you suppose, in Natasha’s strange language. She doesn’t go back to the workbench, rather staying by Bucky’s side despite his annoyed grumble.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she says, “You proved me wrong, and I’m not too proud to realise that. I am sorry.”

Bucky looks up at her, as confused as you feel because where the fuck did that come from, and says, “Proved you- have you completely lost it?”

But Natasha isn’t look at him anymore. She’s looking at you.

Busted, you think, and you consider turning around and running before Bucky can see you. It’s a bit late for that, though, so you step into the light of the shop and halfheartedly return Natasha’s welcoming grin. It takes Bucky a second, snapping his fingers in front of Natasha’s face like he’s worried she’s actually gone in insane before he follows her eyeline and lands on you.

You’ve never seen Bucky shocked before, but he looks it now as for the second time the spare part he’s holding hits concrete with an ear-grating clang. You flinch at the sound despite yourself, and that seems to shock Bucky back into action. He whips around to glare at Natasha, pointing at you as he does.

“What did you do,” he demands. Maybe coming here really was a bad idea after all.

Natasha, ignoring Bucky completely, walks over to hold out her hand for you to shake. I’m lost, you think, as she says, “Let’s start again. I’m Natasha, James is the only family I have and I’m neurotically protective of him. He’s right to trust you, as much as it pains me to say I’m sorry for meddling in your relationship.”

You don’t take her hand. You’re not entirely sure you want to forgive her just yet, even if she did extend the olive branch to get you here. You fold your arms over your chest and say, “Next time, if you want to know something about me, just ask.”

She quirks an eyebrow at you, retracting her hand back to her side and you hate the way she always seems to be laughing at you. Natasha ducks her head, smirks, and disappears into some back office without another word. It’s just you and Bucky, the body of a bike between you as well as the weight of all the things you never said that’s all out in the open now. You’re looking at each other like you never have before, eyes open to the vast chasm of secrets you’ve both been keeping, and for the first time since you met Bucky you keep your distance.

“So,” he says, folding this arms over his giant chest. Not fair, you think, as his biceps flex against the tight sleeve of his t-shirt. Bucky averts his eyes to somewhere beyond your head and says, “You’re a private investigator.”

“You’re in a biker gang,” you reply, mimicking his folded-arms tight-lipped expression. He raises his eyebrows in a silent touché, and now that it’s out in the open you feel something inside you break off, slide down the tense hunch of your shoulders until you feel weightless. You should want to lock up tight, keep Bucky out because he’s gotten far too close already - you should use this blight as an escape. Somehow, though, having Bucky see you like no one else really has doesn’t feel as scary as you thought it would. Maybe because you have something of him, too, tucked against your head and healing that metaphorical cigarette burn. A secret for a secret. You can work with that.

“You changed your number,” Bucky says, and he’s walking over to you now. Guard dropped, hands by his sides, pinning you in place with his eyes on yours for the first time in what feels like centuries.

“I was scared,” you say, coming out more like a breath than a sentence, too transfixed with Bucky being so close to you when you never thought you’d get this again. He smells like car oil and sweat, but you’ll take any gross combination over nothing at all. He places his greasy hands either side of your neck, pulling you closer so practically standing between his legs.

“You know,” Bucky says, rubbing his thumb over the protrusion of your collarbone like he’s trying to turn your brain and legs into jelly, “Nat doesn’t have a high opinion of a lot of people. She means a lot to me.”

“She’s terrifying,” you say, and Bucky throws his head back in a laugh that has you grinning like an idiot. That sound settles warm in the pit of your stomach, spreading through all the dirty guilt and fear you’d been living in for the past few days. Biting your lip as you sober slightly, you say, “I’m sorry for prying, I should’ve just-“

“Don’t,” Bucky says, stern, shutting you up pretty effectively. “I’m sorry Nat is a nosy bitch-“

“Hey!” Natasha’s voice comes from the back office, startling you both into laughing even as Bucky turns to face the door with a murderous glare on his face.

“Don’t you have anything better to do!” Bucky yells, voice thundering through the echoey garage. He waits few beats for absolute silence, neither of you convinced Natasha had actually left, but it’s the best you’re going to get. He turns back to you, small smile on his face so at odds with how rough and messy he looks. Hulking muscle and scars and tattoos and you should be cautious, should be running, shouldn’t be letting him back you up until you hit the wall and he can pin you there with his hips pressed into yours.

But you’ve never been one to ignore something as intriguing and mysterious as Bucky Barnes, no matter how dangerous it might be. Bucky slides one hand up from your neck to splay across your jaw, fingers pressing almost too tight into the soft skin, and you should run from this, too. A reminder, a promise, a warning. You let him.

“Are we even?” Bucky asks, mumbled into the minuscule space between you. You can’t find your voice so you just nod, and Bucky cocks his head to the side as he asks, “You can still leave, y’know. I’ll understand.”

“No way,” you say with a vigorous shake of your head, probably too quickly if Bucky’s amused smirk is anything to go by. You shut him up real quick with a roll of your hips into his, watching with a sense of victory as his expression darkens and he tightens his grip on you. You say, eyebrows raised, “I’ve still got way too many questions.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, but he’s not got his full attention on what you’re saying anymore, too busy using his grip on your jaw to tug your head to the side and kiss up your neck, warm and open-mouthed with just a bit of teeth.

You nod your head towards the bike he was fixing before, drawing his attention for a second as he flicks his eyes in its direction before resuming his trail of bruising kisses. A bit breathy maybe, you say, “Ever fucked someone on a motorbike before?”

“Absolutely not!” you hear a male voice practically scream, and soon enough Sam is practically running out of the back office with a smirking Natasha on his tail. “This is our place of work! It’s sacred!”

“Go home, Sam,” Bucky says into your skin, still loud enough for them to hear but he doesn’t get off you. You’re blushing, making eye contact with Bucky’s friends and wishing the ground will swallow you whole but Bucky just digs his teeth into the crook of your jaw and grins as he watches your eyes flutter shut. This mixture of embarrassment and unadulterated horniness is making your brain short-circuit.

“My eyes!” Sam cries as Natasha grabs him by the wrist and drags him from the garage. Not without a wink sent your way, and you’ll find time to be humiliated by that later. Right now, you’ve got Bucky’s mouth on yours to contend with and it’s going to take all of your attention.

Part 4

~~~

let me know what yall think of this part!! THANK YOU

#bucky barnse x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader fic #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #biker!bucky #biker!bucky au #11 hours #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #reader insert fic #pov fic #pov #avengers au

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whump-tr0pes · 3 years

Text

Honor Bound 5 - 11

AKA - The Beach Episode

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Content warning: migraine, emesis mention, medication side effects

The first thing Gavin became aware of was a faint, stabbing pain behind his left eye. His eyelids fluttered open, and he winced as the hot, dull ache stabbed through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light that filtered in through the curtains and assaulted him. He groaned, his hands pulling into fists, and curled into a ball under the blanket.

“Gavin?” came Isaac’s soft, concerned murmur.

“Nnngh,” Gavin moaned, swallowing the saliva that pooled in his mouth as his stomach heaved. “H-head, agh…” He whimpered softly and winced as even the sound of his own voice seemed to crush his brain against the inside of his skull.

Cool, gentle fingers carded through Gavin’s hair, and he cracked his eyes open to see Isaac lying next to him on the pillow, his eyebrows pulled together in worry. “Another migraine?” Isaac whispered.

Gavin’s head moved a fraction on an inch in a weak nod. He blew out a slow breath between his lips. “Y-yeah,” he rasped. His eyes slid shut.

The mattress jostled as Isaac smoothly pushed himself out of bed. Gavin longed to reach out and pull Isaac back down to the bed and beg him to be held, just beg for Isaac to stay with him through what Gavin knew would be an agonizing day. He lay perfectly still, trying even to stop his own heartbeat, just to relieve the pounding ache in his head. He wet his chapped lips and curled harder into himself.

“I can go get your medicine,” Isaac whispered over the sound of clothes rustling. “The riz— the migraine meds Finn brought a few days ago. We can see if that works.”

Gavin groaned his assent and tugged helplessly on his hair. He tried, desperately, to think of what helped last time – but each beat of his heart shoved away his thoughts until all he could focus on, all he could comprehend, was the pain of each second that crept by.

The door creaked open, the sound thundering through his brain, and Gavin was alone. He trembled beneath the blanket, his skin breaking out in sweat as waves of nausea rocked through him. He rolled onto his other side and let his head hang against the edge of the mattress, just in case he had to throw up. After a long moment, the door creaked again, and Gavin could hear the sound of Isaac’s bare feet on the rug as he walked to Gavin’s side. The mattress dipped under Isaac’s weight. Gavin’s stomach lurched with the feeling, and he opened his eyes.

“Here,” Isaac whispered. He held out a light orange, oval-shaped pill in his fingers. Gavin moved to take it from him and sucked in a breath as the movement sent pain exploding through his head.

Isaac pressed his mouth into a hard line and gently held the pill to Gavin’s lips. Gavin let Isaac drop the pill into his mouth, and shivered as Isaac cupped his chin and held a glass of water to his lips. He took a long sip and slumped against the mattress again. He prayed he wouldn’t throw up the water, and the pill, before it had time to kick in. If it helped at all.

“Finn said it should kick in within an hour,” Isaac whispered.

The pain spiked through Gavin’s head at the thought of relief. “Hmmn,” he groaned. He closed his eyes and tipped his head to the touch when Isaac drew his fingers through Gavin’s hair again. That seemed to bring a hint of relief. “Wh-what…” He swallowed hard. “Do you need to go into town today?”

“No,” Isaac said softly. “No, I can stay home today. Although, when I went to get your meds, the others were talking about heading down to the lake and maybe bringing a picnic lunch. Finn and Ellis are pretty much moved into their new house. It sounds like Gray and Edrissa wanted to have a going-away party for them, even though they’ll be right down the road.” Isaac huffed out a laugh. “I think Edrissa’s going to bake a cake.”

“You should go,” Gavin groaned. “I’m… ‘m good.” He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and sparks seemed to shoot through his head.

Isaac’s fingers paused in their path from Gavin’s temple to the back of his neck. “But I can stay here with you,” he murmured.

Gavin whimpered and reached up, lacing his fingers through Isaac’s. “But… if it’s their last d-day… fuck me, if, if it’s their last day at this house, then you sh-should… ahh…”

“But—”

“They’re your… family, Isaac.” Gavin wondered if he would be able to fall back asleep if Isaac left. Maybe, if he could lie in the dark and not move, maybe his head wouldn’t explode…

“You’re my family, too,” Isaac breathed. He squeezed Gavin’s fingers. “And you’re… you’re s-sick.”

“I’ll have plenty of migraines you can help me with,” Gavin said bitterly. “Isaac… please, go, I want you to have a, um, a g-good… Fuck, this is worse than before…” He gagged weakly. The mattress lurched as Isaac lunged for the wastebasket and thrust it under Gavin’s chin. Gavin shuddered and swallowed bile, pressing his face against the sheets. He wanted Isaac to stay, but the pain ratcheted higher, like a railroad spike being driven into his left eye socket, at the thought of Isaac missing Finn and Ellis on their last day at home. His throat clicked dryly as he swallowed. “Isaac…”

“I can get you a cold compress,” Isaac said weakly. “Would that help?”

“Um… I don’t know,” Gavin groaned, ready to scream from the pain and knowing the sound would shatter him if he did.

“Okay. I’ll go… I’ll go get one.” Isaac’s fingers slid out of Gavin’s grip, and the mattress dipped as he stood.

Gavin drifted in the pain, his heartbeat marking the time as it crawled by. He jumped when something cool pressed against the back of his neck. He hadn’t even heard Isaac come in over the pounding in his head.

Gavin sighed as the compress pushed away the pain, just a little. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Isaac said softly. “Do you… Gavin, if you really want me to go—”

“Once the meds start working, I’ll come out and join you,” Gavin ground out through his teeth. “Right now I just… need to focus on not… ahh…”

“Okay,” Isaac said quickly, and Gavin’s heart wrenched at the concern he could hear in his voice. “Okay. If you, um…” The compress shifted as Isaac pulled his hand away, and Gavin reached up to hold it in place. “I’ll come check on you in a few hours if you’re not out by then.”

“S-sounds like a plan,” Gavin breathed. He twisted against the sheets, desperate to find a position that would take off the pressure he could feel building in his head.

“I love you,” Isaac whispered, and Gavin felt the soft press of a kiss into his hair. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Love you, too,” Gavin whispered back. After a long moment, the soft sound of Isaac padding to the door and the creak as he shut it stabbed into Gavin’s brain like hot knives.

He whimpered softly and pressed the cold compress against the back of his own neck. It cooled his damp hair. Each heartbeat rocked through his head, each breath whooshed in and out of him, each moment crashed over him in another wave of agony. He drifted in the pain.

∴

Gavin blinked his eyes open. He squinted in the dim light filtering through the curtains and stirred beneath the sheets. The cool compress on the back of his neck made him shiver. He swallowed, and his throat felt dry.

The pain in his head was gone.

Tears of pure relief stung Gavin’s eyes. His chest swelled with gratitude for Finn and the pill that had taken away his pain. He experimentally pushed himself up off the bed. The room swam oddly around him.

He put a hand to his head and groaned. It was as if a thick fog had settled inside his brain, blunting the edges, dulling each thought. Still, his stomach felt settled, and the light no longer stabbed into his eyes. He dropped the cold compress onto the nightstand and sat up.

There was a pair of dark blue swim trunks lying at the foot of the bed.

Tears blurred Gavin’s vision all over again. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and clumsily got to his feet, wobbling slightly before he got his balance.

I don’t remember feeling this weird after.

Gavin shuffled forward and pulled the swim trunks on. After a moment, he crossed to the dresser and took out a t-shirt. He pulled it on over his head and shivered as it settled on the scars on his back. His fingers drifted over his chest, just below his right collarbone, over the scar there. His scar matched the one on Gray’s left side.

He shook his head and pushed the door open. As he wandered down the hall, the house was silent. Even as his head swam, he made his way to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He caught himself staring at himself in the mirror, his gaze flicking between the scar on the bridge of his nose, to the one on his cheek, to the one stretching from the outer corner of his left eye and up into his hairline. Isaac always kissed those scars in exactly that order. Gavin blinked and bent over his rinse out his mouth.

Gavin wandered towards the back of the house with a strange, detached feeling. It was almost as if, as he moved through the air, it was thicker than normal. He seemed to notice everything a second after it happened. He walked through the laundry room and pushed open the back door, blinking in the sudden sun.

It wasn’t quite overhead, but then – it never got that high, this far north. Even in mid-June, the sun still cast shadows at noon. Gavin stumbled out into the long grass of the backyard and wandered down towards the lake.

Gavin blinked again; the day was stunning. The sun was warm on his face, and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair, still slightly damp with his own sweat. It was just warm enough that he didn’t shiver in his t-shirt and trunks. The sun glittered on the surface of the lake, and his feet brushed through the grass as it gave way to rough, granite-gray sand. Gavin drew in a deep breath and felt a smile pull at his lips.

Down near the lake, Finn and Ellis sat on the same electric blue towel, Ellis’s legs draped over Finn’s, both of them turned towards the water. Zachariah stood waist-deep in the water, joyously fending off Edrissa and Sam as they both climbed him like a tree, Edrissa’s squeals and Sam’s laughter carrying over the water. As Gavin watched, Zachariah’s large hands closed around Edrissa’s waist and he heaved her farther into the lake. She disappeared beneath its surface with a splash and shot above the surface again, shrieking with laughter, her pale skin flushed red from the coldness of the water. She flipped her soaking wet hair over her shoulder before she clumsily swam to Zachariah and threw her arms around his neck. She planted a kiss on his cheek before he hoisted her and hurled her back into the water, laughing the whole time.

Tori and Vera stood at the edge of the water in their own bathing suits, their arms around each other’s waists. Even twenty yards away, Gavin could see how Vera’s scars stood out pale against the dark brown of her skin, and Tori’s scars shone pink over her black skin. Vera’s had faded with time. Tori’s would, too. They both laughed as Sam climbed, one-handed, onto Zachariah’s back and wrapped their legs around his waist. Zachariah ducked his head as Sam pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.

Warmth curled in Gavin’s chest at the sight of Sam, Edrissa, and Zachariah together. I was wondering when that was going to happen.

Gray sat in a lawn chair turned towards the lake with a t-shirt and shorts, and a straw hat keeping off the sun. Gavin couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in his throat as he looked at Gray and thought, they look retired.

At the sound of his laugh, Isaac looked up from where he knelt in the sand, pawing through a basket set on top of another towel, this one a blaring yellow. Gavin felt Isaac’s gaze like a thump in his chest. His smile stretched wider as he made his way to Isaac’s side.

Gray glanced up, and Gavin realized they were holding a glass of lemonade in their hand.

All they need is a book, and the look is complete.

“Hey!” Gray said with a grin. “He lives!”

“Yeah,” Gavin mumbled, and blushed as Isaac wound an arm around Gavin’s waist and pressed a kiss to his temple. “That medicine, um, did the trick.”

Finn glanced over and perked up when they saw Gavin. “Oh, hey!” they said, gently guiding Ellis’s legs off of theirs and climbing to their feet. “You feeling better?”

“Um, yeah,” Gavin said as he looked down at his own sandy feet. “I’m a little dizzy, but…”

“Yeah, that can be a side effect,” Finn said, and chewed their lip. “You feeling anything else? Pins and needles? You drowsy?”

“Yeah, a little drowsy,” Gavin murmured. He glanced up and flushed an even more painful red when he realized Finn, Ellis, Gray, and Isaac all had their eyes on him. “Sorry I, um—”

“You should be,” Ellis sniped, and they climbed to their feet and picked up the towel. Gavin found his gaze flicking to their abdomen, hidden behind a black one-piece bathing suit. They still weren’t showing, and probably wouldn’t be for another month or two. That’s what their baby book said. He blinked and returned his gaze to their face.

“We were waiting on you to have lunch,” Ellis said with a roll of their eyes, although their cutting voice was softened by a slight smile.

“No, we weren’t,” Isaac said with a playful grimace in Ellis’s direction. He looked back at Gavin. “I was just going to come get you. You hungry?”

Gavin’s stomach grumbled. “Yeah,” he croaked. “I am, actually. Really hungry.”

“Good,” Isaac said. Gavin melted at the smile shining on Isaac’s face.

Ellis turned to the others still in the water. “Hey, young people!” they shouted. “Get your asses over here, it’s time to eat!”

Zachariah stopped mid-toss, holding Edrissa out over the water, as his head snapped towards the shore. Edrissa shrieked as he dropped her unceremoniously into the water with a laugh and began to trudge toward shore, Sam still latched on like a barnacle. Edrissa giggled as she grabbed Zachariah’s arm and let him pull her to shore.

As Zachariah reached the edge of the water, Sam slipped off his back and landed lightly in the sand. Edrissa scrambled out of the water and tucked herself under Zachariah’s arm, shivering. Her lips were blue as she turned her head and kissed his shoulder. Gavin smiled.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” Sam said through chattering teeth. They made their way over to a pile of towels beside Gray’s chair and toweled off their hair, then wrapped the towel around their shoulders. “The rizatriptan worked?”

“How come everyone can say it but me?” Isaac mumbled at Gavin’s side.

“Yeah,” Gavin said, and took another towel for him and Isaac to sit on. “Doing a lot better.” He spread out the towel next to the basket and pulled Isaac down to sit next to him. Isaac’s scars shone almost white in the sun. Gavin laced his fingers through Isaac’s.

“I spent all morning getting this ready,” Edrissa said as the knelt by the picnic and began pulling out containers of food and sandwiches wrapped in napkins. “Potato salad for everyone… Egg salad for Ellis…” She passed the sandwich to Ellis. “Turkey for Finn, PB&J for Sam, turkey for Gray, tomato mozzarella pesto for Vera, ham for Tori, double turkey for Zachariah, mozzarella pesto for me…” she murmured as she passed out each sandwich. “Chicken salad for Isaac, Gavin I made one of those for you, too…”

Gavin gratefully took the sandwich from Edrissa and pulled away the cloth napkin. His stomach growled again, and louder. Edrissa kept pulling food out of the basket. “Pickles, olives – gross, chips… these chips are really good, they’re made by this married couple in Burmingham, they fry them in peanut oil, you have to try them… cookies…” A small pile of food was spread out on the towel next to the basket. “And if anyone wants more lemonade, I can just bring the pitcher…”

“Yes please,” came the chorus of replies.

Edrissa scrambled to her feet. “I’ll go grab it,” she said.

“I’ll help,” Zachariah said with a grin.

“I’ll come, too,” Sam said as they tripped after them.

Gavin smiled and wondered how much time the three of them were going to spend actually bringing the lemonade.

As Gavin looked around at his family, he smiled even wider. Vera was laughing as she kissed Tori, and Tori’s eyes were bright, focused, clear. Gray looked more relaxed than Gavin had ever seen them. Ellis and Finn had spread out their towel again next to the food, and Ellis was swatting away Finn’s attempts to tickle them through peals of laughter.

And Isaac… Gavin allowed himself a moment to look at Isaac, and was instantly, desperately lost. Isaac stared right back at him, the look in his brown eyes making Gavin’s stomach lurch like he was falling. Isaac reached over and laced his fingers through Gavin’s. For a moment, Gavin thought his heart might burst with happiness.

Isaac leaned forward and brushed his lips against Gavin’s scars: nose, cheek, eye. Gavin turned his head and sought Isaac’s lips with his. He smiled when Isaac lingered on the kiss.

“Oh, get a room,” Ellis said good-naturedly. Gavin broke the kiss, and his cheeks blazed.

“May as well start eating,” Gray said with a laugh. “Who knows when those three will be back. Apparently getting drinks is a strenuous three-person job.”

Gavin took a bite of his sandwich as he looked out across the lake. The wind stirred the trees on the opposite shore.

Continued here

@untilthepainstarts, @womping-grounds, @free-2bmee, @quirkykayleetam, @walkingchemicalfire, @inpainandsuffering, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @whatwhumpcomments, @cursedscribbles, @whumpywhumper, @stxck-fxck, @omega-em-z-02, @whumps-the-word, @justwhumpitwhumpitgood, @justplainwhump, @moose-teeth, @whumpywhumper, @finder-of-rings, @inky-whump, @thatsthewhump, @orchidscript, @insanitywishes, @this-mightaswell-happen, @newandfiguringitout, @whumpkitty, @pretty-face-breaker, @cinnamonflavoredhugs, @inaridriscoll, @im-just-here-for-the-whump, @endless-whump, @grizzlie70, @oops-its-whump

#honor bound 5 #beach episode #gavin whump #migraine tw #emesis mention tw #Isaac/Gavin #medication #Fillis #the throuple #HMS ToriVera #Gray the happiest retiree #Gavin is so happy in this one #and that makes me so sad #I'm usually not one to write 'and then tragedy struck when they were happiest!'#but that's how it's work out this time I guess

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etherrealoblivion · 4 years

Text

Someplace We Aren't Supposed To

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer and Y/N have a relatively new relationship. Wanting to explore some more kinks, the prospect of the bathroom on the jet is far too enticing to pass up.

tags: smut, jet sex, hair pulling, exhibitionism kink, daddy kink, Dom!Spencer

A/N: i binge wrote this for this request. enjoy!

RATING: EXPLICIT

Words: 2,115

MASTERLIST

Everyone on the jet was fast asleep. Everyone except you and Spencer Reid.

Your boyfriend was quietly muttering to himself and flipping through a very thick book entitled, Match Wits With Mensa. He’d been reading it and rereading it a lot lately. When you’d asked him about it, he’d gone into a rant about how one needs to keep their brain alert and to do that, one needs to challenge oneself.

By your count, he was on his… sixth? seventh? reread of the book, eyebrows drawn together tightly and silently arguing with whatever he was reading.

“....well, how the heck do you expect to gain knowledge of the correct pattern? You can’t!” he muttered, a little louder than anything else you’d managed to hear. Every now and then he’d scoff and say, “Well, that’s just not right.”

Dating Spencer Reid was… interesting. In many, many ways. One of the most prominent being the pleasant surprise as to how he behaved in bed.

You weren’t sure exactly what you’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t what you’d got.

Spencer was, in the best possible way, dominant as fuck. When you’d first had sex, you were shocked to find he had much more fun being on top and pinning you down than the reverse of that.

But, other than him being a little commanding usually, your sex life was rather normal. Could having sex four times be considered a sex life? Sure it could, because even though you hadn’t done it all that much, each time was more amazing than the last.

Although… something had been rattling around your head since the last time you’d done it. After you’d both finished, he’d turned to you and said, “Maybe next time we can try something new?”

“Oh? Like what?” you asked enthusiastically.

“Um. I was maybe thinking… doing it someplace we aren’t supposed to?”

“Uhhh. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that, Spencer. My ass is sore enough already.”

“No!” he’d yelped, realizing how what he’d said sounded. “No, no, no. I meant more like… a physical place that’s more exciting? I don’t know, it’s weird.”

You’d been so delighted at him sharing his slightly kinker side, even more so at the prospect of actually exploring it.

“Okay! I think I’d really like to try that! Maybe next time we have time off, we can find somewhere we’d both be comfortable?”

“Wait, really?” his face went blank and you’d felt his spent cock perk up slightly.

“Yes,” you chuckled. “Maybe this weekend? If we don’t get a case, of course.”

And then the stupid phone had rung, pulling you from domestic bliss for three whole weeks to downtown Atlanta.

Now, though, you were safely on the plane home, excited to finally be able to relax. But still, an intrusive thought was wiggling around in your head and the more you tried to ignore it, the louder it got.

After several minutes, you set your own book down and looked at your oblivious boyfriend.

“Hey, Spencer?”

“Hmm?” he hummed back from behind his book.

“I was thinking about something we talked about a while back….”

“Mmhmm.”

You smiled, excited to see what his reaction to your proposal would be.

“And I figured we’re in a plane, yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” he muttered, flipping a page.

“And I’ve racked my brain this whole ride so far, trying to come up with a place more exciting than an airplane bathroom.”

“Huh?” he set his book down, head tilting ever so slightly to the right as it did when he was confused. Then, his whole face dropped, realization dawning on him and you had to suppress a chortle.

“Oh…. You mean....? Are you suggesting that we… um…”

Holding your hands up defensively, you smirked and slowly stood up.

“I’m not suggesting anything. In fact, now that everyone’s asleep,” you said with a pointed look around the plane, “I think I’ll use the bathroom. See you soon.”

And you walked away, making sure to sway your hips a little more prominently, and stepping into the tiny airplane bathroom.

There was a very big possibility that Spencer wouldn’t follow you. He wasn’t exactly the type to hook up in an airplane bathroom. Although, he was the one who’s brought up getting a little riskier in the first place.

The door slid open suddenly and Spencer was inside, quickly locking the door behind him and turning around.

He opened his mouth, no doubt to spout off facts about the numbers of injuries and risks involved in what you were about to do, but your lips were on his before he got a chance to share any of them.

Moaning quietly at the feeling, you ripped off his shirt as he quickly pulled yours over your head along with your bra.

“God,” he gasped, hands instantly grabbing your chest, massaging your breasts lightly as you continued to kiss.

Slipping a hand down his pants, you muttered against his mouth, “I need you, Spencer,” as your hand coiled around his cock.

He was already so hard. Presumably just from the anticipation of this.

Filling your voice with all the love you could manage, you groaned into his ear, “Fuck me!”

With that command, he spun you around, one hand flying to your hair and shoving you down so you were bent over the tiny sink. He shoved up your skirt and yanked your panties down in one fluid motion with the other hand.

You could hear him unbuckling his belt and he leaned in to whisper in your ear, the hairs on the back of your neck pricking up at the feeling.

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you. Look at you…. Bent over like the cheap little whore that you are. Begging for me to give you what you so desperately want. I bet you like how I’m holding you down, taking control. Tell me, how bad do you want this, huh?”

He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance and you fluttered at the pressure. You needed him bad.

“So, so bad! Spencer!! Pleeeaassee!” you whimpered softly, forehead pressing against the hard plastic of the counter.

With a sharp tug of your hair, he lifted your head so you could see how you looked: makeup smeared, mouth hanging open, and utterly and completely wrecked. What really took the cake was the sight of Spencer holding you down, one hand in your hair and the other on your waist, arching your back.

Sometimes, especially in the heat of the moment, you would forget how young he was.

“Then take it, little girl,” and he shoved into you in one smooth thrust, a sharp gasp leaving your lips before you could suppress it.

His hand snaked around your mouth and held it shut as he slowly pulled back out and filled you again.

“Shhhh,” he chided, increasing the intensity of his thrusts. “You don’t want everyone to hear you, do you?”

You moaned around his hand as he continued to pound into you.

“Oh? Maybe you do?” he leaned forward again, briefly biting your ear before whispering: “Maybe you want to wake up everyone on the plane so that they know how you liked to get fucked. So that they know who you belong to.”

“Mmm,” you moaned, attempting to show him how much you were enjoying this.

He quickly withdrew his hand and you bit your lip in fear of making too much noise. While the idea of everyone knowing what was happening was hot, it wasn’t something you wanted to tempt.

“What’s that?” Spencer grunted, yanking your hair harder and harder with each shove into you. “Say it, little girl. Say who owns you.”

“You! Fuck! You, Spencer!”

“Say it,” he commanded, teeth biting down on your shoulder harshly. “Say my fucking name.”

You could feel the heat rising in the pit of your stomach as he gained speed and depth, getting rougher and rougher with you, practically yanking you back onto him regularly.

“Spencer! Fuck! Spencer!”

Uh oh.

That was definitely louder than you thought it was. You reeeeally hoped these walls were somewhat soundproof.

Spencer, however, was losing composure, a sight you loved to see in the mirror. His mouth was dropped open, forming a tight ‘O’ shape, his eyes were shut tightly and his eyebrows so furrowed. He’d taken off his glasses. When did he do that?

You could tell he was close. He always started to ramble the closer he got to coming. But you weren’t worried, you were right there with him.

“You fucking love taking my cock like a little slut. I can feel your goddamn cunt fluttering around my fucking dick. You like this? You like watching me as I fuck into you from behind in a cheap fucking bathroom? You wanna watch me come inside you, fill up your little hole? Fuck! You’re such a good little slut for Daddy.”

At that last word, your eyes snapped shut and you felt the familiar burst of flames licking their way up your body as you came apart underneath him, forced to watch yourself the whole time.

Spencer’s thrust quickly became erratic at the sensation of you coming around him and with a few more thrusts you felt him fill you up completely, staying firmly inside for a few minutes.

When he finally pulled out, one of his hands stayed on your hip to hold you still so he could watch his come slowly slide out of you and down your thighs. Intrigued, he swiped a finger over your sore hole and played with the juices there, gently rubbing them into your skin.

“You okay?”

His voice was so soft, so tender. So… Spencer.

“Yeah!” you gasped, standing up very carefully and pulling up your panties, hoping the plane would land soon. “Very, very much yes.”

You smiled warmly at him and he returned it, redressing himself and slipping his glasses back on his nose.

“I’m sorry about the, uh… Well… I don’t really know where that came from…”

“The, um… the thing you called yourself at the end?”

He blushed, a strange circumstance due to what you’d just done.

“Yeah. That.”

“Spencer,” you pulled his face up to meet yours quickly. A worried expression was on his face that you needed to rectify quickly. “I don’t mind that. Actually… I’m very curious to explore that. If you want?”

His face lit up and somehow, that was more pleasurable than the orgasm he’d just given you.

“Really?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I think that could be fun! There’s lots of stuff I’m excited to try with you.”

“Me too.”

The two of you held each other for a bit longer before Spencer left the bathroom, you staying behind just in case someone had woken up.

You exited moments later after adjusting your hair and makeup so you looked presentable enough and sat down across from your boyfriend, a pleased expression on your face.

Spencer, however, was a shade of bright red.

“You okay?” you asked softly, taking his hand across the table.

He shook his head and, avoiding eye-contact, jerked it towards the other end of the plane.

You swiveled around and your stomach dropped.

There, chuckling softly, was a very awake Prentiss and Morgan, the latter of which wolf-whistled once you made eye-contact.

Shit.

“Fuck!” you turned back to Spencer. “Did they see you leave the bathroom?”

You wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Spencer somehow turned redder.

“They… they were both in the kitchen, just outside.”

“Oh my god…. How much did they—”

“Too much!” Morgan hollered from the back, a smile in his tone that you wanted to slap out of him. “Too much, lover girl!”

And you heard Emily chortle and the unmistakable sound of a high-five.

Spinning around, a surge of boldness washed over you and for some unearthly reason, the words left your mouth before you could think them through.

“We’ll make sure to be a lot louder next time, then.”

That sure as hell knocked the pleased expressions off their faces, Spencer included.

“What?” you asked innocently. “It’s their fault for listening. I’m not ashamed.”

But Spencer simply swallowed and said, “Next time?”

You looked up at him, smiling at the way he twitched his nose and how that shifted his glasses. He was so beautiful. And he was all yours. And you were all his.

“Oh yeah. Next time,” you said, winking at him.

As the plane landed and everyone departed, you swore you heard Morgan mutter to Prentiss, “Remind me to buy earmuffs.”

Poor Morgan. For the stuff you and Spencer were gonna do, he’d need a whole noise-canceling system.

A/N: i’ll edit this a bit better tmr I just wanted to post it now.

TAGLIST

@whollytaciturn @101donuts @thegingerfairchild @safertokiss @happyiidiot @cielo1984 @thupidalethea @darkacademiacherry @matthewreid @aloha-ashley-taylor @justchiara-02 @spnobsessedmemes @sweet-darlin @matthewreid @brokenanxiety @thatsonezesty13 @psychedellic-phase @beautifulalmondstudentduck @awhollandx @baddreamsandbrokenhearts @simp-for-mgg @swagdaddycam @gejatume @url-under-construction @radkryptonitepeanut @idontneedalltheseemotions @krymson182 @addie5264 @pinkdiamond1016

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imthepointe · 3 years

Text

First Love / Late Spring

Five times Kai asks Cole to marry him, and the one time Cole (sort of) says yes.

a/n: word count- 3322, tw- mentions of injury

1 (in their first year of friendship)

Kai Smith was not a professional blacksmith.

Say what you will about his weapon-making and metallurgy abilities, but unlike his parents, he lacked proper training and technique; he supposed that was why Sensei had him spending the day hunched over the furnace, practicing crafting weapons. The fire ninja couldn’t complain too much, though, since a certain earth ninja was also instructed to accompany him during his practice.

Kai ceased hammering whatever it was he was trying to make and frowned. What was supposed to be a chain on a nunchuck looked...nothing of the sort.

“Cole Brookestone,” he offered up said metal band to his friend, “will you marry me?”

A barely fifteen-year-old Cole put his hand to his chest and gasped. “I- I don’t know what to say,” he smiled, “I’m honored, truly.”

Kai slipped the dingy, ring-shaped metal onto his finger and smiled, feeling his face warm and his stomach swoop.

“Unfortunately, I am going to have to decline,” Cole said solemnly.

“What? Why?”

Cole laughed. “Your execution was lousy and informal.” He inspected Kai’s homemade ring on his finger as the fire ninja scrambled to his feet.

“It was perfect, I got on one knee and everything,” Kai sighed, a smile still remaining on his face. “But If you’re gonna reject me, I want my ring back.”

Cole held his hand with the ring close to his chest, laughing again in the same way that made Kai’s face burn. “No way. This is mine now.”

Kai jumped, reaching for the ring, only for Cole to dodge. Despite his youth, the earth ninja was still considerably larger than Kai, so a little game of keep away was no trouble. Still, he let the red ninja continue to play this game.

“But you rejected me! It’s mine!” Kai pounced again, this time landing a hit on Cole’s chest, prying his hands apart.

“I rejected you, not the ring!” Cole cried in between giggles.

Kai wrapped his hand around Cole’s waist and pulled him close, still wrestling to get the ring from his finger, even though he knew it was futile. “Me and the ring are a package deal,” he scowled, a shimmer in his eye.

Cole picked Kai up, tossing him over his shoulder with ease. Kai could feel Cole’s back tense as he began carrying him out of the little blacksmith’s shop, laughing so hard he’s nearly in tears.

“Fine!” Kai half shouted, half laughed after a few moments of playful struggle, relaxing against Cole’s shoulder. “I give up! The ring was ugly anyway.”

Cole set Kai down, a triumphant grin on his face. “Yeah, it was ugly. I like it.”

2 (post mortem)

Kai stood at Cole’s closed door, unsure of whether to knock or not.

Not one person had gotten a wink of sleep since returning from Yang’s temple, especially Cole- though that was probably because he didn’t need sleep now.

Of all the things that could have gone wrong at the temple, why this?

Kai sucked in a breath and knocked on Cole’s closed door. A soft “come in” sounded, though it had a ghastly and fazed edge to it.

“Hey,” was all he said, pushing his way into the familiar room.

Cole was just sitting (hovering?) on his bed, blankly staring at nothing in particular. He hummed in acknowledgment.

“I was, uh,” the fire ninja rubbed the back of his neck, stumbling on his words. Cole would know what to say in a situation like this if any other teammate had been turned into a ghost, but all the things Kai wanted to say stopped at his tongue, like a barrier was holding them back. “I was just checking in.”

“I’m fine.”

FSM, what a liar. Even Kai wasn’t dense enough to fall for that.

“I mean, you can talk to me about it, you know?” Kai made his way from the door to the little space beside the earth ninja on the bed.

As he sat down, a chill ran up his spine. The air around the new ghost was cold and illuminated by soft green light that was produced by Cole’s new form-- it was weird, seeing someone Kai had always looked up to as strong and indomitable seem so fragile and weak.

“I know. I’m fine. Thanks for checking,” Cole turned his face away from Kai.

Kai sighed, making an attempt to put his hands onto Cole’s, to no avail. When Kai’s warm hands phased right through the earth ninja’s, he flinched.

“Please talk to me,” Kai said softly, failing to add because I need to hear your voice.

There was a beat of silence. When Cole didn’t respond, the red ninja tried again. He shifted his body to face more openly towards Cole, who was still staring off into the space just beyond the floor.

“Can you make yourself solid?”

“No.”

Kai felt a little part of himself die when he heard those words. He shifted closer to Cole cautiously and cleared his throat. “Can you try for me?”

Now, Cole looked up and met the fire ninja’s eyes. His face was smaller than normal, eyes drawn wide into a scared expression that took Kai aback.

The ghost forced a small smile. “I already have tried, Kai, it’s no use,” his voice was muted. “I can’t hold anything and I can’t feel anything and-”

“Try for me now, okay?”

For a moment, it seemed as if Cole was going to protest, but he quickly shut his mouth and instead nodded weakly. Kai stood and rummaged around his room for something small that Cole could hold.

Cole was an organized person, but he didn’t really have many trinkets lying around that would work. He was organized and was not a compulsive hoarder, and it was in times like these when those two qualities were not good things.

Kai thumbed through the drawers of Cole’s nightstand, looking for a rock, a pencil, or anything, before his eyes landed on a small shiny ring.

Well, maybe calling it a “ring” was subjective.

Kai held up the small metal band he had made while he was supposed to be practicing blacksmithing almost two years ago, showing it to Cole.

“You kept this?” he asked, surprised.

Once again, the black ninja gave a small nod.

Kai felt his stomach turn as light as a feather and a blush creep into his cheeks. “But--it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Kai laughed, moving closer to Cole. “Why did you keep it?”

“I wouldn’t throw away a ring my fiance gave me.”

The fire ninja remembered the conversation he had with Cole that day in the blacksmith, when Kai had fake-but-not-really-fake proposed to Cole with this ugly ring that wasn’t even supposed to be a ring.

Kai was a much better smith now than he was two years ago.

“Hold out your hand and concentrate,” Kai ordered. Cole extended his hand and closed his eyes shut.

When Kai slipped the band onto Cole’s finger and let go, the ring stayed in place. The ghost opened his eyes slowly, curiously looking at his hand, as if checking to make sure it was still attached. When he saw that the ring was still on his finger, he smiled.

“Kai, I feel it.”

“Well, now you have to marry me,” Kai said with a click of his tongue.

Cole laughed, and this time it was genuine.

3 (but it was forgotten)

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Kai shook his head. “Why Nya?”

“Cause she looks like some other chick named Delara? I dunno,” Cole sighed. “Maybe you should wish for Nadakhan to marry you instead.”

Kai leaned against Cole’s shoulder, sticking out his bottom lip way too far for the pout to be real. Cole just rolled his eyes, making himself corporeal to accommodate the fire ninja putting all of his weight on to the ghostly earth ninja.

The Bounty’s room was completely empty save for the two of them sitting at the table, and Cole was silently thankful for that; it was pretty par for the course for Kai to be all over people, but if Jay knew that Cole wasn’t directly opposing Kai’s clinginess, the lightning ninja would never let him live it down.

“Maybe you have a point,” Kai smirked, now sitting upright. “Who wouldn’t wanna marry me? I’m awesome, I’m funny, I’m--”

A hand flew over Kai’s mouth, silencing the fire ninja. Cole glared hard at him though a grin remained on his lips.

“I’m literally begging you to shut up. It was a joke.” Cole slowly retracted his hand from the now silent Kai.

The fire ninja waited for just a moment, letting his eyes meet Cole’s, before whispering under his breath “I’m really hot…”

“Oh, shut up!”

In a swift motion, Cole had Kai pinned to the ground, knocking over multiple chairs in the process-- but just as soon as the ghost was solid enough to tackle Kai, he phased through him.

In all fairness, it took a lot of concentration just to let Kai lean on his shoulder. He was pretty exhausted from that.

The two dissolved into laughter, then both helping each other stand, tidying up the knocked over chairs.

Kai stopped laughing, turning to face Cole. “I mean, if you were Nadakhan, would you rather marry me or Nya?”

“Nya. No questions asked.”

“Didn’t even hesitate? I’m hurt,” Kai held his hands to his heart. He pretended to be injured for just a moment longer, before asking, “Okay, what if you were just yourself? Would you rather marry me or Nya?”

Cole looked to the ground. If ghosts could blush, he would have.

“I’ll think about it.”

After the events of the following days, neither would remember this conversation.

4 (unrequited)

Kai sat in a chair in the medical bay, bent over with his hands resting on his knees. He bounced his leg to keep himself distracted from the overall disaster that had been that day.

He supposed he was supposed to be happy- his sister just got engaged- what?- and the team had defeated the Oni. It was supposed to be a good day.

But Lloyd had literally died and came back to life and Cole was unconscious after collapsing halfway through the final battle in the medical bay because he fell off of the Bounty. Kai made note that Cole should not have survived, and yet somehow, he did.

So, really, Kai should have been happy; but he was barely hanging on by a thread that was a second away from snapping.

“You missed it,” he told Cole’s unresponsive body. Massive bruises etched their way across his chest and up his neck from his fall.

“Jay asked Nya to be his yang, so, uh, I guess they’re gonna get married,” Kai said under his breath, releasing a deep exhale. He cupped his face in his hands. “I’m happy for them, I guess.”

Truthfully, Kai was. This was his sister and his best friend, and they loved each other, so honestly it was just a matter of time before they got married.

It just felt so wrong to celebrate when one of their teammates was on death’s door.

Zane had told him that Cole was going to be fine. There would be a recovery process, but he was going to live. Still, Kai found himself spending every moment after the final battle with Cole, making sure that he was still breathing and his heart was still beating. Zane had also told him that Cole wasn’t going to go anywhere anytime soon and that he needed to quit being so worried.

With the way he’s acting right now, maybe Kai should have been the one to propose today.

He laughed inwardly, before telling Cole, “If you asked me to marry you right now, I’d say yes.”

His eyes settled on the earth ninja’s closed ones. “Could you imagine? You marrying me instead of Nya marrying Jay?”

Kai hoped Cole would wake up and say something-- he didn’t.

The fire ninja stood from his chair, walking over to the stretcher. He grabbed Cole’s wrist, feeling the pulse, a small reminder that the black ninja was still here. “I can’t marry you if you stay knocked out, though,” he said, tone controlled and steady. “Wake up soon, okay?”

When Cole remained motionless on the stretcher, Kai knew he would not get any response.

5 (sweater weather)

“Kai.”

There was a shiver instead of a response.

“Kai, look,” Cole called again, tugging at Kai’s coat sleeve. He pointed to a coffee shop just down the block with a giant sign on its front that read “SALE.”

“Hm?” Kai hummed, looking in the direction Cole was pointing.

It was a known fact that Kai absolutely despised cold weather. He liked looking at snow, but that was about it. He hated the way it felt, he hated the way it made everything slippery, and he really hated the way it was cold. He was the fire ninja; cold weather didn’t like him and he didn’t care for it much either.

So why in the world he agreed when Cole asked him if he wanted to go walk around town when it was barely 30 degrees fahrenheit and snowing was beyond him, but love works in mysterious ways.

“Do you wanna go get hot coffee? This place is having a sale, too,” Cole said. He looked at the sale sign, then to the door of the shop.

“Oh FSM, yes,” Kai said. He pushed past Cole and into the warm building, not bothering to look at the sign.

Kai hated snow, but maybe it would be bearable if he had Cole by his side and coffee in his hand.

The ninja household was divided when it came to coffee versus tea. They were supposed to like tea, and FSM forbid Wu ever learn that Kai, Cole, and Lloyd prefer coffee to tea. Nya and Zane liked tea.

Jay liked coffee, but he was not allowed to have it anymore following the incident.

Cole knew Kai’s coffee order by heart--medium caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso and caramel drizzle-- but his own order changed day to day. More often than not he ordered straight black coffee. Kai liked to joke that it matched his personality, even though it wasn’t true.

Kai watched as the nindroid barista made her way over to two of them and silently thought about how mad Zane would be right now if he knew what the two of them were up to.

Cole ordered for the two of them, then watched as the barista rang up both of their drinks at full price.

“Wait,” Kai interrupted, gaining the nindroid’s attention. “Isn’t there supposed to be a sale?”

The barista laughed. “It’s a couples discount,” she explained, eyeing the two ninja, “so, uh, unless you two married, then your total is $5.99.”

The two ninja glanced at each other, a smile growing on their faces.

“Cole, marry me right now,” Kai said.

Cole stifled a laugh. “In your dreams,” he rolled his eyes. “Unless…?”

The barista smiled and covered her mouth with a robotic hand. “Just for brightening my day, I’m going to give you the discount, bringing your total to $4.20,” she laughed.

Maybe Kai didn’t totally hate cold weather.

+1 (first love / late spring)

Cole was so frustratingly well-spoken.

He was infuriatingly good at saying things. Hell, he could be talking about puppies dying and make it sound like a rhetorical masterpiece. Kai always figured that his natural way with words probably had something to do with Lou being a songwriter, and Cole just being a natural born leader in general.

Kai was not that well spoken, despite what he may tell the others, but at least he was able to talk about his emotions (unlike a certain black ninja).

And that’s normally how their conversations went. Kai would talk about his feelings and Cole would deflect talking about his own and instead formulate some elaborate response to help the red ninja with his issues.

It took Kai by surprise one late spring night when, as the pair was sitting by the pond just outside the monastery, Cole said something weird and vulnerable.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to have a really normal life?” He waved his hand, facing Kai. “I know that a normal life by societal standards is kind of...unattainable, because we’re ninja, but do you know what I mean?”

“I think so,” Kai said. Warm spring breeze made the water lap at the shore, where the two sat. He stared off into the distance, past Cole, maybe at the pond or maybe he was looking at the tall trees just behind the pond.

“I mean, like, I never really had a normal life, I guess, but I really want normal parts of life,” he rubbed the back of his neck. He really wasn’t sure where Cole was going with this.

He saw Cole’s eyes light up and the black ninja touched his hand in a way that made Kai’s stomach turn to butterflies.

“Yes! That’s what I mean!”

Cole saw Kai’s momentary confusion and elaborated. “I know my life won’t ever be normal but I want normal aspects of life. I want to fall in love, I want to travel, I want to do all these things,” he looked to Kai then back to the water. “We were kinda forced into an adult life when we were just kids,” he said. “It doesn’t feel fair. I mean, Lloyd’s just a tall child.”

Kai picked at the small flowers blooming in the grass where they sat--he was still caught up on the first thing Cole said about falling in love.

“I get it,” Kai said. “I want to fall in love too. And also have a normal life.” He mostly wanted Cole to keep talking.

Kai gathered the flowers in his hand and looked to Cole. He liked the way the moon reflected in his gray eyes, and he liked the way his faint green scar was still visible in the night.

Cole laughed and looked Kai in the eyes.

“You’re one to talk about love, you’ve already fallen for someone.”

For a moment, he fire ninja panicked. How did Cole know? To be fair, he had been pretty direct about Cole marrying him more than once, and Cole was smart…

But oh FSM, did Cole know? Oh fuck.

“With Skylor,” Cole eyed him. “Don’t you remember?”

Thank the First Master.

Kai relaxed. “I wasn’t in love with Skylor, I think I just thought I was. I was in love with someone else.”

Cole smiled fondly, looking at the flowers in Kai’s hands. “Yeah, me too.”

There was a beat of silence as both ninja processed what the other had said. Kai was the first to break the silence, asking, “Well, who was your first love, then?”

The black ninja looked at him for a moment as Kai held his breath.

Please don’t say you love me.

“I think,” Cole paused. “I think it was you.”

Kai felt himself melt, but not because of any fire he could have made or any late spring heat. He felt the sense of normalcy he and Cole had just talked about. He felt himself really in love with Cole Brookestone.

He had been direct before and he was going to be direct again. “I love you too. Like, really. I have for as long as we have been friends.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He laughed nervously, and then reused the same old joke he had used when he first realized he was in love with Cole, in the blacksmith during their first year of friendship.

“Cole, will you marry me?”

Cole had a glitter in his eye and a soft smile on his face. “Maybe take me out to dinner first?”

“Only if I can call it a date.”

The earth ninja smiled and wrapped his hand around Kai’s. “Deal.”

#ninjago #title from lavashipping anthem first love / late spring by mitski #lavashipping #kai smith #cole brookstone #in this fic kai is pining so hard omg #kai is the undisputed winner of pinefest 2020 #tw mentions of injury #claire writes #ninjago fanfiction

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