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sir-arlieosaurus-lung-struggler · 6 months

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Unconventional: A Short Story of Hiding in Plain Sight

Is a short essay written in 2023 on my personal struggles being Native American and AroAce, and how both subjects intersected in a small window of time.

Disclaimer⚠️:

anti-Native American racism

Use of "noble savage"

I think its fairly good, weather the writing is good or not i think it has a good message anyway.

Notes:

In the writing I use the name Wallace to refer to myself, but for context I present fem & still mostly go by my birthname, the people talking to me were using my birthname.

Info aluding to location is removed.

This also relates to my expiriences as a trans person but I'm closited to most people, so is not included

The names of others is changed cause it was fresh at the time and i didnt want to hassle reporting them.

Slightly edited from origonal

History has always been one of my favorite subjects. There isn't much reason aside from that the past fascinates me. Native units are different though. I was ecstatic! Beforehand, that is.

Walking into class on the second day, I already dreaded sitting down, only to be called an "American Indian" through the scribbles of graphite on worksheets. The teacher listed name after name of tribes nearby, he got to a tribe with a well known casino, its famous add campaign was shouted out from the kid beside me, with near no objection. All we are to them; our casino's tagline.

All throughout page after page, side conversation to worksheet, "Indian" rang through my head like the caws of blue jays. Imagine the discovery of discomfort displacing you far from anyone's mind when your history teacher reads blindly from a paper without a second thought.

Through the day, peeve soaked my clothes and I stomped on every drip and caw with the vexation of a murder of flustered crows as I ducked through crowded halls.

I wasn't even there. Not that I made that known.

I wasn't content to sit angerly in my hamster wheel of a head, If I was going to be angry, I didn't want to go through it alone, I was happy to at least vent to someone.

I sat down later for advisory, still soaked in irritation head to toe, I yanked my computer out of its sleeve and clanked at its keys till my frenzied fingers were sore, all class I deliberated my days into a lengthy group-chat email. Saying I was- am annoyed is an understatement, my eyes were incandescent as I slammed down each key. Whether I had history work or not I didn't care enough to do it, I wasn't in the mood to be called an "American Indian" for the next half hour by a paper for answering X Y & Z. I value my sanity over that any day.

I trampled the keyboard with every example I could think of, the textbooks, the kid next to me, the fact that in any history class I've been in all the natives are put under the blankets of numbers. I ended my rant venting, "Sorry if this is out of the blue or off topic or if I 'ruined tha vibe' or whatever maybe I'm just 'over-exaggerating' but I don't care right now… I can only hope we get more than a geography lesson in this unit." I took off my obnoxiously bright hat to see my Aro and Ace pride pins lining its rabbit face.

I've always "identified" as native, there was just never much else. Dads side is just smaller, and out of touch with one another. None of them ever talk.

My weekdays are spent looking at my grandmothers' walls, beadwork, and Formline, and family photos framing it from corner to corner. I've always been a Tlingit Kid. Through my mom and generations of women back till who knows when, I am my clans child. But my dad's side of the family being white, and me taking more after him, the impression I get, when I tell some people I'm native, is that I'm one of those "my grandmother was a Cherokee princess" girls. And that just puts me off from telling people I don't know in the first place.

Once a girl responded to my invisible native-ness with "... so you're white?" I can taste her entitlement every time I repeat her, as if she were owed any sort of "truth." What's the point? What do you want? To see proof of my brown family? My tribal ID? Me to wear my regalia 24/7? My blood quantum painted on a sign above my head?

In attempts to connect with my roots I picked up a book from the library, #ImNotYourPrincess seemed interesting by its title. There was one page that stuck to my skin. "It's strange to me how people always want me to be an "authentic Indian" when I say I'm kanyen'keha:ka. They want me to look a certain way, act a certain way. They're disappointed when what they get is.... just me. White faced, light haired... They want my culture behind glass in a museum. But they don't want me. I'm not Indian enough..." that page was part of the poem, Invisible Indians, by a Mohawk woman named Shelby Lisk.

Advisory September 29, still angered from history just an hour beforehand, I was already unamused with my day. Sitting down for class, I noted down any other things I'd heard from my peers for safekeeping on a word document. Today there was nothing, but I was irritated so I noted any semblance that could have been something as an angered precaution.

From there I went with the motions and hid my face from the dim windows and lights to avoid a worsened headache. I sat to chip away at the little work I had, seeing as it was a Friday, only to be met with an unwelcome whine of my name. "Wallace? Wallace? Wallace? Hey Wallace?" It rang in my worn-out ears like early morning bird disputes from the trees, "Wallace? Wallace? Waaaaaaaalllaaaaaace? Don't be rude Wallace. Wallace Wallace? Wallace?" Frustrated in giving him the time of day, I swiveled my chair in Gabriel's direction for just enough time to send the message of hey, bud I hear you, and twirled back, my face growing more and more sour as the moments inch by. All just for him to spit "Anthony likes you!" For the whole class to feast their ears upon.

His caws stained my expression as we shuffled our chairs around and he continued "Wallace? Waalaace?" We moved again, and without fail he still was in his territorial dispute with the neighboring crows. Get my name out of your mouth I thought. I just continued to angrily lean tired on tables.

We shuffled chairs again, (admittedly this advisory was, not productive.) too tired to take it much further than I already had shoved it, I pulled it past the backpacks flopped on the floor and stopped it by the counters on the wall. Another voice, chimed in "You like Jacob, right? That's why you're sitting so close to him?"

I sat with my right leg crossed over my left, my shoulders slouched to the back of my chair. All I could muster was a glare and stern "No."

The class ended, nothing productive coming as a result of it, and I continued onto lunch.

As I walked the hall, my tiresome time trickled down my cheeks. I was done. I crimpled my face in my light blue hood and sleeves and broke my voice as I shrunk on my lunch. A moment went by when I heard a voice through my whimpers.

"Are you ok?" Rea was sat at the other side of the table with her friends, all seeming concerned.

Through my hiccups I answered. "No." I've always wondered, why even ask? By the time you want to ask you've already answered your own question. That's my case anyway. As I explained my past few days, I was practically reciting the email I wrote yesterday. How I'm not an Indian, the kid at the other table in 1st period, how in my nine years in schooling all the white men had the privilege of being referred to by name while all us sliver of native kids had to go off outside our families is Billy Frank JR. How I wanted enough respect to not have words put in my mouth. How I already have enough on my plate. How I was overwhelmed.

Rea and her friends watched me concernedly as I sat shivering. They let me go on with my rant till I crumbled past speech, and they had some room to ask, "Do you want a hug?"

"Yeah."

I stood up in anticipation. She speed-walked over in open arms, her friends following close behind her. And we hugged in the aisles of lunch tables as she let me cling to her back and cry on her leather shoulder.

I doubt they anticipated many native kids' reading the textbook, not like there's many of us here, four of us in the whole thousand-plus kid school.

Being called something I'm not, in more ways than one, just felt- I couldn't explain it. The concept was quite earthly, grounded to me. But putting it to words others could understand, and so that I understood that feeling before sharing it, was foreign.

Later that night, I wrote to myself and the void in a journal on my phone (was what i said for the school asignment, it was really tumblr drafts). About my eventful last few days, my frustration, my exhaust, and I said as much. Reflecting on my week, I wanted to have a vocalization of just how, weird it felt. I doubt Anthony "liked" me, I barely knew his name, let alone had we talked. The concept of someone liking me romantically is foreign, unwelcomed. Can't be controlled by either side, still just as off-putting.

I image they were antagonizing Anthony alongside me whether he did "like" me, it or not. I don't make it too well known verbally, but I'm Aromantic. No romantic attraction. In my case specifically the type where any romance involving me feels, for lack of better, more concise words, gross. It's purely alien to me. I just don't understand it.

My first "crush" was conveniently chosen at the end stretch of kindergarten. It was almost cartoonish how much I faked it, even to myself.

By the time 6th grade rolled around, I had counted about 5 "crushes" up to that point. I made it to my 4th period world history class and while playing "would you rather" I talked with a girl who agreed that pineapples on pizza was delicious, we concluded it was because their sweet-savory-ness. We were sat close together, and we talked a lot. I figured out she was gay from her telling me she was excited to meet her crush at the park later for a mini date. I didn't even care there was "someone else" I was just perfectly happy that she was so happy. I felt weird, not feeling weird, but it took another year to read between the lines, to figure out it was admiration and close companionship. (And more like queerplatonic attraction, but I didnt want to delve into ALL that for a school asignment)

The night of the 30th, it took till I was pacing lost in thought and song lyrics till I thought of how to word it, "Just the idea of someone feeling a romantic way about me feels gross. Let alone a kid 1 barely know... like it feels so gross I wish I was more articulated to explain it, the best synonym I have at the moment is that I need a shower. It feels like, sticky- like the equivalent of I just got dunked in syrup and it dried a bit then my hair being covered in gum to the point I may as well just shave it."

I realize now, I'm not any of these people's "truth," I'm not what they expect. I'm native, but I'm not dark. I don't want to be a prince charming, or to be "saved" by one. I'm not what any of them name me. I'm not a "hostile Indian" or, better yet "Noble Savage" (both attributed to a documentary we watched in class). I'm not going to find "the one" nor do I want to. I'm not the words they put in my mouth, what they decide I am.

The days moved on. The class moved on.

The boys mostly stop bothering me.

The second of October, a new kid at the same table as add reading kid, chirped the headline of my morning, "If these people were still around today, Bugs Bunny would be their god." The only context I had was I think they were talking about aspecific region that used rabbits a lot in clothing and food, but the statement they were gone was laughably triggering.

From there kids didn't say much else. All I heard was my personal broken record.

From then on, I made sure I had my Aro and Ace pins, and my native pride shirts as often as possible, to show what I really am. At least if people don't know what the pins are they can assume I'm somehow queer and back off. At least I started wearing the pins at home. Not that many people would notice; or know what any of it means to me. But at least someone would. At least I know there are 3 more of us here, somewhere. Hiding in plain sight. At least I ultimately don't care for why people I don't know would care enough to comment. Or why I comment on them in all honesty. At least I can decide it doesn't affect me so I can scrub the stains gone. At least I have pretty good luck charms. At least I have Redbone's Come and Get Your Love.

I don't think its that I don't like history anymore, more often than not, I've learned, my favorite part of history is what is never taught.

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saintlike78 · 3 years

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How about a fred weasley x reader smut with cokwarming. LOVE you writting

Keep me warm [F.W]

A/N: We love a soft Freddie with some cockwarming, thank you so much for the request!

Pairings: Fred Weasley x Fem! Reader

Words: 1.8k

Warnings: NSFW 16+! Vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cockwarming, slight overstimulation, oral (male receiving), praise, mention of food, fluff. As always lmk if I missed anything.

“Come here, baby,” Fred’s soft voice accompanied by a bend of his pointer finger beckoned you towards him.

You had been standing in the doorway, watching as Fred worked away at bills and paperwork from the shop. He had been going at it for hours and to say that you missed him was an understatement. You had eaten dinner by yourself, watched some muggle television, hugging Fred’s shirt close to your body to get the smallest form of comfort without him present.

But you had decided that if you were quiet enough you could keep him company while he worked and then drag him up to the apartment to ‘keep you company.'

“I promise I’ll be quiet; I just want to be with you,” your voice was small as your feet had placed your body in front of his seated form.

He had turned his chair and spread his legs for you to get in between, his hand instantly finding placement on your hips.

“Aww did you miss me, darling?” He cooed, hands squeezing your hips slightly.

Your own hands had found a place on his face, holding his jaw and scratching subconsciously, causing Fred’s heart to flutter, leaning further into your touch.

“I just hate being up in the apartment when I know you’re here overworking yourself.”

He was almost convinced that your actions were innocent, and you really only wanted to keep him company... that was until he lifted your (his) shirt that reached your mid-thigh, only to be met by your bare cunt. His face went from soft to surprise and lastly, a sly smirk lit up his entire being.

“Is it me you miss or my cock, my needy girl, hmm?” His grin reached from ear to ear as he kept lifting the shirt.

A needy whine left your throat unintentionally causing Fred to chuckle.

“Guess that answered it,” he winked.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re busy... can I wait here with you until you’re finished?” you asked hopefully, still caressing his jaw and cheek with your thumb.

“I’ll do you one better... why don’t you sit here and keep me warm,” he patted his lap, the grin never leaving his face.

You were about to sit when your hips were held in place by Fred’s large hands.

“Since you forgot to wear panties, I don’t want that pretty little cunt of yours to freeze,” he said, reaching a hand down to free his semi-hard cock from the restraints of his trousers, your mouth watering at the sight.

“There... c’mere,” he said as he guided your hips forward.

You crawled onto his lap your thighs spread to straddle his cock. He spat into his hand and pumped himself a couple of times, but not quite satisfied by the wetness; he reached two fingers outrunning them through your soaked folds prompting a small breathy moan to leave your lips. He gathered your arousal on his fingers and spread it on his cock mixing it with his own pre-cum, pumping a few extra times before helping you sink down on him.

His cock stretched you out perfectly, your walls pulsing around him as you adjusted, prompting a small gasp to escape your lips.

Once you were fully sat on him, wiggling around a little to get the most comfortable, your arms found their way around his neck, and you leaned in to press a slow and loving kiss to his beautiful lips. He didn’t hesitate to return the kiss, a small make-out session ensuing, small breathy whimpers leaving your lips every time he moved, the tip of his cock brushing that sweet spot inside of you.

Not long after, he disconnected your lips causing you to whine and pout your lips at him, to which he chuckled.

“I know, my beautiful girl, but the sooner I’m done with work the sooner I can fuck you on this desk,” he grinned and winked, leaning in to kiss your forehead when your pout turned into a small smile, cheeks turning pink from the blush that had formed because of his lewd speech.

You leaned your body forward, chest to chest, your face was hidden in the crook of his neck, your arms holding him tightly against you as he scooted his chair back into place and the sound of the scribbling quill filled the room.

The minutes passed by slowly, much slower than usual, you had concluded. Your walls were pulsing around him, your clit aching to be touched, your body was screaming for you to move, but alas you had to wait. Yet there was something so calming, and fulfilling being connected to Fred in this way, both of you quietly listening to each other’s breathing and just enjoying being with one another in a lovingly intimate way. The quill was working double time, you could tell he was writing much faster than normal, trying to be as quick as possible for you.

He was slowly, mindlessly, stroking up and down the expanse of your back, sometimes settling his hand purposely on your ass, but playing it off as innocent by going right back to stroking your back.

An eternity passed, but your patience was rewarded by the sound of Fred’s quill dropping and the subtle movement of his chair slotting out from being placed right in front of his desk.

He guided your face out, his thumb stroking your cheek and leaning into to kiss you once more.

“You did so good, sat so still… I think you deserve a reward, don’t you, baby?”

You just whimpered and nodded a small ‘please’ leaving your lips as you looked at him with huge pleading eyes. Fred just smiled and reached a hand between the two of you, finding your clit and rubbing slow circles on it, your arousal leaking between the two of you. You moaned at the sensation, his hips still not moving, only his finger worked on your cunt, but already you could feel a small knot forming, your orgasm already approaching. Your cunt squeezing around Fred, his fingers picking up speed bringing you closer to your much-needed release.

“You gonna cum, darling?” Fred asked even though he already knew the answer, your body giving away everything.

“Mhmm… please,” was all you could muster to say between a long moan.

“Go ahead, cum all over my cock.”

With Fred’s permission and encouragement, your body complied, and your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, your cunt pulsing with your release. Your breath hitched, you gasped and whimpered as Fred helped you through your orgasm.

“Good girl,” he purred and retracted his fingers.

You didn’t have time to completely fathom what was going on before Fred had lifted himself from the chair and placed you on his desk, his cock never leaving your sensitive cunt. He started thrusting causing a surprised pleasurable moan to fall from your lips. His hands were holding your waist, keeping you in place as he rutted his hips into yours. Leaning forward he captured your lips in his, soaking up all of your small whimpers and whines, reveling in the fact that only he got to see you like this, only he got to experience your neediness because he was the only one, you’d ever be needy for.

You yelped and jumped a little when you felt Fred’s finger back on your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub to bring you to another release. You grabbed onto Fred’s wrist to keep you steady as you bucked your hips to meet his hard thrusts.

“Come on, I know you’ve got another in you,” Fred said, rubbing faster on your clit when he once more felt you tighten around him.

“Freddie… feels so good, gonna cum,” you babbled into his mouth, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“I know, my pretty baby, cum for me.”

You did as you were told, not that you could have chosen otherwise, your orgasm much more powerful than the last, your entire body shaking and hips bucking with the force of the release. Fred’s name fell from your lips accompanied by shaky, stuttering, moans.

“So pretty,” he captured your lips in an opened mouth kiss, his hips still snapping forward chasing his own release.

“Fred-die, can I-I suck yo-ur cock, ple-ase,” you pleaded between gasps.

Fred smiled a cocky smile, but nodded, “of course, my love.”

He pulled out and stepped back, stepping out of his trousers that had pooled around his ankles. You shakily got on your feet, Fred’s arms catching you when you nearly toppled over. His arms held you and helped you to your knees in front of him, his red hard cock level with your face. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, creating a make-shift ponytail as his other hand caressed your cheek slowly.

You reached a hand up to grab his cock, fisting a couple of times before letting your jaw go slack and leading his length into your warm waiting mouth. You used your tongue to add pressure as you guided his cock further down your throat, not letting your gag reflex surface as it hit the back of your throat. Using your hand to pump and twist at the base, where your mouth didn’t reach, you felt him twitch. You bobbed your head a couple of times, his moans and grunts spurring you on, loving the sounds.

You retreated your mouth a little and suckled on his tip, your tongue running over the sensitive slit causing a shiver to run through Fred and a stuttered moan to leave his lips.

“Gonna cum, gonna cum right down that beautiful throat,” he moaned, interrupted by a grunt.

Hearing this you took him as far down your throat as you could, prodding a gag to erupt.

“Oh god,” Fred moaned as he came down your throat, the salty liquid gliding into your waiting mouth. You swallowed around him the best you could with his cock still in your mouth, another gag leaving your throat.

He slowly pulled out and hooked his arms under yours as he hoisted you up to stand before him.

“My good girl,” he said as he lifted you to carry you. Your legs wrapped around his hips, holding onto him like a koala as your lips found his again.

“Thank you, Freddie,” you said between kisses, “can we take a bath together,” you asked, looking at him with the best puppy eyes you could muster.

“Of course, we can, baby, and then we can cuddle and watch that muggle movie we talked about the other day.”

You smiled with glee, hugging him close to you as he carried you up the stairs to the apartment.

“Oh, my Gods! Give a warning next time!” George yelled and covered his eyes as Fred carried you through to your room, both of you naked from the waist down.

Fred laughed loudly, you just buried your face into his neck, your face red with embarrassment. “Sorry, Georgie, we forgot.”

“You better clean the office up before I have to work in there tomorrow,” George said sternly before retreating back to his room, bumping into the doorframe because of his covered eyes.

You giggled, “you’re stupid.”

“But you love me anyway,” Fred smirked and kissed the side of your head.

“Yes, I really do.”

Tags: @teenwolfbitches28, @emma67, @autumnandwinteraesthetics,

#fred weasley fluff #fred weasley smut #fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #weasley twins

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micer2012 · 3 years

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Evil Xisuma in s8 is under Jeff the Minion's control, and likely the Midas Curse, and that is why they're a Capitalist right now

hey! hi! welcome to my post. i will share with you what has been unable to leave my mind for the past week

you might have noticed this part in X's ep 1010! It is probably the cutscene with the least amount of lore in it, it's just EX relaxing and watching TV with other animations th3pooka (the person who animates these new EX cutscenes!) has done. The 2nd show shown is from their animation of Dragon Bro's, but the 1st and 3rd are from a 20 minute animation by them called Evil's Fault. When watching the 3rd clip, EX exclaims, "Oh! Jeff the Minion! Haven't seen that guy in some time." implying that EX remembers events that only happened in Evil's Fault, and that Evil's Fault, animated by th3pooka, IS canon to the s8 EX plot going on.

If you think that that's flimsy to say that the animation is canon I understand, but also consider that this is seemingly the only point of this cutscene: just to show that 1. EX is a tad depressed 2. They remember Jeff the Minion (while 2 scenes of Evil's Fault are played.) Episode 1010 was also uploaded on the 2 year anniversary of Evil's Fault. (Jun 19th)

Evil's Fault also includes voice acting (and music!) from other hermits, and X shouted it out when it came out and linked to it in his HC episode at the time. I think it's fair to say that Evil's Fault, and it's 3 prequels (the CarnEVIL trilogy) are canon to X's s8.

So! What is in Evil's Fault?

oh boy . there is a lot in Evil's Fault. if you are an ex enjoyer and haven't watched it yet, like i had. uh. its probably best to just watch it (tw, it said at the end its dedicated to people struggling with feelings of 'Hate, Addiction, and Doubt', and i think if you are sensitive to seeing violent internal intrusive thoughts, take caution)

So, in Evil's Fault we learn that since at least ep 500, EX has been 'working with' a mythical being named Jeff the Minion. (named "Jeff the Nightmare" in the Evil's Faults credits since he's not Dionyisus's minion anymore since Pungence freed him (listen it's a long story) but I'm gonna refer to him as Jeff the Minion for this post) If you don't know who Jeff the Minion is, like 99% of people on earth, HERE is a post by hermette-historian, and another by arandomshine. In short, they are a Season 1 Pungence and Skyzm lore character that appeared in. One episode. (and other th3pooka animations)

Jeff the Minion is also the evil voice that EX was talking to in ep 666 (that appeared as a wither skull), and likely the supplier of the Withermen in ep 500 (Jeff himself is associated with wither skeleton skulls, and we see in Evil's Fault that he has a lot of smaller minions that do his bidding. These were likely lent to EX as the Withermen)

Some time after episode 500, (while EX is stuck at the bottom of the pit in the s4 world), EX falls asleep and dreams of their life, before Jeff the Minion intercepts the dream. Jeff the Minion places this glowing wither skull into EX's head, saying that he'll always be there inside EX's mind, no matter how hard they try to wake up.

Then in the segment titled "Waking world?" we see EX, still stuck in the pit in the s4 world, trying to stay awake from episode 569-574. There is one scene in particular in this segment that I didn't understand watching the first time, that I think is very important.

On the wall, we see messages that EX scribbled in lava to remind themselves. They turn to obsidian as time passes, and by the end the pit is a Collage of desperate messages from EX to themselves to STAY AWAKE. But what I think is interesting is the message to EX's left here. "$ 1-Emerald Golden Chips <AND> Silver Fish"

It starts as just the chips thing (chips as in Bri'ish way of saying fries) and then they add the Silverfish when they catch one, but what does this message mean? They just caught this food for themselves, what does it being an emerald mean?

This seems to be EX making a shop. Saying that it's 1 Emerald to pay for their food. (the use of Emeralds is interesting too, why not 1 Diamond? Using Unusual Currency huh ex). Why would EX be making a shop, stranded at the bottom of a lava pit??

Now I want to move from Evil's Fault, and take a look at Jeff the Minion's original episode, and King Midas's Curse within it.

In Pungence's S1 Ep 12, he and skyzm are given a book with a message by a creature named Jeff the Minion. They own a shop filled with King Midas's Treasures, (just gold gear) sold at Ludicrious prices, and Jeff says that they need to toss them back into the Pactolus River to get rid of the curse (which has been passed down onto them). This is really a ploy from Jeff, because if the golden items and the 'successor of the gold curse' (Pungence) are under Jeff's control, he can use them to break free of Dionysius (who he is in debt too because he got drunk and ate a whole bag of Ritz Crackers) and return to his former powerful state. (Jeff the Nightmare). The curse was also originally given to King Midas by Dionysus.

Pungence and Skyzm laugh in his face and do not, in fact, do that. Jeff isn't seen again until CarnEVIL 2, Dream No More.

Pungence tries to attack Jeff (in the body of/masquerading as Evil GenerikB? idk), but uses King Midas's sword, releasing Jeff's full power as he has the successor of the gold curse and the King's items. Jeff's full power is shown briefly, before they defeat him and seal him in ice until Pixelated Heart.

A lot happens in Pixelated Heart, but the sum of it is that all the hermits use the power of love (and remembering their loved ones who Aren't there) to fight Jeff the Nightmare. Xisuma, along Pooka and GenerikB are the one's leading the charge, and Xisuma is the one who shoots Jeff's eye. They also say that all of those Little Jeff's (called 'Trapped Hearts' in Evil's Faults credits) are dead/inactive hermits, corrupted, so that's pretty fucked up if true!

Here is my full interpretation of when things happen up until s8!

What we know is that Jeff the Nightmare, who was a voice in EX's head from at least 500-666 (where he's then banished from EX's head by the power of EX and X's bond, put into X's hand by EX, (which is then why EX goes Oh Im Good Now! at the end of ep666. Jeff is gone from their mind)), and is then gone until ep 800.

I personally think that since it was X and EX's bond that drove Jeff away in the first place (the redstone represents Bonds with other people, you see that in Pixelated Heart), as X's trust in EX dwindled, Jeff was able to creep back into their mind and convince EX that they were evil and always were going to be, partially because that's what X was thinking.

Then, EX tries to break free and make a final stand, with Wormman and Xisuma (the only two people who. care about them) coming to help, giving Purposeful parallels to the big power of love fight scene in Pixelated Heart, but if its from Xisuma not actually trusting EX deep down, or just from the fact that there are only 2 of them vs the like 100 that fought in PH, Evil Xisuma loses their last fight, at the end of Evil's Fault. (see the emerald that flies Straight to their face)

So. At the end of Evil's Fault, EX falls under Jeff's control again.

Now onto S8.

First off, EX is a lot.. smarter, and subtler this season. This really doesn't seem their style, but would make sense if someone is trying to keep a low profile here, and manipulate someone else into doing their bidding and building their empire, so they can strike once all of the hermits are under their control. I'm not talking about EX manipulating Xisuma here, I'm talking about Jeff manipulating EX.

The sudden capitalist turn from EX, something they've never cared about before in their life (the only other time they had a shop was in s5, the shop with Wormman, where they literally gave away their knitting patterns and other things for free. it was literally free)... Could be because with Pungence no longer the successor, King Midas's Greed was something that Jeff could pass down to EX, and could be the reason why they are focused on wanting money (if it's not just for general Want of Control, to exploit people, which it could be too)

But now onto the parallel between Jeff's voice in EX's mind in Evil's Fault and the mind control (and i think th3pooka on twitter confirmed it was in fact mind control) that EX did on Xisuma. Both spells involved the persons signature 'thing' (wither skull for Jeff, lightning for EX), colored their color, that then went into the persons head and turned their eyes to that color. It's safe to say that this is likely the same, if not similar spells.

What Jeff's spell did was put his 'everlasting voice' into EX's head. He was able to send messages to EX, seemingly look through their eyes, and compel them to do things. It seems likely that EX now has the same 'backdoor' into X's mind, and if you count the streams as canon, you might even say that clips like these confirm that EX can see through X's eyes, and influence him to say things for them.

I think that the EX heads that EX is giving to the other hermits do a similar thing, give EX that same 'backdoor' into their minds if they're wearing them. The episode is called 'influencing the hermits' and EX seems VERY excited and Evil when the hermits put on the heads.

Jeff wants to destroy the Hermitcraft server, and has a motive to go after Xisuma and Evil Xisuma specifically. EX seems to be being used because they can access the psychical world, and Jeff can't, and their bonds with others are weak enough that Jeff can put the doubt and hate into their mind enough to control them (Maybe the reason that Jeff can't influence other hermits Directly yet is because their bonds with eachother are too strong, and wards him away)

Another thing I want to mention is EX, both in the "Waking World?" section of Evil's Fault and in 1010, sitting watching TV and being surrounded by food, and empty potion bottles. (probably the closest thing to wine in Minecraft, i think that these scenes could be hinting at Dionysius/Midas Curse control. the cookies in 1010 also are the closest thing in Minecraft to Ritz Crackers I can think of).

In short (and this post has not been short. dear god i am sorry that this post has not been short but i think i had to explain all this because nobody knows who the hell jeff the minion isJNKBHXC), I think it's pretty much confirmed that EX is working (unwillingly) with Jeff the Nightmare in s8, has a backdoor into Xisuma's mind, and is trying to influence and get into the minds of the other hermits. (And that the capitalism May be linked to King Midas's curse, which now that Pungence is gone, does not have a 'successor'. but honestly maybe this isnt connected to the midas thing i just wanna be clever with why specifically theyre doing shops and money out of nowhere)

But what makes me say that they're definitely working together with such certainty? Look at this shot from 1013.

Yep! Those eyes aren't EX's. Those are Jeff's eyes in the reflection. EX is certainly under Jeff's control in s8, but where the story ends up going from here we'll have to wait and see.

NOTE ALSO I WAS ABOUT TO POST THIS BUT MY BROTHER BROUGHT SOMETHING UP. EX SAYING "Oh Jeff the Minion! Haven't seen that guy in some time." IMPLIES. THAT THEY DONT KNOW THAT JEFF IS CONTROLLING THEM CURRENTLY EVEN THOUGH JEFF IS AT LEAST IDLE IN THE BACK OF EX'S MIND, AS SEEN FROM THE REFLECTION IN 1013. PAIN AGONY EVEN

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bakugotrashpanda · 3 years

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Bakugou x Fem!Reader Word Count: 7330 Flower Shop AU, No Quirks, Heist?

Part of a BNHArem collab, check out the others here! For this collab I was challenged to do a One Night Only, Flower Shop AU with the line “If you leave now, you get nothing”

You’re forced into the opportunity of a lifetime

The bells above the door chime. A gentle breeze wafts across the leaves of flowers lining the wall. Turning, you spy a tall, ash blond man removing his sunglasses. Crimson eyes rove around, taking in the ready-made bouquets in showcase fridges and dried flowers hanging from the wall before settling on you.

They soften from hard garnet gems to pools of lava you could lose yourself in. A cocky smile graces his face as he approaches the counter where you put the finishing touches on a dozen roses.

“Bakugou,” you smile at him, “I haven’t seen you in a while!”

“I’ve been busy,” he says and peers at the note you attach to the roses. I hate fighting and wanted to say sorry for what happened. I love you to the moon and back. He arches an eyebrow at you and scoffs at whatever fool thinks a bunch of roses will make things better.

“Don’t get me started on it,” you roll your eyes, “But you, are you too busy to stop by and say hi?” Bakugou’s brow twitches slightly.

“I need another bouquet of gardenias sent to this address today,” he says, completely ignoring your chastisement. He scribbles down an address on a scrap of paper and slides it across the counter.

“Sure thing,” you peer at the address. It’s across town. A slight pain in the ass, but for your favorite customer? Not a problem. “Any message with it?”

“Congrats,” he says, “No name attached to it.”

“Your girlfriend is lucky…” you hum and check your computer to make sure you have everything in stock. When he doesn’t respond, you raise an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend is lucky?”

“It’s just a friend. You know I’m not dating anyone,” he points out, “Do you guys deliver single flowers? Like a single rose and that shit?”

“Not normally, but you’re one of my best customers,” you reply. It’s true. The man sends more flowers than most people will in their entire lives. Some people visit coffee shops daily and are labeled regulars. Bakugou visits weekly, sometimes ordering up to five bouquets at a time. “If you give me the addresses, I can personally deliver them after hours.”

“I need gladioli delivered to these addresses. Knock and leave it at the door. Don’t bother waiting for anyone to answer.” Pulling another scrap of paper out of his pocket, he jots down three more addresses. The pencil hesitates above the paper for a second before he hastily adds one more. “And an amaryllis to your place for your trouble.”

It’s the combination of smolder and wink that has you biting your lip, and your knees turning to jelly like a damn high schooler who’s head over heels for someone.

“So the usual delivery method,” you smile wryly. “All today as well?”

“Of course.” Bakugou pulls out his wallet and plunks the card down on the counter with a satisfying snap. It’s not a clatter of plastic, no, this is a crisp crack of metal, and it’s a well-practiced move.

“I’ll have these all delivered by 8pm,” you say and type in the card number from memory.

“Perfect,” he purrs.

“I have a lunch break coming up if you have some free time?” you ask hopefully, the ‘gone to lunch’ window card already in your hand.

“I know a place around the corner,” Bakugou says and waits for you to close up shop.

As always, lunch is too short, and you find yourself dragging your feet on getting back to the shop. Days Bakugou comes in are always livelier and you never want them to end, but of course, he goes his way, and you go yours.

Setting aside the flowers Bakugou requested, you pack up your car and wait for your co-owner to show up so you can make the deliveries. Logically, if one were to deliver packages, it would make sense to plan a route with the least amount of driving. But your method is slightly different. You always go based on how needed you think the flowers are; a ‘happy birthday’ bundle for family? Right away. A customer’s third, dozen roses with a card apologizing for being an asshole? Not so much. And requests for Bakugou? Always saved for last. Sometimes you hope that you’ll be delivering to the man himself, or get a chance to see a girlfriend – not that you’re jealous.

Deliveries go smoothly; a congratulations on graduating bouquet from grandparents who are too old to travel and live too far away, a gift for a mother from her son, some ‘just because’ flowers to an unsuspecting partner, and the apology roses. Bakugou’s order sits in a box in the passenger seat of your beat-up car. The bouquet of white gardenias with greenery surrounding it looks more like wedding flowers for a bride, and the towering apartment complex you arrive at in the heart of downtown has your jaw drop.

The doorman in the marble lobby thoroughly inspects the arrangement before dismissing you. Who could possibly live in such a grand building? A client? Family? He probably didn’t know when he ordered them, but gardenias are a sign of secret love. But they’re also beautiful flowers.

The gladioli go to much more mundane places; an apartment above a bakery, a gym where a trainer took it claiming to know who it was for, and a house on the edge of where suburbs meets city. The last address takes you out towards the water.

Gravel crunches under the tires of your car as you pull up to a giant metal building. You sit in the driver’s seat and stare at the warehouse. There’s no office to approach, no name on the building, and no workers milling about who can give you directions. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anyone here. Checking the address again, you frown and get out. There are mechanical noises inside, so clearly there is someone here.

Remind me to check the addresses before agreeing to deliver anything.

The rusted, corrugated metal warehouse is tall enough to fit a ship. Maybe at one point that’s what it was used for, but boarded up windows make it clear that if there was ever any new construction happening, it was a long time ago. Going to the only human sized door there is, you heave it open slightly and peek inside.

This… doesn’t look like your normal crowd of people you deliver flowers to; instead of mothers, partners, brand new babies, and grandparents, you can make out men playing cards at a cheap folding table and other individuals hammering crates closed through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Maybe he wrote down the address wrong. You slowly close the door and pray to all the deities in the universe that none of them hear the door click shut. Maybe there’s another place around here he meant to have the flower delivered to. Aware of all the gravel shifting under your feet, you try, and fail, to back up without a sound. Maybe-

“What are you doing here?” A hand wraps around your upper arm. Inside, you’re screaming, your fight or flight responses opting for ‘deer in headlights’. You whip around and yank your arm out of the hands of-

“Bakugou.” Even your whisper is too much noise. You should have trusted your instincts and left as soon as you saw where you were. “I’m delivering the flowers you wanted, what’s goi-”

“Quiet.” Bakugou whispers and presses a key fob into the palm of your hand. He spins you around and points to a sleek car with tinted windows parked on the other side of the street. “Black car. Wait in it. Do not let anyone see you.”

He watches you retreat to his car before entering the warehouse. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of waiting, hoping that he was okay. Thirty minutes of realizing that since he wasn’t running out with a horde of angry people behind him, he probably knew them – probably worked with them.

And it takes thirty seconds of him exiting the warehouse with a grim look on his face to realize that you’re in deep shit.

Bakugou turns the car on and sits there idling, his hands growing white against the steering wheel. His jaw clenches as he stares straight ahead. No one says anything. The agonizing silence stretches on as you both try to figure out how to break the silence.

“How much did you see?” he asks, putting it in drive and smoothly pulling away.

“What do you do for a living?” you counter cautiously. The Bakugou you have lunch and coffee with on a weekly basis doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would willingly go down to the docks for who knows, but… the lifestyle he lives… The amount of money he spends could be explained by… illicit activities.

“That’s not important.” His words make you want to laugh. Not important? The color of a car isn’t important. Being an importer of black-market goods? Important.

“But it is. Drugs? Guns? What was in those crates?” you press, “Who are you?” He doesn’t answer right away, choosing instead to pay attention to traffic.

“Just someone making their way in the world,” he says after a moment. Vague. What did you get yourself into?

“Take me back to the docks,” you say sourly and sit back in the leather seat. He makes no effort to turn the car around, instead driving further into the city. “Bakugou, I left my car there. Will it still be in one piece when I go back?”

“Promise me you will never go back there. I must have given you the wrong address,” he says. His eyes meet yours, but you make no promise, just as he doesn’t promise your car will still be in one piece. “I’ll get you a new one that isn’t a piece of shit to make up for it.”

He pulls up to an apartment complex. It’s bland – blends in with the neighborhood, looks just like the complex next door and across the street. The entirety of the quiet street seems to be beige buildings that all look the same

“Come on,” he parks.

“Where are we?” you peer around trying to recognize any of the buildings. Even though you drive around the city often, you don’t recognize where you are.

“My place,” he says and gets out. Walking around to your door, he opens it and waits for you to get out. “There’s some people you need to meet.” Quietly, you follow him, curiosity getting the better of you. Plus, if you were to run, you’re pretty sure he could catch you.

In front of a door numbered 23, Bakugou sticks a key in and unlocks it. If you weren’t perturbed about everything that happened in the last hour and a half, you might have enjoyed the warm, spicy scent of his cologne.

Spread throughout the apartment are three people. A dark-haired man in the kitchen puts the finishing touches on a feast spread across the counters, a red-haired man you recognize from the gym earlier in the day sits on a couch, and a woman with auburn hair leafs through the pages of a book. On the coffee table in the middle of the living room are all the gladioli you delivered earlier in the day. They all look up when you enter, their warm familiarity turning to closed off scowls when they spot you. Bakugou closes the door and locks it before they speak.

“What’s she doing here?” the redhead gym trainer asks. His garnet eyes narrow as he studies you like a dog wary of a stranger.

When you handed the flower to him earlier, he had been so cheerful and enthusiastic. Where was that man now?

“She runs the flower shop I use,” Bakugou says and removes his shoes. You follow suit and bite your tongue to try and blend in.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” the man asks. He crosses his arms, accentuating his prominent muscles. “What is she doing here?”

“She got caught up in everything,” Bakugou mutters and flops into a chair.

The woman returns the book in her hand to a shelf and walks over, also sizing you up. You have a fleeting thought to make a sudden movement just to make her and the redhead jump, but you’re not that stupid.

“We can’t let her go!” the woman hisses. Chestnut eyes stare coldly at you. “She’ll ruin everything.”

“Do I need to take care of this?” the redhead asks and stands. He towered over you at the gym and you didn’t think much of it, but now his height and musculature make standing near Bakugou the best option to not get hurt.

“We’ll use her,” Bakugou says and waves the man off. You turn your head so fast there’s a possibility of whiplash. Use me?

“That doesn’t promise her silence,” the man in the kitchen says. He wipes his hands in a towel before walking out to see what’s going on. He looks at you curiously and with none of the hostility the other two people have.

“If she has as much skin in the game as the rest of us, she won’t say a goddamn word,” Bakugou snarls.

“What can she do for us?” the woman sneers, “We have the brains, the brawn, the hacker. We don’t need anyone else. Especially her.”

“She’s our in,” Bakugou reclines in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest triumphantly. “She can get us into the event. Ever since Sato got let go from the place that’s doing the catering, she can do the floral arrangements.” The man from the kitchen looks down sheepishly.

“I didn’t know they would be downsizing so soon,” he, Sato, mutters.

Begrudgingly, all hostility towards you dissipates. You can see the gears turning in the rest of their minds. You rub your arm self-consciously and shift from foot to foot. You’ve been able to piece together a vague picture of what’s going on, but your spot in everything still eludes you.

Their ‘in’? The flower shop he uses? I can do the arrangements? What does this have to do with what happened at the warehouse? And are they all a part of it?

Questions bubble inside you. If you speak, it’ll draw more attention to yourself. What if you say the wrong thing though? What if somehow you manage to describe what you think is going to happen in detail and it’s correct? Would they think that you know too much for your own good and ‘take care of you’ regardless?

“They’re not going to use her out of the blue,” the woman says slowly.

“Let me handle it,” Bakugou says. He turns his attention to you, and for a moment when his fiery eyes meet yours, you forget about everything. It’s just the two of you, like always. “You’ll be compensated for your time.”

“I’m not giving her a portion of the haul,” the redhead says defiantly.

“I don’t need anything,” you say automatically. Your throat is dry to the point where your words come out scratchy. “I’ll do whatever you want, please don’t kill me.” Bakugou glowers at the redhead and stalks over to him, his lips turning into a sneer.

“Kirishima, you know better than anyone that no one does anything for free, because free means a favor, and I don’t do favors,” Bakugou punctuates each of the last words with a jab of a finger to Kirishima’s chest. You can feel the electricity in the air as the two men stare each other down. Reluctantly, Kirishima looks away, and Bakugou grins victoriously – even though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re in,” Bakugou says to you in a firm tone. “End of discussion.”

Brief introductions were made, along with ambiguously telling you the plan – and that was only when you started panicking that you would be in another warehouse with a crime lord and be forced to kill someone. Kirishima chuckled and unhelpfully told you that wouldn’t happen ‘this time’.

From what you can gather, Bakugou found everyone when they were down on their luck and he needed help. This job would involve a glamorous party and leaving richer than when you went in.

“Do I get a say in this?” you ask Bakugou as he drives you back to your place. With your car gone, you had no way to get to work easily – a fact you pointed out to him once the two of you were alone in his car. Until you did have a new set of wheels, Bakugou would pick you up and take you to work. Of course, you would have to come up with a lie of why you didn’t have a vehicle anymore to your coworker.

“No. It’s one night. You’ll make it,” Bakugou says grimly, “Don’t even think about running. If you leave now, you get nothing but a bullet.”

“Kirishima seems like the kind of person who would snap my neck with his bare hands,” you snort. He could probably flex his arm and it would all be over.

“I would have to be the one to do it, and I don’t want to,” Bakugou says stonily. Your mouth snaps shut. Silence descends while Bakugou weaves in and out of traffic. “You’re going to accept the order when it comes your way. Make the arrangements, and then we’ll deliver them as your employees. After that, you stick by me so I know you’re not running off to the cops.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you say dryly. So that’s how they’re going to use you. A convenient detail he left out when he was around the others.

“This isn’t our first time,” Bakugou turns fractionally to glare. The setting sun highlights strands of warm honey hidden within his red eyes. “I’ve carefully chosen my people for their skills and we work like a well-oiled machine. You landed in the middle of this. I will not have you messing up my plan. It’s one night. After that, you can go back to your boring life.”

Boring. Ouch. Part of your ‘boring’ life is the mundane; seeing the beauty in each flower you work with, seeing the smiles on customers’ faces when they answer the door. Bakugou is part of that too. Walking side by side down a sidewalk talking about anything and everything, getting into philosophical debates over lunch, discussing the validity of conspiracy theories over coffee. Those moments mean everything to you, and he sums it all up as ‘boring’.

“You don’t mean that,” you mumble, heat flooding your face. He said he used you and your flower shop – was any of it real? Were any of the single flowers he picked out and bought specifically for you to keep a ploy to get close to you? Were the times he waited outside your shop in the cold mornings before you even opened, two steaming drinks in hand, all meaningless?

His lips form a thin line and his jaw clenches. You sink back into your seat, resigned to the fate he’s brought upon you. You almost miss his words, attributing the whisper to the sounds of the passing cars. “No, but I have to convince myself of that.”

Somehow, through pulled strings or threats and bribes, Bakugou does make the order appear. Twenty-one arrangements needed for Friday, to be made and delivered by you.

The cover story to your coworker is easy enough; they requested you specifically to make the floral arrangements, and they would have their employees unload everything. Your coworker was skeptical at first, but it was the largest order the shop had received, and neither of you could turn down the money.

You spend all your time drafting and crafting exquisite centerpieces. Pale purples and whites, roses and lilacs in tall vases, eucalyptus and ivy. The store is overrun with the project to the point that you have to reject regular orders unless it can be delivered the same day because there’s simply no space.

Friday comes before you know it. You’re a mess in your work apron, scurrying around the shop putting the finishing touches on everything. Two vans sit in the parking lot, and Bakugou, Sato, and Kirishima wait awkwardly against a wall.

“They look good,” Bakugou says, “Unlike you. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Sorry,” you shoot him a dirty look and finish settling a tall white candle in a vase with a wreath of flowers at the base, “I was too busy trying to not get killed by the person who strongarmed me into this.”

“I like her,” Kirishima chuckles. You shove a box into his arms and continue flying around the shop like something is on fire and you’re the only one who can put it out.

“Good!” you say with mock cheerfulness, “Then put that in the van, and do not let it fall over and bruise!” Barking out more orders, you give each of the guys a job to do. “And where the hell is Ururaka?”

“She’s getting some things together,” Bakugou says and nudges your shoulder before following your orders, “We’re all the help you have right now.” You shoo him away and take a moment for yourself. He’s right. You look like shit. Dark circles mar your under eyes, and your clothes are disheveled. Is the shirt you’re wearing even clean?

“Everything’s packed up how you wanted it,” Sato calls from the entrance of the store. Attempting to make yourself presentable, you hustle out to the front of the store and lock up. Kirishima and Sato sit in one van, while Bakugou sits in the other.

“Go change,” Bakugou hands you a duffel bag. Kirishima and Sato start unloading the vans onto carts to bring into the… hotel? Apartment? Office? You’re not quite sure what building you’re looking at. “Ururaka put everything you’re going to need in here. I’ll meet you by the bathrooms when we’re done.”

“But,” you protest and stare at your creations being wheeled away. You put your heart and soul into them. If something were to happen now at the end of it all, it would be devastating – potentially career ending.

“We’ll take care of it,” Bakugou says gently, “Now go.”

With the bathroom all to yourself, you shut yourself in one of the stalls and open the bag. Inside you find a dress neatly folded on top of bags of new makeup supplies, all the hair products in the world, and even a bra and shoes – all in your size. On top of it all is a folded piece of paper with a message scrawled in pink handwriting.

Consider this to be insurance for your cooperation.

Unfolding it, you see a list of your search history for the past week. Scary. Fighting the warmth crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks, you tuck it away and make a mental note to destroy it later.

Pulling the gown out, your eyes pop at the custom-made gown. The sweetheart neckline flows into off-the-shoulder sleeves. Black chiffon, loosely pleated at the bust, crisscrosses at the waist and meets at the zipper in the back. The floor length dress cascades down your body and gently flutters to your feet.

Ururaka, using all her brilliant hacking skills, nailed it with this gown. Somehow, through past online shopping sprees, she managed to order a dress that fits you like a glove.

Glancing at your phone, you see a message from Bakugou.

Bakugou: all set up. Done yet?

You work fast to make the rest of your appearance respectable enough for the party. In the past, you had stayed at functions to help with set up and clean up in respect to your floral arrangements, but never at something as extravagant as this. Giving yourself a once over, you pack everything up and walk out of the bathroom.

True to his word, Bakugou is waiting outside the hallway leading to the bathrooms. You stop a moment and marvel at his transformation. With his hair slicked back and a well-fitted, black suit with a black shirt that simultaneously shows off his muscles and hides them, all you can do is stare. He rolls his shoulders and turns, the scowl melting off his face when he sees you. You can feel his eyes roving up and down your body as you walk up to him.

“Well?” you ask and give him a 360 view of the dress after handing him the duffel bag, “Am I presentable enough for you?”

“Stunning.” He clears his throat and adjusts his garnet-colored tie, “Now stick close.” You can’t help but smile at the blush dusting his cheeks when he holds his arm out for you.

Taking the elevator to nearly the top floor, you gasp when you step out. Whoever owns the building had this floor and the one above it renovated to make essentially a grand ballroom. A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling and throws dazzling light around the room. Tulle backlit with fairy lights reach from the corners of the room up to the chandelier. Your floral arrangements are perfectly positioned on the tables.

“There’s balcony access from the second floor,” Bakugou murmurs and points to the night sky peeking through from the upper level.

“Bakugou! You have some gall showing your face around here tonight!” an older man laughs and slaps Bakugou on the back in greeting. You catch his face scrunching up for a quick second before adopting a neutral, almost jovial mask. Knowing Bakugou as well as you do, it looks… out of place like someone swapped faces with him and didn’t know any of his mannerisms.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Bakugou smiles and snags two flutes of champagne from a passing tray. He hands one to you and takes a sip from the other to cover his irritation.

“Your ex’s engagement party?” the man chortles. His cheeks are ruddy from drink, but the party has barely started and guests are still flowing in.

“Our parents are close,” Bakugou says smoothly, “I couldn’t say no, you know how the old hag is.” The man balks at Bakugou’s language but covers it up with a cough. Whoever Bakugou really is, he has enough power to say what he wants without repercussions – like call his mother a hag.

“Speaking of,” he looks around, “Where are you parents this evening? I would love to-”

“Sweetie,” you interject sweetly, sick of listening to forced pleasantries, “It’s so warm in here, do you think we could step out to the balcony?”

“Of course,” Bakugou says and offers you his arm. You both smile at the man who totters away and greets another pair of unsuspecting individuals who will most likely also be subjected to his lacking manners.

“You’re robbing your ex?” you hiss and tighten your grip on his arm. Bakugou waits until you’re at the top of the stairwell leading to the second floor before responding.

“The daughter of a Fortune Global 500 executive who almost got me thrown in jail for a crime her side lover committed while we were together mind you, and got my scholarship to Tohaku University revoked,” he growls, “All my internship opportunities dried up, and I lost everything I had.” You stare intently at each other as a group of people pass by. Laughter and clinking glasses fade away.

“How are you…” you fish for the correct word. How are you able to spend so much money? How are you able to waltz in here and no one bats an eye? Just who are you?

“How am I here?” he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Yeah.” Sure. Let’s go with that.

“I got the charges dropped, but my name was ruined,” Bakugou sighs and runs a hand over his hair. “I lived up to that ruined reputation to get my feet under me for years. Now I’m getting back everything that was stolen from me.”

“So you do… import things.” you clarify, “And what about your parents? Are they actually here? Do they know what you do? Are they in the same business as you?”

“My parents aren’t important,” Bakugou says and drops your arm. His gaze is focused elsewhere, but when you try to follow it, there’s nothing.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says, “Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry,” you call out sarcastically to his retreating form, “I’ll just wait here.”

He makes a beeline down the stairs and into the crowd. He can’t seriously expect you to wait here for him to come back. And that line about the bathroom? Utter bullshit.

Clinging to the shadows, you make your way to the balcony outside. A light breeze whips around you and causes the fabric of your dress to flutter. Buildings lit from the inside surround you. Tall apartment buildings filled with people settling in for the night, families spending time together as the sun sets. People on the ground look like ants, scurrying around in packs of two or more. Cranes, done hauling the bones of buildings around for the day, emit steady red lights. Stars fight in the onyx sky to shine, but they’re barely visible.

The magic of the moment breaks when voices from around the corner float to where you stand. Sighing, you quietly make your way to the door to give them their privacy. You almost make it too when a name catches your attention.

“Katsuki,” a woman’s voice says, “What are you doing here?”

Katsuki? As in Katsuki Bakugou? Your Bakugou? It’s not the most common name in the world, but what are the-

“I couldn’t stay away,” a deep voice says. A familiar voice. A voice that’s laughed over coffee with you. A voice that belongs to someone who called you stunning earlier this evening.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers again. Her light and airy voice lulls you closer – a siren’s song bringing all who hear it to their deaths.

“What happened to us?” Bakugou’s murmur barely makes it around the corner where you hide. “We were in love, Momo.” You bite your lip to the point where you don’t know if you broke skin or not. Humiliating tears sting your eyes. You shouldn’t be here. This is a private moment. But you can’t leave either.

“I…” Momo’s musical voice trails off. You can practically envision it; Bakugou’s fingers gently running up and down her arms, his soft and sultry voice caressing her ears. Each person inching slightly closer to the other until-

“Give me another chance,” Bakugou says. You’ve only heard this gentleness a couple times before, and not recently. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Katsuki…” she sighs, “You know I can’t.” A stifled squeak has you peering around the corner to make sure she was alright.

All you get is a knife in the heart for your troubles.

A gorgeous woman in an emerald green mermaid gown that hugs her curves has her arms wrapped around Bakugou’s neck. His own hands are tangled in her long black hair, a light flush on her cheeks. Bakugou’s lips are curved against her own, a low moan escaping him. One of his hands untangles from her hair and starts working its way down her body, sliding along her waist before settling on the curve of her ass to pull her closer. As if their bodies could be any closer right now.

Slowly, you back away and try to get as physically far away from them as you can. Going inside would mean opening a door and spilling the noise of the party out into the nearly silent night, and one look at you would solidify that it was you who caught them. But if you stay, then-

“How long were you there?” a voice interrupts your internal monologue. You jump back guiltily to see Bakugou, and only Bakugou reaching out towards you.

“I-Long enough,” you sputter. The wind shifts, and the spicy scent of Bakugou

“What did you hear?” Bakugou demands. Hear? Everything. See? More than I bargained for.

“Does it really matter?” you mutter and step out of his reach. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you watch the city go to sleep. “How much longer until I can go?”

“It’s not what you think,” Bakugou says.

“Really?” you snap, “Because it sounded like you still want her.”

“Or,” he holds up a security card between his fingers, “I wanted the security card I knew she’d keep on her. You have nothing to be jealous about.”

“I’m not jealous,” you say a tad too defensively. Bakugou stows the card in his pocket. Crimson eyes take you in and a small smirk curls the corner of his lips.

“That’s too bad,” he shrugs and holds the door open for you. “Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, you follow him inside. The party is in full swing now with booze and congratulations for the bride-to-be in abundance. A swath of red hair bobs its way through the crowd. Bakugou doesn’t seem to notice as Kirishima makes a beeline towards them. A shimmer of plastic catches your eye, and you watch as the security card is passed off to Kirishima, in a dashing merlot red suit. Neither man blinks. Onlookers wouldn’t be able to tell that you were all together. Just two people passing by.

At the refreshment table, you watch Kirishima make his way over to the elevators. Sato is waiting there as well. Again, neither man acknowledges the other. Two party goers in a crowd of a hundred.

You still have no idea where Ururaka is, but if Bakugou is the brains, Kirishima and Sato are the brawn, then logically she must be the hacker.

“What do we do now?” you whisper behind your drink. Bakugou turns his back to the crowd and pretends to survey the spread of food in front of him.

“Now we wait,” Bakugou says.

You’re whirled around the room, dancing and schmoozing at Bakugou’s side for an hour before you finally need a break. Being introduced as Bakugou’s ‘girlfriend’ garnered you some strange looks since it is his ex’s engagement party, but you soak everything up. For a moment, you’re able to forget that you’re here under threat, and pretend that you’re actually dating him. You leave him for the refreshment table, hoping water will quench your thirst and your thirst.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before?” a familiar voice says. You nearly spit out your water when you see Momo smiling at you. She’s more enchanting in person, and you can’t imagine her betraying the person she supposedly loves for any reason. Unless she didn’t really love Bakugou.

“I don’t think we have, I did the flowers for this evening,” you gesture to the nearest vase. Set on making this exchange as short and painless as possible, you get ready to leave. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Oh, the florist!” she exclaims, stars in her eyes, “I remember the doorman told me you brought a bouquet of gardenias to my apartment. They were lovely, and you’ve done an immaculate job here tonight.”

“Thank you,” you say, slightly taken aback, “I didn’t know it had that big of an impact.”

“Of course, that’s why my father hired you!” she tilts her head as if it should be common sense. Something behind you catches her eye and she lights up again. “If you’ll excuse me.” She waves at whoever is behind you and walks off without another word, leaving a subtle cloud of jasmine in her wake.

The bouquet…

Gears slowly turn in your head. Bakugou… the flowers… the bouquet… No. No, it couldn’t be… The further your thoughts spiral, the more anger festers in the pit of your stomach. Answers. You need answers. You clench your jaw and look for the man of the hour.

Bakugou stands with a group of people, chatting amicably, drink in hand. You march up and thread your arm through his and squeeze it close.

“Excuse the interruption,” you cut into the conversation, “I need to borrow him.” Without waiting for a reply, you stomp off towards the balcony again.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bakugou hisses and tries to keep his drink from spilling. You ignore him though. He’s evaded your questions for long enough.

Wind whips around you, stirring up your dress as you push the balcony doors open with more force than necessary. You’re alone on the balcony with only the moon as witness.

“You set this all up,” you accuse Bakugou once the door closes.

“Of course I did,” he frowns and straightens his jacket, his drink no longer in his hands but probably on a tray of a server.

“No,” you jab his chest. You want to scream and shout, to beat on his chest and break down in tears, but neither of you need that attention right now. Your nerves are on fire and you’re itching for a fight. “I mean you set me up. It wasn’t an accident that I was at the warehouse by the docks. You had me deliver a bouquet of gardenias to your ex knowing that she would hire me. You really had me going, I’m such a fucking idiot. I thought…”

Anger dissipates to sadness. Is this the fucking five steps of grief or whatever? Anger? Bargaining? Sadness? You walk to the railing and stare at the city below you. Cars move in orderly fashion, stopping at intersections where crowds of people cross.

“Say it,” Bakugou growls. Your shoulders sag in defeat.

“I thought you liked me,” you admit, burning shame searing your face, “But that was obviously part of your con.” Silence after your admission stretches on longer than comfortable. You wish he would say anything. A confirmation that he too likes you, or swift rejection.

“Was it though? Or was it so I would have one last chance to see you before I disappear?” Bakugou says.

“What?” Turning to face him, you expect to see a smug grin that you were wrong in your assumption, but Bakugou isn’t gloating. Hands shoved in his suit pocket, his brows are slightly furrowed.

“You didn’t really think I would stay here after this is over, did you?” he asks. Guiltily, you stare at the floor. You didn’t really know what to expect after this was over, but Bakugou leaving? It hadn’t crossed your mind. “I have a buyer and a plane waiting on standby to take me anywhere I want to go after this is over. Ururaka is wiring money from her accounts to four offshore shell companies as we speak. If I hadn’t gotten you wrapped up in this, I would have ghosted you, and you would’ve wondered what happened.”

“No I wouldn’t,” you say stubbornly.

“And you would go around asking questions,” Bakugou cocks his head, completely ignoring your interjection, “And eventually you’d ask the wrong person and would wind up in trouble.” He slowly makes his way over to you.

“You’re wrong,” you hold his crimson gaze. He stops right in front of you, closes enough to feel heat radiating off of him, but far enough away to leave you wanting more.

He leans in, his lips next to your ear. His anticipatory exhale tickles your ear. “I guess we’ll never find out, now will we?”

“Did you really have to kiss her though?” you ask quietly, the searing kiss playing on repeat in your mind. If it was to get a security card, he could have felt her up, no need to play tonsil hockey.

“So you are jealous,” he says smugly and leans back. Triumphant eyes rove your face, taking in your embarrassment.

“Of course I am,” you snap, “I didn’t want you to know though.”

“Aw, did I bruise your ego?” he purrs, “Do you want me to kiss it better?”

“How the hell do you-” His lips are on yours before you can complete the sentence.

Bakugou’s hand ghost over your neck, sending shivers down your spine, before cupping your cheek. The rough pads of his thumbs tenderly stroke your cheekbones while the other hand pulls your body flush with his. His tongue traces your bottom lip and draws you in.

Blood buzzes in your ears and your heart feels like it will burst out of your chest. Your fingers dig into his back, eliciting a sinful moan from him. You break the kiss with a whine when his hips torturously grind against yours.

“You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?” Bakugou rasps against your neck. Teeth trail along your skin before biting down possessively in the soft spot where neck meets collarbone. You arch into him, breathy pants escaping you. He kisses the spot tenderly before resting his forehead against yours.

Breathes commingle between the two of you while your beating hearts slow.

“I was supposed to do this job a long time ago,” he murmurs, “And then I went into this flower shop to send reminder flowers to everyone involved that the time was coming. Instead, I found a woman behind the counter whose wit rivaled my own and was beautiful beyond comparison. The more I grew to know her, the less I could complete the final job. And then it was too late. I couldn’t leave her willingly.”

“The others,” you press, “Did they know?”

“Yes,” Bakugou responds quietly, “They knew I was stalling, and I had to tell them why.”

“That’s why they all hated me,” you sigh. Bakugou presses another kiss to your cheek. Something vibrates against your stomach, and Bakugou releases you to pull a phone out of his pocket.

“It’s time for us to make our exit,” he says and helps adjust your dress back into place, “Wait by the elevator.” Your head is in the clouds, but you comply. Weaving your way through guests who have their eyes on Momo and her fiancé, you stand by the elevator and wait for Bakugou to join you.

You watch the ash blond grab a drink from a tray and silently toast his ex. Momo’s eyes widen fractionally, but her smile freezes when the speakers pumping muzak through the room switch to a scratchy recording of the sweet voice of the siren herself.

“It’s okay, we can pin it all on Bakugou. I love you dear, not him. This will allow us to be together and not have to hide in the shadows anymore.”

Bakugou finishes his drink while the audio goes on to incriminate Momo and her new fiancé further. He calls the elevator and rests his hand on your lower back.

“Now we can go,” he smirks.

“You’re really that petty?” you raise an eyebrow at him. Stepping in, the last thing you see are all eyes on the bride-to-be.

“I could’ve done much worse,” Bakugou shrugs, “But if life hadn’t happened the way it did, then I never would have met you.”

“Bakugou…” your voice trails off.

“Katsuki. Please.” The door opens in the garage. The vans from earlier idle, ready to go once the two of you are in. Kirishima, Sato, and Ururaka sit in one, the other remains empty. “Say it once, before I never get to hear my name fall from your lips again.”

“Katsuki,” you whisper. Bakugou closes his eyes, relishing the sound of his name.

“You’re free to go,” he says sadly, “We’ll go to the airstrip and then the van is all yours.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” you tilt your head. Crimson eyes with garnet and honey woven in them meet yours. Your heart beats faster as you think about your next couple of words. Licking your lips, you add, “I hear the Alps are nice this time of year.”

“You know you won’t be able to return.” His hand takes yours and squeezes it reassuringly.

“I know.”

Picture in banner by earl_plannerzone on unsplash

#bnha imagines #bakugou #bakugou x reader #collab #flower shop au #no quirks #writing

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handsbloodiedmoved · 2 years

Text

new tag drop part two (interactions and ooc tags)

#x. no sanctuary here (starter call)#x. hell is empty and all the devils are here (memes)#x. the dead are gone and the living are hungry (open starter)#x. don’t open; dead inside (closed starter)#x. the dead can’t ask questions (answered)#x. out of chaos (ooc posts)#x. i don’t remember that in hamilton (pinned post)#x. *points* lookit; i made this (my edits)#x. this is my family; i found it all on my own (promo)#x. i’m never anywhere but here and there (self promo)#x. can’t get a damn signal (mobile post)#x. the queue of the void (queue)#x. straight outta ninety-six (mun things)#x. not much left to save of this world ( keepsakes )#x. scavenge; verb: search for and collect (resources)#x. this is not a test; this is your emergency broadcast system (psa)#x. another name to add to the wall (scribbles)#x. if you’re ever lost; find the north star (wishlist)#x. is it still liveblogging if you’re streaming it late ( watch tag )#x. *insert david attenborough impression here* (dash commentary)#x. a series of unfortunate events (dash games)

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fandom-imagines · 3 years

Text

Escape Artists

Fandom: Halloween/Slashers

Pairing: Michael Myers X Reader

Warnings: Murder, mention of parental abuse, lightly-written smut (not too descriptive).

Words: 2.4k

He had seen her around the hospital numerous times. She was always sat surrounded by those weird beads that she made designs with, only to have to hand them to one of the nurses who always seemed glad to iron the pattern for her.

Despite having seen her and observed her, Michael had never actually interacted with the girl. Sure, she was interesting, seemingly too innocent to be sat in Smiths Groves, but he wouldn’t talk to her; he wouldn’t talk to anybody. This was how he lived. Day in, day out. Never talking to a soul and nobody willingly talking to him. That was how Michael liked it which is why he couldn’t help but be irritated by the person who was interrupting his mealtime.

“Hi,” in front of Michael stood the bead girl, nervously fiddling with her fingers. “I-I made this for you.” Before he knew it, Michaels hand now held a beaded blushing panda.

He was tempted to snap the poor thing in half, and he would have had he not felt a piece of paper stuck to the back with the crappy tape the sanitorium provides.

“Don’t look yet, look when you’re alone.” She said, leaving with a short nod.

He listened to her words, going to the bathroom, the one place he was allowed to be alone, to read whatever note was scribbled on the paper.

Do you want to escape with me, Michael?

Confusion overtook his mind, the creaking of the tiled walls being the only thing he could fully register.

Not only did she know his name, but she also wanted to escape with him?

Weirdo.

He simply shrugged it off.

“Morning, Y/N,” a kind nurse awoke the young girl from her peaceful slumber, something that was rare for her. “Here is your medicine.”

“Thank you, Nurse Green.”

Her small hands grasped the bottle of water they provided her each morning, spare hand now filled with the medication she took daily before gulping down all nine of them with one mouthful of water.

Yesterdays interaction with Michael still plagued her mind.

She knew what he had done to his sister, everybody did, but still he was the only person she somewhat trusted her. Not that she had ever actually spoke to him of course, even though she was exceptionally kind to all those on the ward. She simply hoped he had read the note.

Lunchtime came round quite quickly, Y/N refusing to part with her beads and Michael nowhere to be seen, something that wasn’t uncommon.

Her fingers picked out another green bead to add to her new creation, a soft smile gracing her lips as she fit the final bead into the pattern, creating an amazing leaf. She looked up with a smile on her face, ready to show the nurse only to be met with Michael face, head tilted to the side.

“Oh,” she spoke quietly, evidently shocked at the older boy’s presence. “Hi, Michael.” Her kindness didn’t falter however, the shocked look on her face quickly forming back into the smile she wore previously.

Michaels hand reached out to grab the box of beads, pulling it towards him along with a square pegboard. He quickly got to work making a pattern, something that was done in mere minutes, pushing it back towards Y/N before leaving, not sparing her a single glance as he went back to his room.

Confused, Y/N pulled the board towards her. On it was a perfectly designed tombstone, yet it was masked as a grey brick, something Michael knew the nurses wouldn’t pick up on, only someone that was looking or expecting it would. However, beneath the board was a small slip of paper, something that caused her Y/E/C orbs to widen, quickly yet carefully sliding the paper into the pocket of her knitted sweatshirt.

“He what?” Loomis’s voice was loud, booming throughout the office. “He interacted with another patient?”

The nurses were unable to tell whether he was scared or happy at this news.

Michael had never interacted with another patient before, never interacted with anyone at all so this was a big surprise to him.

“Leave this to me,”

Yes.

This one word was floating around Y/N’s mind for the entire night.

He wants to escape with her? Michael Myers wants to escape with her? It was something she could not refuse, so she got to writing.

Over the following months the two shared notes through the beads they would both make. Nobody had spotted this yet, the scheme too smart for the nurses and doctors alike at Smiths Grove. Loomis had been keeping a close eye on the pair, looking for something significant that he could use against Michael but there was nothing yet, nothing at all.

The girl was sat at her usual table, alone for once which was uncommon for her. She wouldn’t have been alone had she not told the usual people that she wished to be alone today.

She was waiting.

Waiting for Michael.

A small sense of glee filled her chest when she noticed him walk into the cafeteria, a small smile following suite. The smile only dropped when he ignored her presence, walking towards where he usually sat. He must have sensed her gaze, glancing up to catch her sight before glancing at the chair opposite him, a silent hint for her to come over which she gladly did.

“Hi,”

Michael didn’t give her a verbal response, something she was used to by now, he instead looked towards her hands that held her most recent pattern: a pink milk carton. She eagerly passed it to him, watching him closely for any sign of reaction as he observed it, the two unaware that somebody else was also watching him.

“I want you to cut all communication between Michael and Y/N,” Loomis seemed to have come up with a plan of his own. “We’ll see how he reacts to that.”

“Yes, Dr Loomis.”

Y/N sat at the desk in her room, spinning the board around the wood with her finger.

“Why am I stuck in here?” Her tone expressed how fed up she was of being confined her for the entire day. “I’m bored.”

“Why don’t you make something?”

“Why am I here?”

“A doctor wants to see you.”

“I’ve seen all the doctors. Which one?”

“Dr Loomis.”

Oh, so it worked, good to know.

A few hours later she was seated on her bed, legs crossed with her pigtails falling down to her knee.

“We’ve met before, Y/N. After you were first sent here.” Loomis did his best to be friendly, hiding the burning curiosity and urge to ask her everything he wanted in one go.

“Yes, Dr Loomis.” Her tone was friendly, also forced.

She was waiting. Waiting for-

An excruciating loud beep blared throughout the entire ward, signalling a door had been opened by one of the patients.

Loomis’s eyes widened, worried that it was Michael who had escaped. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye before rushing off, forgetting to lock the door on the way out, something the pair had planned.

Y/N had half expected their planned escape car to be gone by the time she had finished running to the door, Michael probably having using her to escape. Weirdly enough, he was sat there waiting for her, something that made her smile as she hopped into the car.

Their plan, something that had been in the works for an insane amount of time, had worked. Every part of it had gone how they had planned.

“Thank you,” Y/N’s voice was as soft as always, glancing at Michael whose eyes were focused on the road, seemingly dismissing her appreciation.

He wasn’t however. He was silently grateful for her. She had stuck by him, his quiet and rude self. She knew what he had done and had still accepted him, he could see it in her face. He assumed she was simply in for depression or something of the sort, uncaring as to why because all he cared about was leaving and finishing what he had started, but something about her drew him in and he began getting somewhat attached to the girl.

The pair drove for hours, having to stop by to get gas before pulling into an abandoned place far away from the main road so that nobody could find them.

“Do you want a drink?” Michael gave her a confused look as she sat on the car, hand stretched out to hand him a bottle. “It’s weird you know,” she continued speaking after he took the bottle from her hand and sat beside her, “I never thought I’d make it to adulthood.”

This further proved his point of her having depression.

“Not that I’m depressed or suicidal or anything. I just thought I’d die by now.” This simply confused Michael. If she wasn’t in there for depression, what was she in for?

The nights sky hung over the pair, stars being one of the only things lighting the place, supported by the car’s lights.

Y/N seemed to sense his confusion.

“Oh, you don’t know what I’m in for? Well, was in for.” Michael simply shook his head.

“I killed someone. My dad. He used to hurt me, physically, mentally, emotionally and a few other things. My mother just watched it all happen, so I tried to kill her as well but she got away and I was dragged there.”

Michael nodded as to show that he understood.

“It’s weird. When I was younger, I always thought I’d be a popular eighteen-year-old with a boyfriend, a lot of friends and all that stuff. I never thought I’d be here,” her gaze fell on Michael, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if I am a virgin.” Y/N made sure to finish her sentence off with a joke, hoping to ease the tension she felt whilst expressing her emotions whilst continuing to stare up at the sky, oblivious to the thoughts running through Michaels head, his face not showing any signs either.

Y/N jumped at the cold sensation of Michaels hand touching her bare thigh, goosebumps rising beneath her dress. “Michael?” She turned to face the unmasked man, only to be pushed to lean against the back of the car with attempted gentleness. “Michael?” She repeated, growing even more confused as he lifted himself over her, able to feel her heart pound.

She didn’t fear him, she had never feared him; he’d never given her a reason. Sure he could be rude towards her, but never fear-inducing, never to her.

“Michael?”

Her words were silenced as Michaels body crawled onto her own, his chest pressed against hers, both hearts racing, despite Michael’s calm composure and Y/N’s confused look. Her eyes widened as she felt Michaels lips against her neck, roughly sucking with such force that she knew it would leave a mark.

A soft moan left her lips when Michael’s hand wandered down to her chest, lightly toying with her nipples before grabbing her breast, massaging it as he did so. The moans that left her lips simply increased Michael’s urges, his desires; he wanted her, and it seemed like she wanted him too.

“Michael-“she murmured, fingers looping themselves in the strands of his hair as he nipped at her skin.

Her free hand ran down his front, searching for his clothed erection which she soon founds, enjoying the breathy moan that Michael made as she slid her hand into his pants. It was quiet, but not quiet enough. Michael’s own hand reached into her own panties, finger soaking up the wetness that had formed at his touch, something that almost made him smirk.

Another moan fell from Y/N’s lips as Michael’s fingers began to explore, the tightness she felt was almost too tight, yet Michael was surprisingly gentle considering who he was. This time Michael couldn’t resist his smirk, being thankful for the fact that his face was buried into the crook of her neck, marking her as his and his only.

Her grip on his hair tightened as he slipped another finger inside of her, giving her a moment to adjust before slowly moving. It wasn’t long before pleasure began to consume her, grip tightening on his hair further as she neared her end.

“M-Michael,” she moaned. “I want you,”

He seemed happy to comply, fingers leaving her heat to unclothe his member. He waited for a moment, searching Y/N’s eyes for any sort of hesitation before sliding in, giving her time to adjust.

“I’m ready, you can move.”

His movements were slow to begin with, giving it his best attempt at not hurting her, something that was incredibly hard for his rough self, but self-restraint can be a magical thing. It wasn’t until the word ‘more’ left her lips that he finally increased his movements.

The cold of the cars metal caused shivers to run down Y/N’s spine, made worse by Michael’s cold hands running across her, now bare, body as moans filled the air.

“I-I’m close,”

Her words only increased his movements more, desperate to reach both their ends. Michael’s hand moved down to her clit, harshly rubbing in hopes that in would held her meet her own release, which it did and she came with one final moan, her sudden tightness triggering Michael’s own orgasm as he came inside of her, their juices mixing together.

Cheeks flushed, both Y/N and Michael wordlessly laid against the car’s windscreen. Deciding to test the waters, Y/N leant herself against Michael’s shoulder, silently pleased when he showed no sign of rejection.

He was surprisingly warm, heating up her cold body in the cool night’s air; she never expected him to be so warm. She lightly wrapped her hand around his upper arm, snuggling herself into his shoulder before falling asleep.

Michael stared at the sleeping girl, confused and shocked at how she had so much trust in him, despite what he had done. It was oddly reassuring to him. Once certain she was asleep, he raised his hand to move a stray strand of hair from her face before falling asleep himself.

“Goodnight, Y/N,”

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neonacity · 3 years

Text

HYACINTHE | Chapter 1: Jaemin x Reader

Summary:

Na Jaemin is far from being your typical 20 year old. Instead of slaving through college, he wastes away his hours cracking safes. Weekends that should be spent partying with friends consist of illegal races on good days and small scale bombings on bad ones.

Na Jaemin is far from being average, unless you consider being a member of Seoul's top organized crime family normal.

There is no such thing as a sense of normality and peace in his trainwreck of a life, so when he met a barista who was brave enough to call out his dangerous taste in coffee, he was like a moth to the flame. Everything about her is normal, which means she is forbidden to him, in all sense of the word.

So why, then, does he always find himself in the front steps of her shop, breaking all his personal rules even if he wishes he could stay away?

A/N + Disclaimer: this is a side story to Black Daisies, my main mafia fic feat. 0T23. While the plot is based on the main story, this can also be read as a standalone fic. As usual, this is purely a work of fiction and in no way am I implying any member of NCT to behave the way I write them here. tw: crimes, heists, potential death, mentions of drugs and other illegal activities.

PAIRING: Jaemin x Reader

BLACK DAISIES MASTERLIST

___________________________________________________________

I've known him for almost a year and a half when it happened.

The small bell of the cafe's back door dinged so hard, I thought it would get ripped off from the wall. I looked up, eyes wide with panic and hands still wrapped around the cold corners of a metal tray when a head of jet black hair appeared on the entrance. It took me half a second to register what I was seeing before I found myself flying to his side in a heartbeat.

"Jaemin! Oh my god, what the hell is going on!"

My first thought was that he was injured. He was doubled over and I quickly hunched to his level so that I could peer at his face. He looked paler than usual, beads of sweat stuck on his forehead, eyes glazed with a slight look of panic as he tried to keep himself from falling over. I threw out my hands to hold him by the shoulders and that's when my gaze caught it; the small black package that he quickly tried to hide inside his bomber jacket before I could even fully see what it is. I didn't give it much attention back then—I was far too focused in trying to see if he was hurt anywhere to worry about anything else. When his gaze finally focused on me, I thought I saw guilt there.

"I need your help. Sorry, I don't know where else to go."

My brows furrowed together.

"What the hell is going on—"

He reached out for one of my hands helping him up and squeezed it tight.

"Please don't ask me questions. Just—can you trust me?"

"I don't understand—" my voice started to rise. Is he hurt? Bleeding? In pain?

"Please."

My lips parted then pursed again.

"Okay."

Jaemin tugged me closer to him and threw a panicked look outside. He then pulled me farther into the now closed cafe, back into the storage room, the location of which he shouldn't even know in the first place.

"Let me hide here for a bit. Just a bit."

That encounter was my second mistake since meeting Na Jaemin.

I should have asked questions.

Lots of them.

___________________________________________________________

The first mistake happened about a year and half ago.

"Welcome to Brick and Beans, what would you like to have today?"

I plastered on my practiced smile and looked at the stranger in front of me without actually looking at him. Working in the service industry sure does things to your head once you get used to it. Despite having to deal with people all the time, you also get to develop a kind of numbness and detachment to human interaction. A face just becomes a face, a customer simply becomes just another passing responsibility. I tried to blink a few times to make myself seem more interested on the boy standing in front of my counter, patiently waiting for him to give me his order so we can go ahead and get on with both our business.

"Uh… I'll have an iced americano. No water. Eight shots of espresso."

My lips parted and curled on the sides to give him my service smile. My hand automatically reached out for the plastic cups stacked on my side while my other whipped out the marker clipped on the pocket of my apron to scribble his order.

"That's one iced americano, no water, eight—"

I stopped and blinked once. Twice. My gaze shot up at the customer in front of me again and really looked at him for the first time.

"I'm sorry, that's eight shots of espresso?"

He nodded, seemingly unbothered by my question.

"No water?"

A slight shake of the head.

"...eight shots. Of espresso."

"Eight shots, yes."

For a moment we both just stared at each other. He was looking at me patiently, probably only slightly weirded out by my question while I gave him a look that's a mix of worry and disbelief. Working as a barista has exposed me to my own fair share of weird coffee requests, but this is by far the one that takes the cake.

I softly cleared my throat and turned my attention back to the words I was scribbling on the cup. As strange as it is, I really am not in the position to judge a customer.

"That'll be 4.50 dollars. Is that for here?"

"Make it to go."

"Got it. I'll get you your order soon…"

"Jaem."

I smiled and scribbled his name on the cup.

Foot traffic was pretty slow on the cafe so I was able to quickly finish the order on autopilot. As I worked on mixing, I found myself humming softly to myself, my tune shifting into short whistles every time I would dunk an espresso shot down into that cup. I didn't even realize that the customer didn't bother taking a seat on one of the empty tables, opting to lean on the wall by the side instead, hands shoved in the pockets of his jogs as his eyes followed me.

"One iced americano for Jaem," I called out and pushed the packed drink into his hand. He handed me his card and I quickly worked on swiping it.

"You sure like your coffee explosive, huh?" I shot him a question for the sake of making small talk as I punched some buttons on my terminal.

"It's the eight shots, isn't it?"

I answered by giving him a shrug and a smile.

"It's the first time I ever did one like it. I can only imagine how it tastes like."

His lips slightly quirked into a smile. A...really cute smile if I might add.

"Is there anything wrong?"

"It's really good."

"Sure, Jaem. I'm not here to judge," I gave him a wink before handing back his card and receipt. "Well, thank you for dropping by. We hope to see you here again." He took both wordlessly and slipped them on his wallet.

I was waiting for him to walk off with his drink with the practiced polite smile plastered on my face again. He turned, coffee in hand, took about five steps, before turning to me again. I blinked in mild confusion as he placed his cup back on my counter.

"Actually… I'll have it here."

___________________________________________________________

"I'm not going to try your death coffee, Jaemin."

I didn't look up from the page I was reading but I could feel it, that deadly pout and puppy eyes combo drilling onto the side of my head. I flipped a page of my textbook over and I heard a sigh come from the boy beside me.

"I bought it for you. You said you need to finish a paper tonight."

"I do. That doesn't require me to be awake for the next week and a half," I answered back with a quirk of my lips as I finally looked up to meet his gaze. We were seated at one of the far tables of the cafe for my 15 minute break, away from the handful of customers scattered on the smattering of tables and high chairs. This has become quite a routine already… but how it started, I can't really explain.

Ever since that first order, Jaemin had made it his routine to drop by almost regularly. At first the banter started similar to how a regular customer and his favorite barista would have, but since he would always come and visit during slow hours, we would always have more time for longer conversations. Casual talk turned into light-hearted jokes, and finally into a kind of banter that comes with familiarity with each other. Slowly, I came to know the complexities of Na Jaemin, and boy, is he an enigma and a paradox rolled in one.

You never really know what to expect with him. There are days when he would be a bursting ball of energy—most of the time when he would order his drink from hell—but there are also moments when he would be quiet and reserved. I found it odd at first, but slowly accepted it since it didn't really hurt me in the first place. In fact, if I am going to be completely honest, I find this kind of personality set working for me. Imagine gaining two friends, except they're only in one body.

But that's not the only odd thing in our dynamic, too. If someone would ask me now to describe the kind of friendship I have with him, I wouldn't really know how to explain it. We joke together, laugh together, sometimes even tease the crap out of each other like we've known each other for years. We work well together, but at the same time… I know almost next to nothing about him. I don't know his address, who his other friends are, if he's going to school or not… hell, I don't even know what his number is. Outside of this cafe and his regular visits, I don't have anything to prove that he actually exists. He didn't share, and I also didn't ask.

Until today.

"Fine. I'm just going to drink this then."

I gasped before shooting him a squinted glare.

"You are going to burn a hole in your stomach, I swear to god—"

He simply shrugged and made a huge show of sipping the previously untouched tears of Lucifer.

I reached out to tug at the hood of his jacket in an attempt to call him out when I noticed it. His hair was initially masking it at first but now I could see it in full view: a purple bruise just on the side of his eye, almost to his temple.

"Oh my god, Jaemin. What happened?" I asked in a hurry as I tried to take a closer look at it. His expression changed in a heartbeat as he realized what I saw and he quickly leaned back and pulled the hoodie again over his head.

"That's—it's nothing."

"It looks so bad. How did you get that?"

He didn't answer. His eyes avoided my own and his hand gripped the plastic cup between us a little bit tighter.

"Did you get into a fight?" I pushed, gently this time.

His gaze moved to meet mine again for a few seconds. It's obvious he was contemplating what and how to answer.

"Yeah… I got into a bit of a tumble with some friends."

I frowned and crossed my arms over my chest as I leaned back on my seat. He threw me a look that silently asked what else I want from him.

"Look. You don't tell me shit but at least I know enough to be sure you are lying."

Jaemin looked away and started tapping his finger against the table.

"Why are you… why do you even want to know?"

I looked at him incredulously for a few seconds before leaning over.

"Because you're my friend and I want to make sure you are okay."

"I am okay."

"Your black eye says otherwise."

"Come on, don't push this. Can't we be friends without," he waved his hand between us. "This?"

"Jaemin, I don't even know who you are."

That made him stop. He stared at me for what felt like a full half minute and that's when I saw it for the first time. The dilemma in his eyes.

"It was because of work…"

The look of confusion I made must have been so intense that he quickly tried to jump over it.

"Work—why, what do you—"

"I'm sorry, but that's really all that I can tell you."

The sound of desperation in his tone wasn't lost on me. He looked so torn that I felt almost guilty for pressing.

"Fine… I won't ask again… As long as you are sure you're fine."

He peered at me once more as if assessing if he was finally off the hook.

"So...we're still friends?"

"Huh?"

"You and me… we're still friends?"

"Uh, yes…"

The look of relief on his face made me smile despite myself. He caught it and he made it a point to answer it with his best eye roll.

"Don't laugh at me. I don't know how to do friends."

"You're so cute~"

"Shut up."

And that was the exact day I decided—I'm never going to let Na Jaemin feel alone again.

Chapter 2

#na jaemin #jaemin #jaemin x reader #nct mafia #nct mafia au #mafia!jaemin #jaemin imagines #nct mafia fic

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wondersofdreaming · 3 years

Text

Sex on Fire

Co-written with @radaofrivia

Characters: AU Captain Syverson - Gynaecologist, dr. Syverson x female reader

Word count: 4.522

Warnings: NSFW! Smut, so smutty. Gamahuche. Licking. Bodily liquids. Fingering. Sucking. Hair pulling. Begging. And I’m out of whatever else there is, but I’m sure there’s more - let me know and I’ll add them XD

Author’s note: This story was co-written with the always gorgeous and incredible @radaofrivia! She is the Brain to my Pinky! The Barney Rubble to my Fred Flinstone! My goddess Saga and my muse Erato! My drinking buddy and who will stay up till 4am with me to finish this story.

Please go enjoy her stories here:

Rada’s Masterlist

I do not own any characters in this short story, except the reader who is a figment of my imagination.

*Edit: The title was decided before I realised that it is a song by Kings of Leon. These two have nothing in common except for the title.

MY MASTERLIST

Sex on Fire Masterlist

Feedback is appreciated.

(Credit to original gif owner - if this is yours please contact me so I can give you proper credit)

The grey concrete building stood tall in front of you. You leaned your head back to see the top, but it was nearly impossible. All you could see were windows leading into the sky. A doorman in a black uniform stood by the entrance, watching whoever went in and out. He nodded his head with a stoic look in a greeting.

The lobby looked more welcoming than the outside building. There was a fireplace with three sofas surrounding it and a coffee table stacked with magazines. A few women were already sitting there, gossiping about the new dapper doctor that had rented the entire top floor.

You rolled your eyes and went over to the reception. A man stood to greet you with a smile, but he was talking to someone in his headset, which only took a few seconds before he hung up.

“I am sorry about that, how may I help you, miss?” he asked.

“I’m here for an appointment with dr. Syverson,” you said a little nervously.

“Ah, yes. I have a form you need to fill out,” he handed you a piece of paper and a pen, “The elevators are just right over there. Take it all the way to the 52nd floor. Another receptionist will be there to guide you further.”

You accepted the paper and went for the elevators. A chill went down your spine as the cold air from the air condition hit you. You pressed the button for dr. Syverson’s floor. An orchestral song started playing over the speakers. It wasn’t until you listened closely to the lyrics that you noticed it was ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by Metallica.

You closed your eyes, swaying to the beat of the soft drums. Lars Ulrich had been your celebrity crush as a teen, and you still listened to their older songs when you had a bad day.

The elevator doors opened with a loud ‘ding!’, pulling you out of your trance. Another receptionist stood at the opposite side. She looked up from the computer and smiled.

“Welcome to dr. Syverson’s clinic. Do you need help filling out the paper?” she asked nicely. You quickly scanned what you needed to scribble down. It was mostly your personal information and history of health.

“No, I think I can manage, thank you,” you smiled back.

“You can take a seat in the sofas, and when you’re done just fold it and put it in the mailbox, dr. Syverson will call you in, shortly,” she motioned to a black mailbox by the elevators that you had missed when walking past it.

You nodded and went for the sofas. The room was warm and comfortable with green plants everywhere. The sand-coloured leather sofas were softer than you expected as you sank down. You filled out the form and put it in the box.

Instead of sitting back down, you decided to walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and take a look at the impressive view of the city. Your eyes widened at how far you could see, all the way to the ocean, and if you squinted your eyes, you might have been able to see your apartment building, even the bar you had often been frequenting lately.

Dr. Syverson walked out of his office. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling a bit sore from having sat down reading his patients’ charts all afternoon. Now he just needed to check on his last appointment, before he could go home and enjoy an ice-cold beer.

His receptionist was packing her stuff, sending him a kind smile. The perks of working with his sister were that she didn’t try to seduce him, or leave her underwear in his white coat pocket like some of his patients tended to do.

He smiled back and looked around the room. His gaze landing on you. His first thoughts were not ‘oh there’s my patient’, no, his mind went straight to ‘YOWZA!’.

“Last patient for today, Luc. I’ll be leaving now, see you tomorrow,” he heard his sister say to him. She smacked his arm to get his attention. He was pulled back to reality, saying goodbye to her before walking towards you, changing his mindset from dirty to professional.

You gasped when a flock of seagulls flew by, making you take a step back and hit a wall. Except the wall had arms that grabbed your shoulders before you hit the floor.

“Whoah, careful there, miss,” a deep rough voice said. You looked up and saw a man with a trimmed beard, a soft smile on his lips, and a mischievous look in his cerulean eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out. You quickly remove yourself from his arms, first now noticing that he was wearing the white coat signalling he was dr. Syverson. And if that didn’t kick your brain in gear, then the name tag on his chest should do it. Dr. Lucas P. Syverson.

“It’s all good. This way, please,” he made sure you followed him to his office. The wall colour changed to a more soothing beige colour and was adorned with colourful paintings. You didn’t notice what they depicted before you stepped closer to one. It was of naked human bodies in various forms and shapes, very fitting for a gynaecologist’s office.

He had various books about his profession, but a few stood out to you. One had a peach on the cover and was written by dr. Syverson himself. You were impressed but wondered about the peach until you saw the title that made you blush deeply.

“How to eat a peach for dummies.”

He motioned for you to sit in the armchair, while he plopped down on the opposite one. He grabbed a chart from his desk and a pen.

“I’ve had a look at your medical history, and the…” Dr. Syverson looked down on the chart, “three gynaecologists that you have been referred to have written that you are in a state of good health. Well, we’ll see about that, I’m not too keen on some of these doctors you’ve had appointments with. They’re as old as Methuselah.”

You let out a peal of laughter. The joke having put you at ease with the doctor, who was smiling as you calmed down from your fit of giggles.

You were a little bit shocked by this doctor. Dr. Syverson was nothing like how you had imagined him. He couldn’t be over 40, with the extended educational schooling he would have had to go through. You remembered having read somewhere that it took at least 12 years to become a gynaecologist.

“Oh my gosh, they were. Another thing they had in common was that they would take a “quick” peek, not caring that I was screaming in pain, and then tell me that I’m healthy as a horse.”

Dr. Syverson sat back; his brow pushed together. You could practically hear the gears turning behind his forehead. He ran a hand through his beard, which made you notice that he wasn’t wearing a ring. If he wasn’t your doctor, you might have asked him on a date. Had you only met him at a bar instead of his office, and not being his patient. Damn it.

“There is definitely an issue we need to figure out here. I want you to know, miss that I plan on solving this mystery. Please, tell me in your own words what you think is wrong?”

You opened your mouth to explain, but all the sentences you thought of were too embarrassing to say out loud.

“Miss, you can say anything here. Nothing leaves these four walls, I promise you,” dr. Syverson tried to make you feel more comfortable with him with his gorgeous smile. His presence alone was putting you at ease. How did he do it?

“It burns when I’m penetrated,” you confessed.

“Penetrated how? During intercourse or masturbation?”

“I haven’t had sex since this happened. I can barely stuff two fingers in there,” you blurted, turning tomato red, confessing something so private to a total stranger, but it felt great to finally say it out loud, like a heavy stone being lifted from your shoulders.

“How about I take a look? Let me see with my own eyes that you’re ‘healthy as a horse’,” he quoted the old men, making you giggle. “You can leave your trousers and underwear on the bench, and have a seat on the table. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The dashing doctor left the room while you removed your clothing. Feeling a little self-conscious, as you walked over to the gynaecologist table with the stirrups and sat between them, trying to cover your private parts with your shirt.

Dr. Syverson came back soon with a variety of scented candles in his arms.

“The smell of something nice usually helps my patients to relax a little,” he explained. He held them up for you to choose.

“This one,” you smiled and handed him the one called Ocean Mist.

“Nice choice, that one is my favourite,” the doctor grinned. He set the lit candle on his desk. The scent of a sandy beach and salty ocean soon filled the room. The doctor pulled the ultrasound machine towards you. You leaned back on the table inhaling deeply, willing your abdominal muscles to relax. The sounds of a guitar reached your ears. You watched as he set a portable speaker on the small table next to you.

“I hope you don’t mind a little music,” he said, smiling, while he put on a pair of bright orange gloves.

“I love Metallica, so please keep it flowing.”

“Can you guess the song I’m playing? Put your legs up here for me,” he patted the stirrups.

You lifted your legs, intensely listening to the instrumental version of the song.

“Is it ‘The Unforgiven’?” you asked.

“Correct, you’re good. This is going to be a little bit cold,” he squirted a large amount of gel on the ultrasound wand. He slowly inserted the rod inside you, pushing ever so gently. “How long have you listened to Metallica?”

You winced at the invasion but tried to keep your muscles from tightening around the smooth object. You didn’t see the set jaw on the gorgeous looking doctor. Your sweet scent was tickling his nose and making his mouth salivate by the thought of tasting you.

“Since I was a teenager. I’ve been to at least one concert per tour they’ve done,” you groaned in pain.

“I’m sorry, your right ovary is a little difficult to find. You’re doing great. Your left ovary is the epitome of health. Are you on any kind of birth control?” he asked casually, trying his best to make you feel safe around him.

“N… no… I…” your voice broke, and tears started streaming down your cheeks. Doctor Lucas quickly removed the wand, cleaned it and sat down next to you.

“It’s okay. Let it all out,” he told you softly. Concern for your well being was painted on his chiselled face.

“It’s just that… I haven’t had sex for years, YEARS doc. No man wants a broken woman, especially not a woman that cannot be penetrated without her screaming in pain.”

You babbled so much you forgot that you were in a gynaecologist’s office and not at a psychologist.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt all that out,” you started to blush a crimson red.

Lucas fought hard not to pull you into his arms. His protective instincts were on high alert; he wanted to make you feel safe, make you feel loved. He was cursing the bastards who had hurt you. To him, women were the stronger sex, had to endure more pain than men. Women are precious, made to birth life, made to give love and be loved.

“It’s quite alright. You’ve had a rough time,” he patted your arm, the safest place to touch you and went to get up. “I’m going to feel around to see if there’s something I’ve missed with the ultrasound. What other bands do you listen to?”

You watched as doctor Syverson slapped on another pair of gloves and squirted a smaller amount of gel on his finger, on his long thick finger. You were practically drooling by watching him prepare to examine you.

“Eh… I listen to a little bit of everything,” you said. You laid back down and draped an arm over your eyes. Watching the handsome doctor working was becoming too much for you. He was stirring feelings inside you that you hadn’t felt in a long time, and not in this form or quantity. You had taken a look at his well-proportioned ass when he walked out earlier, and his black trousers did very little to hide his hefty package.

“I’m sorry, but, again, this is going to be a little cold. What was the last song you listened to?” he warned.

It was an erotic scene, watching him standing between your legs, one hand on your belly, while the other was about to enter your most sacred place. You felt him enter. A soft moan escaped your lips.

Lucas’ ears perked. He hadn’t expected to hear that sound coming from your full lips. Had he heard correctly? The little vibration from you sent a jolt straight to the beast he was trying to keep dormant. This wasn’t the first time a woman had moaned while he examined them, but you were different. Another sweet sound reached his ears. You were so responsive to his touch, so open, so reactive. His mind was racing, but one word kept popping up, more.

You had forgotten how to speak, how to form sentences, how to communicate. You could only feel.

“Miss?”

“Hmm?”

“The last song? You listened to,” he didn’t mean to sound so tense, but he had to distract himself, his treacherous mind, he needed to keep the small-talk going, to break the silence. He wanted to kick himself in the balls for thinking about you, while he was fingers deep inside you. His compassionate instinct was winning over his lust.

Stop it, Lucas! You’re a professional. You cannot mess up! You CAN NOT fuck this up! She needs your help. Lord, give me strength.

“Oh...” you murmured, coming back from whatever universe he had sent you to with his finger technique, “Ehm, before the Metallica song in the elevator, I listened to ‘What’s Your Country Song’ by Thomas Rhett.”

“That’s a great song. I like country music.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you as a country kinda g… GOD!!!” you gasped as he curled his finger, touching the spot.

You released a louder sinful sound, a sound that hadn’t left your lips in a very long time. Lucas watched as your chest was heaving, gasping for air. The room was suddenly suffocating him. He felt like he was burning up from the inside. His breath was hitched, and he couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Why did you have to sound like desire itself?

“Does it hurt when I do this?” he asked, his voice lowering an octave and reduced to a velvety whisper. He hooked his finger once more, listening intensely to the sounds escaping you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your eyes rolled back in your head. You lifted your hips, moving your pelvis closer, needing more friction, needing to feel him deeper inside you.

Fuck!

He was watching you, vehemently. A fire was burning deep in his groin, heck even his eyes were flaming. His shoulders moved fastly up and down as he was heaving in the air through his parted lips, he needed oxygen, he needed to control himself. He was scolding himself for feeling like a horny teenager.

“This is… wrong,” he said in a panic. He moved his hand away from you. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist in a fierce grip.

“Please…” you begged, “please don’t stop. I… I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Please, Lucas… I need you… I need you to finish this.”

He could hear the need in your voice. He could smell your arousal. You were clawing your nails into his skin. The look in your eyes was clear that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. The same eyes were shining with unshed tears, begging him for release, and the sound of his name from your lips was making him so close to breaking his resolve.

“I… can’t… you’re my patient,” he groaned, his forehead showing the concerned lines of wrinkles, which made him look even more desirable.

“Can’t you make an exception? Just this once? Please...”

Lucas ran a gloved hand through his short-cropped hair. He turned away from you, needing support for his shaky legs he leaned against the back of his office chair. He was thinking about it, really thinking about it.

“Please, doll. Don’t test me. I’m standing on the edge, and I’m this close to jumping in with both feet. I can lose my career, and I don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”

You watched as his shoulders sank. You moved off the examination table, pulling the hem of your shirt down to try to cover your nakedness.

“I’m sorry, dr. Syverson. I… I didn’t mean to put you in such a precarious situation,” your voice was small. Your gaze firmly on the wooden floor beneath your feet, you felt so ashamed to have tried to seduce your gynaecologist, who was only trying to help you. Lucas turned around to the sound of your voice breaking, and a little saddened that you started calling him his title again. Your cheeks flushed, your arms wrapped around yourself. You gathered the courage to move towards your clothes.

“Damn it!” he cursed. He moved towards you with the speed of lightning before you could take a single step. His large muscular frame wrapped around you, your head was laying on his chest, listening to the racing of his heartbeat.

“Say ‘you’re fired’,” he ordered, his voice husky and commanding like some kind of army captain, but it was also desperate. Desperate for you not to leave him. Craving your touch. Desiring, longing, yearning, lusting for you.

Your eyes widened in shock as you processed his words. He heard you gasp as you realised what he was saying.

“Dr. Syverson… you’re fired,” you whispered seductively, although a little shaky too. You watched as the sweet and calm doctor changed before your very eyes.

He clashed his lips with yours in a hungry kiss. He was starving; his only thought was to taste you that was his only goal. Your scent had been making him insane; famished was more correctly described.

While holding you in his arms, he made you move backwards until your bum found the end of the exam table.

His kisses were desperate, and so were you. Your heart felt as if it was about to beat out of your chest. Your breathing was shallow. It was going to happen; it was really going to happen.

He lifted you up and made you sit on the exam table. He parted your legs and went to stand between them. He cupped your face between his warm palms, leaning down to kiss you again. He kissed your jaw and all the way to the shell of your ear.

“Please, don’t regret this,” he whispered and went to touch his forehead against yours.

“I want it, even more than you do,” you answered breathlessly.

With your consent, there was no turning back now.

He devoured your mouth while his hands roamed all over your body. He unbuttoned your blouse while you shoved his white coat to the floor. You pulled at his button-up, buttons were flying everywhere. He shoved your shirt down your shoulders and off your arms before he threw it somewhere behind him. You ran your hands up and down his hairy chest, wanting to feel all of him, not the doctor, but the fine specimen of a man that he was.

He removed your bra with a flick of his fingers. Slowly revealing your breast to him. Your nipples two hard buds, waiting for his mouth to suck, lick, bite, whatever he wanted to do.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered. His voice was desperate, so filled with lust, but also something oh so sweet.

Lucas moved his lips down your collar bone. Feasting on your breast, nibbling at your skin, before he finally went to town with your nipples. With the first touch of his tongue on your left breast, while he pinched the right, you let out a loud guttural sound. Just him playing with your bosom was about to send you over the edge. The coil in your belly was so close to snapping.

“More… Please, Lucas, more,” you whimpered, pushing his head to the place where you needed his mouth the most, right between your thighs.

You heard him chuckle. He gently pushed you down, making sure you were comfortable before he hooked your legs over his shoulders for better access to your glistening desire.

“Fuck…” you mewled. The sight of the mountain man between your legs, the growing bulge in his dark trousers was so erotic you were about to combust. Your sex was on fire.

“Your body is divine, bug. It was made to be worshipped. I want to make the pain go away,” he said softly.

You didn’t get to say a word as his tongue ran along the seam of your wetness, making you shutter from the first contact. His tongue was wide and long, his mouth blowing hot air as he sucked your lower lips gently.

That tongue of his was everywhere, inside you, lavishing you, adoring every centimetre of your flushed skin. You lifted your head to watch him working you into a frenzy, right as he sucked his index finger into his mouth, coating the digit with his saliva.

The pleasure that he was giving you was overwhelming. The moment he pushed his finger inside your womanhood, was like nothing you had felt before. His finger was warm, and it was a whole different feeling than when he was gloved. His tongue darted out to play with the glistening pearl hiding between your lips, sucking in his finger. Your wetness allowed his movements to be smooth and easy, in and out, and he found that spot that made you howl in ecstasy.

“Luc… I’m… I’m so close… FUCK!”

The coil broke, snatched, ripped apart. You weren’t pushed over the edge, you were shoved, hard, and the pleasuring waves kept coming and coming. It felt as if your orgasm was never-ending. You never wanted to come down from that high. It was addictive.

You released your hold of Sy’s head from your thighs, not having noticed you had trapped him. You were panting hard, trying to catch your breath after the tsunami of an orgasm the doctor had given you.

Lucas’ palm covered your cheek, wiping the tears that had fallen from your eyes.

“Did I hurt you, doll?” his face scrunched in concern.

You shook your head, no.

“No… that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced.”

The smile on Lucas’ face was breathtaking. He was beaming with pride. You watched as he leaned back, noticing he was still wearing his trousers. The apparent bulge in his abdominal area looked painful.

You moved to sit up, motioning for him to stand.

“I want to return the favour,” you told him, unzipping his trousers. You were gentle, as the tent grew more extensive, the more you released his manhood from its confinement. You helped him out of his black boxer briefs and came face to face with the finest cock you had ever laid eyes on. You were drooling, licking your lips, dying to taste him.

“You don’t have to, angel,” he groaned as your tongue darted out to taste the precum leaking from the tip, hearing him growl, a sound coming from deep inside him.

“Please let me, Sy,” you pleaded, taking his length in your hand. You looked up to see Lucas nodding slowly. He groaned in acceptance.

You ran your tongue over your palm to lubricate it. Lucas’ eyes widened to the size of teacups. His cock jolting in excitement, his heart skipping a beat at the erotic scene happening right before him.

One hand touched his hips, moving to the small of his back, to have a grip on his ass, pushing him closer to your face. He filled your hand beautifully with his hardness, yet he was still soft to the touch of your palm. You started moving your hand up, slowly, hearing his gasp was turning you on even more than you already were. You smeared the clear precum around the glans with your thumb. Delicately wrapping your mouth around him. Your lips were stretched to max capacity, a voice in the back of your mind was telling you that you had to be careful not to lock your jaws, but then again you had a doctor right in front of you if the situation should happen.

You languidly moved his member further into your warm mouth, coating him with your saliva. Your tongue gliding over the tip. Lucas released a low moan that sent vibrations through his body. He lifted his face towards the ceiling. Your hand left his ass, moving down his thighs, tickling the backside of his knee, before travelling up the inside of his thigh and gently cupping his balls.

“Fuuuuuuck…” he guttered. You sucked the part that could fit in your mouth in synchronicity with your hand’s movement. He felt the tightening deep within his testicles. The hitching in his breath notified you of his coming release. You led his hands to your scalp, letting his fingers fisting your hair, before giving him a sultry look with his cock in your mouth.

He was grunting hard as he set the pace, while you did your best to keep up with him. Moving his hips, chasing his release inside your mouth. You relaxed your throat, letting him take over. You wanted so much to please him.

“Fuck, sunshine… I’m so close,” he growled.

“Come in my mouth,” you uttered. It was like something within him snapped the minute you voiced the words. He moved faster, harder, rougher. Until you felt the first spurts of his seed hitting your palate. You swallowed everything he spilt and then licked him clean.

Sy fumbled with his office chair as he sat down with a satisfied hum and pulled you to sit on his lap.

“That was amazing,” he smiled at you, kissing the tip of your nose, your cheek, the corner of your mouth and lastly a lingering kiss on your reddened lips.

“Glad you approve,” you grinned back, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“About those books,” you pointed towards the books you had peeked at earlier.

“Theses I had to write for med school.”

“Tell me about them while you rest for round two.”

#Henry Cavill #This man #I need a drink #Captain Syverson #Fanfiction #My story #Radaofrivia #Co-written #SMUT #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill smut #Henry Cavill x reader #Henry Cavill x female reader #Henry x reader #Henry x female reader #Sex on Fire

847 notes · View notes

teklarn · 3 years

Text

𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓸𝔂𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾 (𝓹𝓽.4)

character(s): katsuki bakugou x gn!reader (x eijirou kirishima)

a/n: y’all it makes me so happy how many people like my work oh my gosh i’m so motivated when enthusiasm shows tytyty <33

𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕 !!

summary: bakugou x gn!reader. they have feelings for one another but have no idea how to express them, however y/n has someone pining for their attention.

genre: angst

warnings: mutual pining, cussing, aged-up to third years, love triangle, romantic tension, one-sided pining, jealousy, toxic kirishima (ok but like he’s hot tho), slowburn romance, not proofread

word count: 2423

- - -

part 3 , part 5

you twiddled your thumbs in front of the poster. a halloween party? next month? it’d come as a surprise how fast the holiday was coming up.

your stomach filled with butterflies, however, it sunk when you remembered what had happened last night.

the little fight you had with kirishima. how it seemed like he suddenly hated bakugou, who was one of his best friends. you didn’t want to believe that kirishima could have had feelings for you. perhaps he was just protecting you.

you sighed. you truly didn’t want to fight with either of them. maybe kirishima was right. he did know bakugou better than you, but to your knowledge, bakugou had never had a relationship.

maybe kirishima was trying to say that bakugou would be toxic in the sense that he would never pay attention to you. perhaps he would be too focused on becoming the number one hero.

whatever. it didn’t matter now.

the poster listed that it was going to be a costume party, and dressing up was mandatory. you were good friends with mei hatsume from the support group, so she would be going all-out for the season. you wondered if she’d be able to whip something up for you, too.

you had a few minutes left before class started, surely she should be available for a little bit of chatter. besides, mei hatsume never turned down a new project.

turning, you started your way to the support classrooms just to be stopped, come face-to-face with the one person you’d been trying to avoid all day. “i don’t want to talk right now, kirishima,” you snapped. perhaps you were being a bit harsh, but he was the one trying to control you, was he not?

“then don’t talk, y/n. i’ll talk.”

you shoved past him, clutching your books to your chest. “no.”

“just hear me out, okay? last night was...i didn’t mean to seem-”

“seem what? possessive? rude? like an overprotective, jealous boyfriend?”

“in no way was i trying to come across as any of those, trust me y/n.”

you continued on your way to the support classes only to find him standing before you again. You sighed, tightening your grip around your books. “what.” you commanded him, you didn’t ask.

kirishima let out a sigh of his own, letting his arms fall to his sides. “can we just...talk? we’re friends, and we’ve always communicated well with each other.”

“communication was out of the question yesterday, wasn’t it?” you attempted shoving him away to continue on your way, but he caught your shoulder, finger pads digging into your skin possessively.

“please, y/n.”

you looked down your nose at him. “fine. say what you so badly want to get out.”

“listen, i-”

the bell rang, and students went rushing back into their classrooms. you shrugged, victorious. “looks like the bell isn’t on your side either, kirishima.”

you heard him sigh in defeat, but did not look back.

---

there was something about the way kirishima was suddenly looking at you that bakugou didn’t like. at all. his pencil snapped in his grip, chips of wood and led flying into the air.

speaking of kirishima, what was up with him lately? everything was suddenly about you. he was always around you. sure, throughout the years, you two had gotten closer, but kirishima looked just about ready to abandon bakugou’s ass on the side of the road.

as usual, aizawa would be a bit late. in about ten minutes, the man would come wandering in, bags hanging low under his eyes, and instruct the lesson before falling back into his much-needed slumber.

that was when bakugou would interrogate kirishima. but first, he needed to talk to you. needed to be sure he was on the winning side before anything happened between kirishima.

bakugou walked over to your desk, tugging at your sleeve to get your attention.

“hm?” you looked up from your notebook. “yes, bakugou? do you need something?”

“yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “you saw the poster too, right? the one about that stupid dance.”

“well, i don’t think it’s stupid. it looks fun! don’t you think?”

he drowned himself in your eyes. “mhm.”

“so, did you still need something?”

“got any costume ideas in mind?”

you feigned surprise. “katsuki bakugou? are you saying what i think you’re saying?”

he licked his lips. gosh, the way his name rolled off your tongue sounded the way honey tasted. “don’t push it.” he grinned. “still considering it.”

“well, if you’re thinking of going, you definitely should. i’m buying tickets with mina and kaminari if you’d like to tag along.”

“tag along?” he let out a breathy chuckle. “i’ll be the star of the show if i ‘tag along’, you got me?”

you gave him a side smile. “mhm. but you do realize how hectic it’s gonna be there, right? i mean, you’ve got to pick something that...pops, y’know?” your fingers sprung out to add emphasis.

“whether i wear some stupid costume or not, i’m still going to be the star of the show. you got that?”

you knew he was only teasing. if it’d been the bakugou from before, he would have most likely meant it, however, you knew how he openly teased you now. strangely, it was only you who he was so open with.

bakugou smirked, leaning down to raise your chin with his fingers. “i’ll go if you go.”

he had your heart pacing rapidly. “mhm.”

“use your words.”

“yes, i think i’ll go.”

“you think?” he taunted.

“i will go.” you cleared your throat. “bakugou.”

“good.” his gentle fingers let go of your chin and he wandered back to his desk, eyeing you from there for a moment before flicking open a textbook and reading.

you diverted your eyes back to your notebook, hands shaking as you wrote down the date. you scribbled down your name three times in the top right corner just to look busy.

adjusting your elbow, you did your best to make it look like you were merely leaning your cheek on your hand in a bored manner. gosh. you could still feel his eyes burning into you, demanding. serious. gorgeous and blood red.

kirishima was right about you having feelings for bakugou. however you sat there conflicted for a little while.

bakugou had just approached you in a similar manner as kirishima. did kirishima..?

no, you two were only friends.

you shook your head, still doing your best to conceal the stupid grin crossing your cheeks.

everyone knew that telling other people if you were just friends with someone after they asked, one person had feelings for the other at least. it was another thing asking yourself that.

- - -

it was just a week before the dance, and you still had yet to choose a costume. mina and kaminari had offered you a few of the costumes she’d worn at previous halloween parties, but none had appealed to you.

you wanted something fresh. wanted something that you’d feel like you would have fun in.

“wouldn’t dressing up as a pirate be really, i don’t know. i just feel like it’d be super super hot in the gym.”

mina rolled her eyes. “well duh, you look hot in everything, y/n.”

you scoffed. “thanks, but i’m not sure about that.”

“kirishima seems to think so,” kaminari teased from inside the change room. all three of you were currently at a thrift store trying to find matching costumes.

you rolled your eyes, disregarding the fact he couldn’t see. “don’t bring him up. please.”

“what happened between you two?” mina asked, slipping the costume back onto its hanger. she slipped it back into its spot on the rack and began sifting through new clothes. “you guys just suddenly stopped talking.”

you shrugged. “he’s just been...off lately. you know? i don’t know how else to explain it. but ever since that incident where he broke bakugou’s nose-”

kaminari peaked out from the curtain, jaw dropping. “he broke bakugou’s nose?”

you waved him off. “yes, now let me finish. kirishima did this thing where he just...he acted all protective in private and then tried to apologize for it the next day. he kept telling me stuff like bakugou wasn’t good for me and everything.”

mina blinked, jaw dropping to the floor. “honey, what?”

she and kaminari exchanged shocked glances before she popped a hip out and put her fist to it.

“bestie, honey. you really are oblivious, aren’t you?”

you let out an exasperated breath. “he told me that, too! he pinned me to the wall and was like, oh, you’re so oblivious.” you imitated his voice, puffing out your chest to mock his stockiness.

“baby, baby! do you hear yourself?” mina shook you, taking you by your shoulders. “what the heck? are you blind? he’s down bad for you!”

“bad? if he had feelings for anyone, not just me, i think kirishima would be a little more considerate.”

“but it’s bakugou,” kaminari chirped in. “he knows he won’t win if he doesn’t get you now.”

“please, bakugou doesn’t win at everything.”

mina raised an eyebrow. “but you already have feelings for bakugou, so technically he’s already winning.”

you pursed your lips. “i guess, but if kirishima really had romantic feelings for me, he’d be less of an ass about it.”

“is he going to the dance?” kaminari closed the curtain, rustling around to change back into his clothes once more.

“i’m pretty sure.” you began sifting through clothes with mina. “bakugou said he’d go if i went. so i’m guessing kirishima is going to be there, too. bakugou and he are never apart.”

mina slapped her thigh in disbelief. “do you hear yourself, babes?” she wore a stupid grin. “i haven’t seen those two together since...i don’t know, not for the past month. they’re fighting over you, whether you realize it, whether they realize it.”

kaminari let out a false moan. “oh to have those two fighting over me.” he came out of the change room dressed in his own clothes.

“did the costume not fit?” mina asked.

“my fat ass is too fat for it. i’m too hot to be a pirate.” he posed, mimicking aoyama.

“your ass is flatter than a pancake, kaminari.”

you chuckled, but couldn’t help thinking about what mina was saying. as your two friends began chatting away, you lost yourself in your thoughts.

the three of you sat down for dinner at a cheap restaurant. mina and kaminari had bought a matching costume set, and you were still left without one. the two had left for the bathroom, leaving you sipping your own drink alone.

your chest sank into your stomach when a familiar head full of red, the roots beginning to darken, stepped into the restaurant. he ordered what you’d guessed.

he waited for the meal to be prepared for take out, rocking back and forth on his heels and whistling softly.

thankfully, you felt someone rest a hand on your shoulder. you turned, expecting to see kaminari or mina attempting to save you. instead, you found a strange man. he looked to be around your age. you vaguely recognized his face. perhaps you’d seen him around yuuei before.

uncomfortable, you shoved his hand off. “please go away.”

kirishima blinked slowly when his eyes found you. you did not attempt to hide your annoyance.

you wanted to tell both of them to go away as the man started flirting with you. it should be expected. this wasn’t the best place to be hanging out, either.

you heard footsteps rushing up, and soon, a hand clamped around your wrist. you cried out as kirishima pulled you out of your seat.

“do you have an issue?” he demanded, eyes boring into the man’s.

the man licked his lips. “you seem like you have an issue, here.” his words slurred grossly. “we were over here minding our own business.”

“they don’t want it.” kirishima snapped.

“kirishima, i can handle this myself. you tried to shove off his grip. he let go, knowing that this wasn’t truly how he wanted to approach you.

“see?” the man said. “they’re fine.”

“get out of here.”

“kirishima, what’re you-”

the man put his hands up in surrender and wandered out.

you pushed kirishima back. “what the hell?”

“fine. be mad at me, but he was invading your space.”

your brow furrowed. “you’re one to talk! do i need to put some kind of restraining order on you? you keep following me everywhere.”

“not anywhere! this was a coincidence.”

you shook your head. “it’s pointless trying to argue with you. you’re so toxic!”

kirishima tongued the inside of his cheek. “think what you want, y/n. i could see you were uncomfortable, anyway.”

“no, kirishima. i don’t need your saving. i don’t need you to swoop in and pretend like you’re my hero. you’re not. don’t talk to me again unless you’ve grown the hell up.”

as if on queue, the bell rang and kirishima’s packaged dinner was presented in a paper bag. he gave you a good, long hard stare before taking his dinner and leaving.

your chest heaved with anger. you wanted to make him angry. if he felt romantic feelings towards you, you wanted to make him jealous.

you gave mina and kaminari a text that you’d be going home early. it was only a half-lie. you ran to hatsume’s dorm and knocked loudly. she opened the door without hesitation and grinned widely at the sight of you, already knowing you needed something.

kirishima was obviously so damn jealous of bakugou, wasn’t he? mina was right. he wouldn’t be able to compete. and you were going to make sure he knew that.

the blaring lights, the music louder than bakugou’s explosions. students disguised as their favorite characters.

it was hectic, you were right about that.

kirishima stood beside him. they’d both decided to dress in their hero costumes. the tension between them was still unspoken. they felt like strangers.

their eyes scanned the crowd, and bakugou’s landed on you first, kirishima following closely after.

he couldn’t help the warm, victorious feeling in his chest as he glanced to the side at kirishima’s expression.

kirishima’s chest caved in. you’d dressed in...who had made it?

“they’re dressed as...you,” he said, aghast.

bakugou grinned, watching you dance under the lights in your own rendition of his hero costume, that orange x crossing your chest oh-so-nicely.

- - -

tags: (if you want to be tagged in future parts, let me know!!)

@heizenka @misssugarless

116 notes · View notes

saeyoungchoismaid · 3 years

Text

warm milk tea with honey

Pairing: Satan x gn!reader Genre: fluff? angst if you squint Warnings: creepy perverts but it’s okay your knight in shining amour appears Summary: You meet a certain magical fellow when he helps you out of a bad situation. Word Count: 1.4k words A/N: I wanted to make it gn but ngl taking out “that’s my girl” at the end hurt my soul. Also I never actually say Satan’s name so this could literally just be a Howl’s Moving Castle fic lmao Listen to the Howl’s Moving Castle theme music while you read for a better experience!! It’s literally so pretty oh my god

You sigh as you place your final hat of the day down. You massage your hands and wrists before rubbing at your dry, tired eyes as another sigh escapes past your lips. Standing from your old, rickety chair, you stretch your arms above your head and flinch when you hear the loud cracks and pops. You sigh for a third time and drop your arms, pulling on one of your favorite hats you’ve made after grabbing your bag before heading out of the shop.

You walk down the street and smile at people when they greet you, your own voice soft with your returned greetings. Your eyes flicker this way and that, in awe of the decorations and the big parade going on. Seeing as how the main roads are closed for the parade and there are big crowds covering them to enjoy it, you decide to take some back alleyways and streets to get to your destination. You pull the paper from your bag and check the address, trying to make sure you’re going the right way.

As you’re looking down at it and mumbling to yourself about where the building could possibly be and a couple of ‘am I lost?’s, you suddenly bump into something hard. You let out a grunt and take a step back, assuming you had run into a wall. To your surprise, it’s actually a soldier with a sleazy smile on his face.

“Hey, it looks like a little mouse lost its way,” he coos, starting to smirk down at you. This is when you realize just how much bigger he is than you.

“Oh, no. I’m not lost,” you lie, trying not to stutter or show any fear. That’s what he wants. Fear.

“This little mouse looks thirsty,” he continues, placing his hand on the wall beside your head, caging you in, “We should take them for a drink.”

We? “No thank you. I have someone waiting for me,” you reply, trying to excuse yourself. You try to back away from the man only to bump into another. You turn to find another man with a thick mustache staring down at you with a look in his eyes that you don’t like.

“They’re pretty cute for a mouse,” he all but purrs, his eyes roaming up and down your figure.

“How old are you anyway? You live around here?” the first man asks, his eyes also leisurely taking you in. You cross your arms over your chest as if you’re naked and he can see you, your heart starting to beat harder against your ribs at his intrusive gaze and questions.

“Leave me alone,” you snap, moving away from both of the perverts.

“You see? Your mustache scares all the good ones,” the blond teases the second soldier, a light laugh escaping him.

“So? I think they’re even cuter when they’re scared,” the man coos back in response, not bothering to look at his friend and instead keeps his heavy gaze on you. Your heart drops to your stomach at that, fear starting to encase every crevice of your mind.

Just as they start their prowl towards you, you hear a new voice behind you.

“There you are, sweetheart,” you hear a suave voice call, your eyes starting to sting with tears in fear that another soldier has decided to join these two. “Sorry that I’m late.” You jump a bit when a big hand lands on your shoulder, your head turning to your left to see blond hair and emerald green eyes. “I was looking everywhere for you,” he coos sweetly at you, pulling you into his side.

“Hey, hey! We’re busy here!” the blond soldier shouts, puffing up his chest and straightening his back to appear tougher.

“Are you really?” the man asks, voice as smooth and sweet as warm milk tea with honey. “It looked to me like the two of you were just leaving,” he finishes, lifting his hand from your shoulder and pointing two fingers to soldiers. When his fingers go up, the men go rigid and suddenly look scared. Your mysterious savior suddenly swooshes his hand to the right, causing the men to turn their bodies to face that way. Finally, he brings his arm completely off of you to swing his arm back behind you two, causing the soldiers to follow his movement and start marching that way.

You stare on in shock, feeling his hand come back to your shoulder once the men start walking away from you both. “Don’t hold it against them,” he says softly to you, making you turn your head back around to look at him, “they’re actually not all that bad.” You scoff at this, your mind replaying what those horrendous men just said to you. You go to argue when he adds on, “Where to? I’ll be your escort this evening.” You swear he sounds flirty, but you just think it’s your mind playing tricks on you, hoping the attractive man has taken a sudden interest in you.

“Oh, um, I’m just trying to make my way to the nearby bakery,” you explain, studying him as you say this. The blue necklace dangling from his neck catches the light, making it shine and reflect shimmery, blue light on the wall next to you.

You lean back when he suddenly leans in, his face completely calm as he informs you, “Don’t be alarmed, but I’m being followed. Act normal.” He removes his arm from around your shoulder and brings his hand to yours, lightly clasping your hand and gently tugging you forward. You two begin walking as if nothing is wrong but you can’t help but to feel nervous. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home and continued making hats.

“Sorry, looks like you’re involved,” he whispers, keeping his eyes forward. You gasp softly and bring your other hand to clutch onto his arm, your mind racing with what he’s dragged you into. A gang? A cult? Is he a criminal?

Your jaw completely drops when black, gooey figures start to emerge from the walls and start stalking towards you both. You swing your head around to look over your shoulder only to find even more of them trailing after you both. A gasp flies out of you when he suddenly veers off to the left, pulling your body with him. You gasp for a third time when even more appear in front of you and there’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to run.

“Hold on!” he shouts while he lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. You cry out when you suddenly jump high into the air, the wind blowing through your clothes and hair. He takes a hold of your left hand with his own, your eyes gaping down below you once you realize that you didn’t just jump. You’re flying.

“Now, straighten your legs and start walking,” he commands, making you realize that you curled up into a ball in his side. You gulp and shakily straighten your legs, doing as you’re told. You feel like you’re going downstairs, laughter erupting from you from the shock and the craziness of it all. He shifts behind you and takes both of your hands in his, lifting them up as if you’re a baby he’s helping to walk.

“You’re a natural,” he whispers into your ear, making you giggle like a schoolgirl at the compliment. You don’t really think you’re doing anything, but you accept the flattery nonetheless. You look around you both at all the tall buildings and the people down below, laughing some more when a bird flies past you. This is when you start to think that maybe all of this is one big dream and you fell asleep at your hat-making station.

Your eyes widen again when he approaches a balcony, landing on the edge and gently floating you down to the floor. He holds your hands the entire time, a warm smile gracing his features at how happy and surprised you look. “I’ll be sure to draw them off. Wait a bit before you head back outside, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, embarrassed by how breathy your voice sounds.

“Such a good listener,” he coos with a smirk before suddenly flying backward and dropping down into the crowd below. You gasp and run forward, looking down only to find that he’s disappeared. You can’t help but to feel a bit disappointed at this.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again...

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265 notes · View notes

thatslikely · 3 years

Text

lined-paper confessions - s.s.

lined-paper confessions - stiles stilinski x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of fighting (scott and jackson predictably), strict teachers

word count: 1.5k

a/n: head full of stiles rn... requests for our favorite sarcastic boy are open right now so send some in!

Why is every teacher at Beacon Hills High the absolute worst?

Mr. Harris had just rapidly climbed your (highly opinionated) mental ranks to number one: your new least favorite educator. Giving you after-school detention, for doing nothing but watching with horror plastered on your face as Scott McCall, Stiles’ best friend, threw punches left and right at a topless, water-drenched Jackson, who reciprocated every strike as if he were nothing but a reflection. Seriously?

Previously, you had simply been sauntering down the locker-lined hall, Stiles on your right, passionately ranting about some unnamed problem that had him on edge for the past few weeks. You two turned down the empty, cinder-block-walled athletics corridor as he continued to agitatedly let off steam; the setting was decidedly unromantic given the unshakeable scent of overly pungent deodorant and mildew that was all too familiar.

You clung to every word emitted from his mouth with an almost comical frown like it was a mug of steamy hot chocolate on a bone-chilling winter day. To your disgruntlement, however, his ramblings were stopped mid-sentence when Scott and his wealthy rival Jackson tumbled out from the dingy boys’ locker room, hands clenched in fists and eyes flaming with fury.

Stiles bent down in a rush, poorly attempting to conclude the boisterous brawl with furrowed, concerned brows, but he looked not dissimilar to a toothpick compared to the two burly teammates.

“Detention for all of you!” Mr. Harris spat venomously as he dashed to the scene, his voice ringing above the grunts and slams that came from the fighting co-captains of the lacrosse team. “Detention now, Stilinski, McCall, Whittemore, Argent, and Y/L/N! Come on!”

You were dragged by the ear to the vacant library, a place which you often resided in whenever you studied with Stiles (often about mythical creatures, to your confusion). Posters that looked commonplace in an elementary school lined the walls, vibrantly encouraging students to pick up a book, or pen works for a writing contest of some sort.

Golden strips of fleeting sunlight peeked through the slatted blinds, and three gum wad-dotted tables were beckoning for the group of you to sit for the next two hours, or until Mr. Harris would finally decide that your soul had rotted away enough to release you.

You were sternly directed to the uncomfortably stiff chair opposite Allison’s, whose eyes shot daggers wherever they glanced. You flashed her an almost unregistrable smile, as if to say ‘hello.’ Slinging the loose straps of your backpack over your seat, your gaze flickering through the pin-drop silent room immediately locked on Stiles’ figure.

Boy, was he perfect.

The unbuttoned flannel over his shoulders speckled with mud from some vaguely mentioned adventure, his soft, tousled hair, that always had a lock out of place, his freckled face, that always bore some goofy expression, all of it. You couldn’t get enough; nothing would satiate your innermost desire for your lips to meld with his’, for your hands to intertwine through the hallways before class, after class, whenever, wherever.

One eyebrow-cocked, knowing look from Scott in your direction sent Stiles’ umber eyes to meet yours’, an almost confused look swimming through them. He opened his mouth curiously, surely to ask a question, most likely something along the lines of, ‘is there a stain on my shirt?’, but before he could, Mr. Harris seethed, “Take your seats, now.”

Stiles whipped around, not wanting to anger Mr. Harris any further, and he took his seat. The room was quickly conquered with suffocating silence, which the snotty chemistry teacher was bent on ensuring.

You unsheathed a doodled notebook from your backpack, eventually indenting its pages with inky black strokes of various weights and thicknesses. Your habit of penning loose sketches, vague outlines, began one day in math when the clock seemed to tick aggravatingly slow, and every word from the teacher became drawled further and further until they dissolved into the hum of the air conditioning and the chewing of gum: the rhythm of the classroom.

The unconscious lines eventually formed to a familiar portrait: Stiles. Some would be tempted to call him your muse, your kindling of an elegant flame of creativity. You’d always nod your head in complicity more than agreement, for the smart, albeit rebellious boy meant eons more than that to you.

You had just hit your stride, your wrist’s movements thoughtless and easy, when someone- rather something, hit the back of your head lightly with a small crunch. It was a small, scrunched piece of loose-leaf paper, ripped at the edge.

You turned your head to the direction that the projectile was tossed at, but both Scott and Stiles appeared to be very, very engrossed in a hushed conversation, neither of their postures attempting to suggest anything suspicious.

You smoothed out the paper of the angular fruitwood table in front of you, attempting to read the almost unintelligible handwriting.

Hey :)

(this is from stiles, by the way)

Your mood lightened a smidge, a grin bubbling onto your face. You tore a piece of paper out of your notebook along the perforation.

Before you threw it in an arch in Stiles’ direction, you penned a response to his note.

Hey ;) how’s detention treating you?

(This is from y/n, by the way)

Crunch.

not great, as expected. I think I saw harris pick his nose. do you have any bleach to douse my eyes in by any chance?

You chuckled a little, a small smirk glimmering on your face for the first time this excruciatingly long afternoon.

Sorry, I’m all out. used it all after I saw Jackson shirtless. how do you survive in the locker room every day?

A smile lifted on Stiles’ face, one so inflated with abundant excitement (and hormones), he might have burst at the seams.

“Man, you’re down bad,” Scott simpered, nudging his best friend’s forearm.

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed with an eye roll.

just keep your head down and you should be fine. one time, Greenberg looked at him a little too long and he nearly turned to stone, like jackson’s abs were medusa or something.

“Passing notes, are we?” Mr. Harris queried with a malicious scowl, his knuckles white from asphyxiating a helpless ballpoint pen. He slinked over to the tables you and Stiles rested uncomfortably in, raising his brow in heavy suspicion.

Stiles’ deep, dark chocolate-colored eyes widened in worry. “No, sir.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you, Stilinski. You too, Y/L/N.”

As soon as Harris was out of sight, perched back at the desk and typing furiously, another wad of paper tapped your occiput.

hey, y/n, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.

The note, while its contents wouldn’t usually spark too much concern, was subtly unlike the few ones you had previously received. The lines of each letter were neater, more methodical. The small blots of ink resting at the conclusion of every stroke were larger, deeper, as if the nib of his pen had rested in the liquidly black pool for a second too long.

Your face scrunched with confusion, and upon noticing your shift in emotion, Allison nimbly tapped your wrist and mouthed, ‘Is everything okay?’

You nodded with wrinkled brows while shakily scratching a reply.

what is it?

Your knee bounced up and down reflexively, clicking from your rapidly retracting pen echoed through the idle shelves and arrays of desktops. It felt like years, centuries even, before a reply finally tumbled at your feet.

do you like me?

(circle one)

yes? or yes?

Your jaw nearly fell to the carpeted floor in shock as if gravity had been multiplied; your speedily thrumming heart was doing flip after flip in the cavity of your chest. Without a second thought, you quickly circled both of the ‘yes’es as if there were no friction under the ink-dispersing tip of your pen. Before cupping the piece of paper, you scribbled out an additional little note.

wanna go out this saturday?

Stiles’ anxious gaze bore into your hunched-over figure as you giddily wrote your reply. What if you rejected him (even though the page lacked a ‘no’ option, meaning that you would have to add one, which was even worse)? Was it possible for him to ask to go to the bathroom and just never return? Are there any secret werewolf abilities that Scott could use to make him disintegrate on the spot?

But his overthinking was soon alleviated when he received your response, this time neatly folded into a paper heart instead of a crunchy ball. Each crease was crisp and thoughtful; he didn’t have to unfold your expert origami to know which option you circled (or lack thereof).

He grinned goofily like an idiot as his chocolate eyes glazed your response a million times over, taking in every letter, every stroke, the dot in your ‘i’ or the question mark ending your simple but heart-rate-escalating proposal.

Crunch.

stiles stilinski/teen wolf taglist:

it’s a date then. i’ll pick you up at 6? passenger seat’s already reserved for you ;)

@loulouloueh @when-you-wish-upon-a-starrynight @ronbrokemyheart @dylobilysmomg

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slasherholic · 4 years

Text

Michael Myers x Doctor! Reader | The Check-Up

behold, a drabble that went on for 1500 words too long.

synopsis: you are a doctor at smith’s grove administering the patient’s monthly physical exams. your next patient is michael. sadly, there is no world where this ends pleasantly for you.

contains: gender-neutral reader, michael being a toying asshole and giving the reader a nasty scare.

The exam room is small and drab, too intimate a space for work to happen comfortably. Its walls are not thick enough to dampen the noise of shuffling feet and voices passing by outside, and occasionally, the strident yelling of an upset patient will cut above the murmur, making you drum your fingers against the steel countertop with a renewed fervor.

On your sheet, half way down the list, the name is printed innocuously there in blue ink:

M. Myers.

You take a deep breath in and let it out slowly; it does not calm your nerves. Since you relinquished your last patient, the unease has been twisting in your gut like you swallowed a whole eel. Now, it feels almost determined to come back up.

It’s only a physical, you reason. The guards will be right outside. He’ll be restrained.

And such things might have been a comfort, if only “M. Myers” was still just a name on a list with a gruesome reputation to precede him. You are not fortunate enough for that to be the case; you have worked with Myers before. You know what he is like.

Your eyes flit to the clock on the wall while your fingers tap tap tap away on the counter. The guards have been gone eight minutes now. Some patients make a fight out of it every time they are taken from their rooms, requiring transport around the sanitarium in wheelchairs fit with heavy leather straps. Not Myers. In all your time employed at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, you have never heard of one such related incident involving Myers. He lets himself be escorted without a fuss.

The incidents only happen after he gets to where he’s going.

It is not another full minute before there is a knock at the door.

“I’m ready,” you say promptly. The handle twists to the side. The door opens.

Four guards bring him in, double the standard patient security detail.

They lead him to the exam table while you thumb through your drawer for his file. In the corner of your eye, you watch him sit. One guard produces a key ring. The guard squats. Shortly, you hear the resounding metal “click” of a lock turning into place.

“Alright,” the guard says, standing. “All’s good over here.” After some consideration, he adds, “Want us to stick around for this one?”

“No, but thank you,” you tell him, pulling out the file. “I trust you did your job.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The guards leave the room, one by one.

“Holler if he gives you any trouble,” the last guard states, closing the door behind him.

The silence in their stead is woeful and everything within it altogether too loud. The clock on the wall ticks. Your stool squeaks sharply when you sit upright. The open drawer screeches as you push it shut.

And you can hear him breathing.

Your heart should not be racing already but it is. You suppose it isn’t too late to call the guards back in, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter much; if Myers is determined to toy with you, he will. Their presence will not deter him.

Clipboard in hand, you swivel on your stool, and face him.

Myers sits atop the paper-sheeted table with an attentive posture. He wears his usual white patient’s garb, canvas pants and a cotton shirt, the latter too tight around the breadth of his shoulders. Short metal cuffs link his wrists closely to his waist. His ankle has been chained to the chipping grey tile; and, despite the elevation of the table, his feet touch the floor with ease.

Alarmingly, he is staring right back at you.

Ice-blue eyes consider you steadily. No hint of emotion occupies his face. The look is somehow effortless, and you are reminded of how a housecat might regard a person of mild interest, intrigued enough by the happenings to observe, but caring not to involve itself further—yet.

Your throat tightens. There have been times during these check-ups where Myers feigns detachment, pretending wholly as if he doesn’t care. Not today. Already, he is casually toying with you.

Your eyes fall to your clipboard as you stand from your stool, eager for an excuse to cast your gaze away from him.

“I’ll be administering a quick check up today,“ you say, depositing your pen in your breast pocket. “Weight, heart rate, blood pressure, nothing invasive.” It is all you can manage if you are to maintain some air of professionalism. Your voice has already begun to thin.

The physician’s scale rests against the wall beside the exam table, wholly too close to Myers for your liking. You feel his eyes following you across the room as you go and stand next to it. Adrenaline surges in your veins at the proximity.

“Stand here, please,” you say, eyes fixed on your clipboard, as though very much involved in your work, and very much not falling prey to your patient’s lingering stare.

For a beat of time that stretches on into discomfort, nothing happens. Michael’s breathing fills the room. You do not look up from your sheet. He doesn’t budge an inch in your periphery. It is as if you had not spoken at all, only imagined it. Perhaps he didn’t hear you. Perhaps he’s decided not to cooperate.

The instructions are almost past your lips a second time when Michael stands. His weight shifts fluidly onto his feet, almost soundlessly, were it not for the clank of his ankle restraint hitting the floor. The scale creaks as he steps on—the length of chain allows it, barely. Your breathing is far from measured now. While you slide the weights along the top of the scale you grip your clipboard tremendously tight.

It is a strange and terrible thing, you think, to exist next to a body that has taken so many lives. Would you lose your job if you were to obey the way your feet seem to want to charge as fast as you are able out of this room? Why, the situation doesn’t seem ethical; your higher-ups, the doctors, the psychologists, all know what dreadful acts Michael is capable of; are you seriously expected to treat this man as though he’s just the next patient on your sheet?

A series of terrible things occur to you all at once; If Michael wanted to, even in his chains, he could hurt you very easily. It is by the mere fact of the building surrounding him that he has not.

Contained in this place, to harm you is to tighten his own restraints. Michael knows this. He knows the keys to the castle must be attained through docility, or at least an act of it, which he is very good at faking. Whether he believes the game is eligible for a second round, now, with so much fresh blood on his hands, he is going to play. In fewer words; only by the grace of brick and cement are you allowed to exist within an arm’s length of this man, and still keep breathing.

On your sheet, you scribble a barely legible 210 lbs in the blank white space next to “patient weight”. In a retreating voice you ask Myers to please sit back down on the table. He decides instead to linger next to you first, broadening his chest with a few more steady breaths; after that, he sits.

The stethoscopes are stored in the stainless steel cabinets above your desk. You set down your clipboard as you dig for one, trying all the while not to think the unthinkable—you have to touch your patient now. You have to touch Michael.

Stethoscope in hand, eyes fixed to a point on the floor for the sake of your own sanity, you drag your stool across the room, its one stuck wheel screeching across the linoleum.

You settle your stool inches away from Myers and put on your best mask of doctorly calm.

“Looking good so far,” you say, not believing that Michael is actually paying attention to your words, only speaking because it seems the comfortable thing to do. “I need to listen to your heart next, so please, don’t move.”

Michael’s towering body doesn’t budge a muscle in response to your new proximity. He continues to breathe in and out, chest expanding beneath his too-tight shirt, and you can see the individual muscles of his torso rising and contracting, ribs filling out, pectorals broadening, their outline obvious beneath his meager layer of clothing.

You install the buds of your stethoscope in both ears and reach out with your dominant hand toward his chest, pressing the circular tool just above his heart.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. The pounding echoes in your skull. You can feel it beating up through his coiled muscle, throbbing so adamantly beneath your touch that you can see his pulse lifting your fingers up and down, up, down, a power which you try to ignore by filling your thoughts with numbers, counting the beats as your task demands.

Touching Michael is nearly unbearable by the fiftieth second. You withhold your heavy swallow as you shove away from him, wheeling back to the safety of the counter where your sheet rests, jotting in his results, which are incredible, but nothing short of expected—Michael has the resting heart rate of a trained athlete.

As you ink in his results in the empty box, it occurs to you that he must be getting some sort of pleasure out of this. Some carnal need of his is gratified by the symptoms of your unease—the miserable tension in your voice, the fact you cannot look him in the eye. Michael is devouring all of it.

You feel suddenly very faint as you reach again above the counter, this time taking a hand light from the cabinets. Two more empty boxes remain unfilled on your sheet; two more tests to administer. Half way done. You suppose that fact should help settle your nerves, but it doesn’t. Instead, a different angle on the matter takes form in your head; a whole half way in, and Myers is still pretending as if he’s only going to sit there and watch.

You leave your clipboard on the counter this time, because it can’t save you. To perform this next part you are going to have to bite the bullet and look Myers in the face.

Distressingly, his expression has not budged a bit. His cold eyes are still upon you.

Keeping your concern off your face seems a losing battle now. You know Michael can detect it in the tightness of your features as you roll your stool across the room, and perhaps you imagined the oh-so-faint dilation of his functioning pupil as you approached, and perhaps you didn’t.

“I just need you to follow this light for me.” You tell Michael, brandishing the hand light in front of you.

His eyes, or you suppose the one good one, survey the thin silver tool in your hand. Nothing on his face changes. He looks back up at you within three beats of your racing heart, apparently ready to comply.

Your thumb meets the little button on the side of the light and it illuminates a harsh circle on his pale cheek. A flick of your wrist aligns it with your target. Michael’s pupil contracts to a pin-point. He obliges your instructions, tracking the light as you move it left, then right, his reflexes behaving beautifully, flawlessly, in fact…

...and you are still contemplating the flawlessness of Michael’s pupillary reflexes when it occurs to you that he is no longer following the light. Instead, he is staring at your face.

You remember seeing tigers hunting on a nature show. You remember that head down, fixed-eyed look, a predator’s unbreakable concentration. That is how Myers is staring at you.

Terror rolls through you, gripping your heart in a cold fist. It makes you smaller and smaller until you feel like turning on your heel and sprinting for the door, away from this ruthless predator, because Myers is so obviously that.

“Follow the light, please.” You barely squeeze the words past your constricting vocal chords. Michael does not follow the light. He looks at you with that same deadly gaze, the darkness spreading to overtake his whole face.

You recoil from him like you’ve been shot.

His cuffed hand shoots out. Chain links rattle as he seizes your elbow. A gasp leaves your throat at the horrible pressure of his fingers digging into bone.

Very quietly, you tell him to let you go.

Michael doesn’t. His hand continues to grip your arm as if cemented there. He meets your eyes with a piercing look that says you are about to die.

Suddenly, the fact of the sanitarium walls surrounding you no longer matter. Your world swings sickeningly sideways. You know only one thing; Michael is going to murder you on the spot.

Tears cascade freely down your face. His grip hurts but the fear hurts worse. You tell him you are going to call in the guards. Michael, unperturbed, holds you, just watching, perhaps even daring you to.

“Please let go.” You are pleading with him now. Pleading with a murderer. Pleading with the monster that has already decided your fate.

The very moment before you raise your voice to scream for the guards, Michael does let go. His hand comes free and you spill to the floor with a yelp, knocking over medical supplies on the counter which clatter loudly as they fall. The doors swing open. The four guards step in.

Michael sits innocuously on the exam table as you heave and tremble on the floor. By all accounts, it would appear as though you’ve fallen due to your own clumsiness.

One of the guards rushes to your side to help you to your feet. You insist in a tight, quivering voice that you are fine; that you only tripped. You spit out that you have everything you need from Myers, and if they would please take him away, and bring in the next patient, that would be excellent.

Michael is still watching you as the guards begin to unlock his ankle cuff. You cannot bear to return his stare. Bending down, you start to pluck a tray of spilled cotton swabs off the floor, trying to occupy your shaking hands, but even long after the guards have removed Myers from the room, your hands refuse to stop their trembling.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #writing #horror #fanfiction #dead by daylight #reader insert #slasher x reader

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