#☆somethin-intro | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyryewhiskey · 3 months ago

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⋆｡°✩ no mini-skirts allowed

synopsis ✩ teasing older!dean has become your favorite pass time here comes trouble intro page for more age gap drabbles

warnings ✩ 18+ descriptions of dean being horny, skimpy outfits, undressing, flaunting/teasing, restraint 1.8k words

Dean’s pushing fifty, he’s seen every kind of mini-skirt a woman could wear—denim, snakeskin, pleated, painted-on tight. And you—you’ve got one of each.

Every damn day, it’s something new. One morning, it’s a little plaid number, all flirty and preppy, barely covering a damn thing as you lounge on the couch. The next, it’s tight denim, hugging every curve as you bend over the Impala’s hood, pretending to be interested in whatever he’s fixing. Then there’s the snakeskin one—hell, that one nearly did him in. Slinking around the bunker like some kind of walking temptation, flashing him that wicked little smirk every time you caught him looking.

But today—it’s the black one.

The shortest, clingiest, most offensive thing you’ve ever worn. And it’s been a problem all day.

Maybe it’s because you’re practically flaunting it in his face. Maybe you damn well know what you’re doing. Maybe it’s because Dean knows if he was his younger self, he’d have spent the whole day with his hips locked between your thighs—but you’re a case. A spritely little thing he swore to protect, not defile. Either way, Dean’s been fighting a losing battle, his patience wearing thinner with every step you take.

And you’re enjoying every second of it.

This morning, when he stepped out of the gas station, he damn near dropped the bag in his hand at the sight of you bent over the Impala’s vinyl seat, half inside the car, digging around the floorboards. The fabric was stretched to its absolute limit, clinging to every dip and curve, and that little triangle of pink lace peeking out from between your thighs was down right offensive to his resolve.

Dean stopped dead, heat crawling up the back of his neck, his grip tightening on the plastic bag until the rustling of it was the only sound he could process. That sliver of lingerie was a goddamn bullseye, branding itself into his brain. His stomach clenched, jeans tightening around his cock far too much for a man standing in a parking lot at eight in the morning.

He ripped his gaze away, clearing his throat like that might dislodge the image from his brain. “You lose somethin’?”

You wiggled. Hips twitching as you hummed back, “mhm. My phone.”

Dean turned on his heel so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, muttering something about being careful as he yanked open the driver’s side door and tossed the bag on the dash. No way in hell was he standing behind you. Instead, he slid into the seat, reaching under the passenger side until his fingers curled around the cool, smooth shape of your phone.

“Here,” he grumbled, practically shoving it into your hand without looking at you.

You only smiled, sweet and cunning—like you knew just how much you’d wrecked his entire damn morning.

Later, while Dean was working on Baby in the garage, he was trying—really trying—to focus on the engine in front of him, but that damn skirt was making it impossible.

You’d perched yourself on a barstool a few feet away, flipping lazily through some magazine like you had no care about what you were doing to him. Legs crossed just enough to hike the fabric higher, teasing the soft skin of your thighs.

He forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, tightening a bolt with more force than necessary. But his resolve slipped when your legs parted—slowly—before crossing again, like you were stretching just for the hell of it.

Dean caught the flicker of a smirk on your lips.

Son of a bitch.

He gritted his teeth, wrench working double time to keep his hands occupied. The garage was warm, but it wasn’t the heat making sweat gather at his collar. He knew better than to look again—knew damn well that every glance was just giving you ammunition.

But then you hopped down from the stool, the movement making the hem of that tiny excuse for a skirt ride up just enough to give him a peek at the curves of your ass. The little top you have on doesn’t help, the hem doesn’t even cover past your belly button. The plush skin of your stomach pokes out between the two pieces, another taunt. Another image burned into his brain that’ll creep back into his mind when he’s alone in his bedroom at night.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw. You didn’t adjust the fabric, didn’t even pretend to be modest as you strutted past him like you hadn’t just shortened his lifespan by a couple years.

“That skirt’s a safety hazard,” he grumbled, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You didn’t even glance his way, just laughed, light and teasing, as you bent over to grab a drink from the cooler. The motion made the back of your skirt ride up again, and Dean had to snap his gaze to the ceiling before his self-control completely crumbled.

“Right,” you chided, cracking open a bottle of water. “You worried about my safety, big guy?”

Dean exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like that might shake the tension out. “Yeah,” he muttered, wrench clanking against the metal. “Somethin’ like that.”

But you heard the strain in his voice. And from the way you licked a stray drop of water off your lip, eyes meeting his like a damn challenge—you knew you had him closer to where you wanted him.

The breaking point comes when you crouch in front of a bookshelf in the bunker’s library, back to him, that godforsaken skirt dipping low. The waistband sliding down your back enough for the strings of your panties to come fully into view. Slung around your hips, material so thin Dean figures it’d take one pull to tear the lacey pink from your skin.

Dean’s hands clench at his sides. His jaw locks. His restraint is hanging by a damn thread, and he’s too tired to keep up his composure.

“All right, that’s it,” he announces, voice gruff, decisive. “No more skirts.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, blinking wide, innocent eyes. “No more skirts?”

His stare is locked onto you like a man staring down a loaded gun, like he’s already taken the hit but is too damn stubborn to go down. “You heard me.”

Slowly, deliberately, you rise to your feet, turning to face him, that little smirk playing at the corners of your lips. “I don’t know what you mean, Dean,” you say sweetly, approaching him with your hands behind your back. “It’s just a skirt.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your head tilts, mischief gleaming in your eyes, and then—without breaking eye contact—you take another slow, deliberate step into his space. Close enough that the air between you turns thick. Close enough that he can smell the vanilla in your shampoo, feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“Take it off me, then.”

The words go straight to his growing bulge, all the heat in his body coursing to his core. He prays you don’t glance down, because he knows that triumphant little smirk will come back and he can’t do anything about it.

Dean stills. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to grab. His gaze flickers over your face, lingering on your lips for a beat too long, before dropping—just for a second—to the hem of that damn skirt. At the lace still peeking over the waistband because you, apparently, are refusing to adjust it today.

For half a second, you think he might actually do it.

His hand lifts—just an inch, just enough for his fingers to graze across your hip and naval, the heat of his fingertips burning against the soft exposed skin of your stomach. A touch so fleeting, so barely-there, but enough to make your breath hitch.

Dean hears it. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring.

And then—just as quickly—his fingers curl into a fist, like he’s physically snatching his own control back.

With a rough exhale, Dean steps back, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he's some damn teenager again, knocked flat by the first girl who ever looked at him like she wanted more. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying fast. “Go to your room,” he mutters, voice like gravel.

You laugh, soft and teasing, the sound sliding down his spine like a warm hand. “Go to my room?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, fingers flexing at his sides. “Before I do something stupid,” he grits out. “This—” he motions between you, frustration rolling off him in waves, “can’t happen.”

His voice is strained, rough-edged, but his eyes—the heat in them, the way they drink you in like you’re something dangerous tells you that there's hardly any grit behind those words.

He’s not giving in yet, fine, but can't happen and won't happen are two different things. And besides, you’re sure as hell not done toying with him for the day. You tilt your head, all wide eyes and faux innocence, “Fine. I’ll take it off.”

Dean doesn’t even have time to process the words before your hands are slipping under the waistband, pushing the little black scrap of fabric down your thighs. The air in the room shifts, charged, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Dean’s throat works as he swallows hard, pulse hammering in his ears as the skirt pools at your feet. His gaze—traitorous, desperate—flickers downward before he can stop it.

Pink lace. Thin. Damn near sinful.

Heat licks up his spine, tightens his stomach, makes his skin prickle like he’s seventeen again, fumbling through the backseat of a car with a girl he has no business touching. Only this is worse. Because he’s not some dumb kid—he knows better. And yet, he still can’t look away.

Then you turn your back to him and bend at the waist. Slow. Deliberate.

Dean grips the back of the chair beside him like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity, fingers digging into the worn wood. His jaw flexes so tight it aches. His eyes watch shamelessly as you give him full view of everything he's craving. Skin he can't let himself touch, hips he wants to grip onto while he fucks some of that attitude out of you.

And you—like you don’t even feel the heat radiating off him, like you didn’t just wreck him beyond repair—saunter toward the door in nothing but that little top and pink panties.

At the threshold, you pause. With a wicked little smile, you toss the discarded skirt over your shoulder.

It smacks Dean square in the chest.

He catches it on instinct, fingers fisting in the fabric, knuckles going white. The soft material, still warm from your body, feels like a brand against his skin, like evidence of the war he’s losing.

“You are gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, voice low, wrecked.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips. “What a way to go, huh?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He just stands there, burning, watching you disappear down the hall, still gripping that damn skirt like it might be the only thing keeping him from chasing after you.

You never got that black mini-skirt back.

tags ✩ @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @snowluvvie

#dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader

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nizhspo · 21 days ago

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OMGGG i love ur writing- what are ur thoughts on collegeau!atsumu or suna getting matching tattoos and/grillz with their girl

heyyy stinka butt sry abt the wait i did NOT forget abt u lets start off w/ college!atsumu

“did you remember to put the sock on the door, tsumu?”

he pauses mid-stretch, one arm behind his head, the other still tangled in the thin sheet slung across his hips. he makes a little o with his mouth.

“…shit.”

you drag a hand down your face. “you forgot.”

“wait, wait—no, it’s fine!” he props himself up on one elbow, gestures vaguely toward the door. “suna’s got a lecture now. we’ve got, like, an hour.”

you groan and collapse back into the mattress, letting your cheek press to his shoulder, fingers absently toying with the braided bracelet on his wrist. “we live on borrowed time, miya.”

he grins. a little sheepish. a little proud.

your legs are tangled up in his. your hair’s still a mess. you’re both flushed and half-naked and barely under the blanket on his too-small twin bed that creaks every time someone thinks about shifting. the window’s cracked, and the air smells like laundry detergent and his shitty cologne and the faint leftover edge of sex.

you’re still catching your breath when he says, all casual and warm—

“you wanna get grills?”

you blink. tilt your chin to look at him. “grills?”

“yeah.” his eyes flick to your mouth for a second too long. “like, matching ones. somethin’ simple. gold.”

you raise a brow. smirk. “you getting soft on me, ‘tsumu? try’na go from sneaky links to promise rings?”

he squints. “gross. no. i just—” he shrugs. scratches the back of his neck. “i think it’d look cool.”

you roll over and settle on his chest, chin propped on your folded arms. you stare at him for a moment, quiet.

“sure,” you say.

he blinks. “…seriously?”

“yeah, atsumu.” your voice softens. “i don’t care. it’s kinda cute.”

his heart does this stupid thing in his chest. you don’t hear it, but you feel the way his hand flexes at your back. the way he smiles just a little too wide.

and then the door creaks open.

“oh my god,” suna says flatly. “you guys are fucking disgusting.”

you scream, snatching the blanket over your chest as atsumu bursts out laughing.

“you said he had a lecture!”

“i thought he did!”

suna groans, slams the door shut again, and you’re already pelting atsumu with a pillow, cursing him six ways to sunday while he wheezes, barely dodging your attacks.

two days later, you’re sitting side by side in intro to visual culture, professor droning on about postmodernism while atsumu’s phone is tilted toward you with a pinterest screenshot of a grill design.

you give it a thumbs down.

he swipes. shows another. thin gold across the bottom row, no frills. you do a hesitant thumbs up.

he grins.

you pass his phone back. he nudges your knee under the desk. doesn’t stop looking at you for at least a minute.

you’re at a house party that weekend. frat house basement. music jumping, floor sticky, girls lined up on the wall and someone deepthroating a bottle of fireball for god knows what reason. you’re curled up on the couch, legs draped across atsumu’s lap, cup balanced on your chest, and his hand tracing slow circles on your shin.

he leans over, lips brushing your ear. “so how ‘bout those grills?”

you glance at your phone. “it’s ten. nobody’s open.”

he smirks. “i know a guy.”

you narrow your eyes. “you always know a guy.”

he shrugs. “i’m connected.”

you finish your drink. “let’s go, then.”

the shop’s in a side alley off-campus, lit in blue neon and framed with graffiti. the windows are fogged from the inside. it smells like metal and eucalyptus and the kind of incense you’d smell in a trap house.

a man not much older than you two answers the door.

bleached undercut’s grown out on the sides, one eyebrow slit clean through. nose ring, snakebites, and a row of silver hoops climbing one ear. tattoos licking up his throat. hoodie half unzipped. he looks you up and down as you step inside, slow. hungry. pierced tongue pressed to his canine like he’s trying not to grin.

atsumu catches it immediately. slides his hand over the small of your back. leans in just a little closer.

your eyes flick past the man, instead scanning the wall behind the counter, certifications in sleek frames, some half-crooked: custom dental jewelry specialist, grills and oral mold technician, certified tooth gem artist. beneath one is a crooked little sticker that just says yes, it’s safe. no, i’m not a dentist. above that one is a name: yuuji terushima.

“we want matching grills,” he says.

terushima raises a brow. “siblings?”

“dating,” atsumu says, almost too fast.

you raise an eyebrow at him and terushima chuckles. “right on.”

he gets started. sits you both down, walks you through options. you settle on simple bottom-row gold. just enough to shine. just enough to say we did this together.

you go first. the mold’s cold, thick, and a little gross. he presses the tray into your mouth, tells you to bite down. it’s awkward. you gag once. atsumu laughs and you flip him off.

when it’s his turn, you hold his hand under the table.

you don’t talk about it. he just holds back, firm and warm, thumb stroking yours.

terushima prints the molds. tells you they’ll be ready by tomorrow night.

“fast service,” you murmur as you’re leaving.

“for pretty people only,” terushima calls after.

atsumu glares. you laugh.

you pick them up the next night.

terushima texts atsumu at 7:43 p.m. sharp: ready 4 pickup. bring ur lil girlfriend too.

you roll your eyes when you see it. atsumu looks personally offended.

“lil girlfriend?” he mutters, tugging on his hoodie. “i should tell him you bite.”

“i do bite,” you say, snatching your phone from his hands. “and i’m not little.”

“he’s gonna find out if he keeps eye-fuckin’ you like that,” atsumu grumbles, grabbing his keys.

you make it there in fifteen, all uneven sidewalk cracks and atsumu walking way too close, brushing your knuckles every few steps like he’s trying to be slick. the shop’s quiet tonight, lit soft and low, and terushima’s already at the front counter when you walk in, twirling a velvet pouch around one tattooed finger.

he grins. wide. “my favorite duo,” he says.

“we’ll be your only duo if you keep calling me that,” atsumu says, arms crossed.

“mhm,” terushima hums, tossing the pouch over. “try ’em on.”

you go first. pull the grills from the pouch, thin, gold, shiny, and slot them over your bottom row like they were made for you. because they were. cold at first, a little tight, but once they snap into place?

you grin.

and atsumu’s staring. like staring-staring. like not even trying to hide it.

you turn to him. bare your teeth. “well?”

he whistles, low. “you think suna would mind sleeping in aran’s room tonight?”

you laugh. hard. and then nod at him. “your turn, goldilocks.”

he fits his in. smooth. clicks them into place like he’s done it a hundred times, even though this is his first set. they shine when he smirks. they gleam when he talks.

you bite your lip.

“you look okay.. i guess.” you say simply, biting down the smile at the corner of your lips.

“yeah right, just okay?” he flashes the mirror a look, tilts his head, raises an unimpressed brow at you. “you better hold me tight y/n, real tight.”

you snap a mirror pic, both of you leaned in, grills glinting, your head resting against his shoulder, his finger pointing at your teeth with the dumbest open-mouthed grin.

terushima winks as you walk out. “come back for matching piercings next. or maybe she can get nipple and you could just watch?”

you raise a brow.

atsumu pulls you closer. “absolutely not.”

you’re still laughing when you walk out, your smile so wide it hurts.

yayyy up next we’ve got college!suna w/ the tattoo

the apartment smells like popcorn and weed gummies and that specific laundry detergent he swears makes his clothes “smell expensive.” the windows are cracked. the tv’s yelling. jersey shore reruns are bouncing color off the walls. someone on screen has pink eye. you’re crying laughing.

suna’s warm under you. big. boneless. wrapped around you like gravity. you’re tucked into his side on the couch, wearing his oversized ASU hoodie, one sleeve pushed up to your elbow, and nothing but underwear beneath. your legs are thrown across his lap. his palm rests heavy on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles just above your knee like muscle memory. like he has to touch you to stay grounded.

he’s wearing grey sweats, faded from too many washes, and a black tee that clings a little to his chest. he smells like cocoa butter and fabric softener and the ghost of a pre-roll that didn’t make it inside.

you nuzzle your face into the side of his neck.

“i love you, sunarin,” you whisper.

he hums, low and amused. “i love you too, y/n.”

you pull back a little, meet his half-lidded eyes. “you know you’re my baby, right?”

he snorts softly, but his ears are already turning red at the tips.

“what, the edible got you horny or somethin’?”

you roll your eyes and lean forward to kiss his forehead. “no,” you murmur. “the edible has me in love.”

he closes his eyes as your lips press gently across his face—his temple, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. he scrunches his nose and pretends to complain, but his hand slides up your back under the hoodie, resting flat between your shoulder blades.

and then you kiss him for real. slow. lingering. like a secret you’re sharing. mouths warm, barely parted, just breathing each other in.

your foreheads touch.

you whisper, “can we get matching tattoos?”

he pulls back a little. one brow lifts. “so you were buttering me up.”

“nah,” you say, pressing another kiss to his lips. “just loving my boyfriend.”

he groans, but it’s fond, and he’s already pulling you closer, shifting until you’re straddling his lap, thighs cradling his hips, arms looped around his neck like home.

you cradle his face in your hands. his eyes are red from the high. his lips pink, still a little chapped. his lashes are long and messy, the kind that tangle at the corners. he’s got a tiny scar under his left eye, a faint freckle on his nose, and the softest, most content expression you’ve ever seen.

you love him stupid.

his hands squeeze your hips. “pick a day,” he murmurs. “and we’ll do it.”

a week later, you’re in the bleachers of the student rec center, screaming your lungs out.

suna’s dominating the floor—middle blocker instincts perfect, footwork sharp, hands fast. he moves like smoke and precision and you, in your custom shirt with his number printed on the back in gold puff vinyl, cheer so loud someone asks you to chill.

you do not chill.

he wins the game with a kill that leaves the crowd losing their minds. sweaty, flushed, jersey sticking to his chest, he jogs off the court after shaking hands with the opposing team and spots you instantly.

you run to him like the crazy girlfriend you are.

“you were so good, rin,” you gasp, ignoring the sweat, the heat, the literal stench coming from his jersey. “you were fucking amazing.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, and mumbles, “gimme fries.”

after the game, you’re in the car. the sun’s already dipped behind the skyline, and the air’s thick with desert heat and sweat and whatever scent is radiating off the volleyball boy slouched in your passenger seat.

suna’s got his hoodie pulled halfway over his face, hair still damp from the post-game rinse, curls sticking to his forehead. he’s reclined with the seat tilted back, long legs stretched so far his sneakers are pressed against your glove compartment. his arm’s limp across his stomach, fingers twitching every now and then like he’s still tracking the ball.

you wrinkle your nose and crack the window. the ac’s blasting. it’s not enough.

“you’re stinking up the car,” you mutter, one hand on the wheel, the other fanning your face.

from under the hoodie, he mumbles, “you love it.”

you glance at him. “i tolerate it.”

he grins, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitching. doesn’t open his eyes.

you pull into the mcdonald’s drive-thru, fingers tapping the wheel. the speaker crackles.

“hi, can i get a #10—” you pause. blink. your head snaps to the side, eyes wide. “wait. oh my god. rin—#10!”

he shifts slightly, the hoodie slipping back a little to reveal flushed cheeks and sleep-heavy eyes.

he groans. “huh?”

you slap his thigh. “we should get the number ten tattooed.”

he blinks slow, still not fully here. “…why.”

you hold your hand up, tapping your fingers against the air with each point. “our anniversary’s 10.10. your jersey number’s ten. and i have ten reasons i love you.”

he lets his head roll against the seat, mouth parted in a yawn. “name ‘em.”

you scoff, grab the bag from the window, and shove it into his lap. “i’ll tell you when you wake up.”

he cracks one eye open, just long enough to blindly reach in for fries, then promptly closes it again.

he falls asleep chewing. hand still buried in the bag. lips soft. hoodie half off. smelling like victory and salt and your favorite person on earth.

you drive the rest of the way home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, just to remind yourself he’s real.

a week later, you roll over in bed, legs tangled, one of his arms heavy and warm across your stomach. your thigh’s draped over his, his hand still resting low on your hip, fingers twitching every so often in sleep. the fan hums soft in the corner, sun leaking through the blinds in thin slices, dust catching in the light.

you stretch in his grip, toes curling, back arching into the curve of his chest where he’s spooned behind you. his skin is hot—he always runs warm, and his breath grazes your shoulder in steady little exhales.

you squint at the clock across the room.

“today’s the day.”

he groans into your neck, lips brushing against the soft curve there as he shifts. his voice is all gravel and sleep, thick and low. “today’s what day.”

“tattoo day,” you say, reaching back to card your fingers through his messy hair. “i scheduled the appointment.”

he grunts again and buries his face deeper into your neck, nose pressed just below your jaw. his arm tightens around your waist like a reflex, pulling you impossibly closer until your back is flush against his chest and your ass is resting right against the dip of his hips.

“what time,” he mumbles.

you smile. close your eyes again. “two hours.”

he breathes out a long sigh, leg sliding more firmly between yours, anchoring you both to the mattress.

“okay,” he whispers, voice going even softer now. “wake me in 1.5.” then he curls into you again, big and warm and heavy, his whole body draped over yours like he’s trying to wear you.

you don’t move. you just let him melt into you. let his heartbeat thump slow against your back. let your fingers tangle in his and stay there.

1.5 hours later, the shop is all cool tones and clean lines, tucked between a taco spot and a record store. your artist is this chill girl with sharp eyeliner and butterfly tattoos on her knuckles. she smiles when you both walk in and asks, “matching?”

suna nods, slipping his hand into yours. “yeah.”

the design is simple: a small, clean 10, fine-line font, tucked somewhere just for you two.

you get yours on the inside of your upper arm, near your bicep. hidden when your arms are at your side, but easy to show. it stings a little, but it’s fast.

suna watches the whole time, one hand resting on your thigh.

he gets his on the side of his ribcage, just under his arm. you sit beside him as he lays back, brows furrowed slightly while the needle buzzes to life.

you whisper, “you okay?”

he nods. “yeah.”

you kiss his shoulder. “you’re hot when you suffer for me.”

he groans. “you’re sick.”

you’re still giggling when it’s done.

he pays, even though you said you would. “you asked for it. i bought it,” he says with a shrug.

you snap a photo of your arms pressed together outside the shop—matching black 10s, side by side.

caption: ten toes down.

you kiss his cheek. he kisses your tattoo.

and the rest of the day feels like forever wrapped up in skin.

tysm for the request ily!!! | m.list

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vibewithma · 22 days ago

Text

Ruth

Modern Sinners AU! Preacher Boy / Sammie x Black Church Girl!Reader

A/N: Guys this is just a filler chapter so you all can know all characters the next chapters finna be🫦. My German ass needed 4 days for this😕💔 I’m working to be faster.

“Y/N, get yo’ ass in here!” Grandma hollered from the living room, already halfway standing, one hand gripped tight around Pops, the other waving like she could summon you through walls.

Dawn, still in her bonnet and fuzzy slippers, shuffled in like a sleepwalking soldier, posted up on the other side of Grandma and took her hand like it was routine.

“Where that girl at? I got a long shift ahead of me,” your Mama called out while wrestling the end of her scrub top, badge already clipped, shoes by the door.

“Don’t be hard on her, now. It’s her first time, baby,” your Daddy mumbled, voice low and easy like Sunday morning, sliding his fingers into hers as they stood side by side.

“I’m here,” you muttered, voice still thick with sleep and thoughts of Sammie lingering in the corners of your mind like smoke. Even though you try to push away any imagination that concludes him.

You stepped into the circle, palms up, heart open. The whole house held its breath as you all bowed heads and began to pray over the week, over your steps, over this brand new chapter that was just starting to bloom.

Amen passed through lips like breath and just like that, the morning was moving again your Mama grabbing her keys, Grandma fussin’ over Dawn’s hair and Pops humming an old hymn under his breath.

“C’mon, girl,” your daddy said, nodding his head toward the front door.

You followed him out, the sun shining above the trees, that early light catching the dust in the air like glitter. The ride was quiet, not awkward quiet just peaceful. His old-school Hip Hop playing low on the radio, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze sneak in.

“Got somethin’ for you,” he said as y’all pulled into the gravel lot behind his job. His truck kicked up little clouds of dirt that shimmered gold in the morning.

You raised an eyebrow, still halfway in a dream. “For me?”

He just smiled and nodded toward the back corner where an old but clean car sat shining like it was fresh out the womb. Paint new, tires black like they’d been dipped in ink, and a little bow taped crooked on the hood.

“Went ahead and fixed her up for you. Thought you might wanna drive yourself to the campus instead of waitin’ on me or your mama.”

You blinked. “Daddy…”

“Don’t cry now, you gon’ mess up your face,” he teased, but his eyes were warm, proud. “She ain’t new, but she solid. Just like you.”

You threw your arms around him, holding him tight like you were seven again, not nineteen and grown. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He patted your back with that daddypat that said I got you, always.

Meanwhile, back home, Dawn was curled up on the couch in Doris’s old bedspread, watching old reruns with Pops. She was still half asleep, letting Grandma braid her hair slowly into cornrows while the house exhaled the rest of the morning quiet.

And just like that, the week began.

The car still smelled like the lemon tree air freshener Lenny stuck in the vent, windows rolled down as you cruised down the two lane road. College campus coming into view like something out a brochure folks laughing, some running late with backpacks halfway falling off, others posted up with iced coffees and opinions.

You found parking easy, took a deep breath and grabbed your tote bag, head held high even though your stomach was doing flips. First day. First class. First real step toward the future you’d been praying on since tenth grade. Social Work 1100: Intro to Human Services. Room B208.

The hallway smelled like pencil shavings and somebody’s too strong cologne, but you found your seat near the window and tucked yourself into the corner.

That’s when he walked in dark skin, dreads shoulder length and a low fade with a clean line up. He wore a big tee, cargo pants, Airforces and carried a beat up notebook like it was sacred.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, pointing to the desk beside you.

You shook your head. “Go ahead.”

He plopped down, sighed like he’d been holding his breath all morning and then turned to you with a quick, lopsided smile. “I’m Chris, by the way. Social work major God help me.”

You laughed, some of the tightness in your chest letting go. “Y/N. Same major. Same prayer.”

“Okay, I like you already,” he said, sliding his phone face down on the desk. “You look like you you don’t play. You say ‘no’ to people, don’t you?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “I’m working on it.”

“Aren’t we all,” he grinned. “I got a cousin who think I’m about to fix his baby mama drama just ’cause I took one psych class. I said, sir, I’m not licensed yet call your mama.”

You snorted, trying not to be too loud, but it was impossible around him. Chris had that magnetic energy.

By the time Professor Jenkins walked in, y’all had already traded numbers, cracked jokes about the textbook price and promised to be each other’s emergency class partner.

Monday rolled in smooth like butter on warm toast. You got through your classes, met Chris and even remembered to email that one professor back before midnight. Tuesday was light work just two classes and enough time in between to actually eat lunch and catch up on readings. You were getting the hang of this college rhythm.

By the time Wednesday came around, your head had switched gears. Afternoon sunlight poured into your room, golden and soft, and your calendar had one thing circled: youth choir practice.

You were fixing your hair in your bedroom mirror when Dawn poked her head in. She was already dressed like she had somewhere to be that wasn’t choir tight jeans, lip gloss poppin’ and a sly little smirk on her face.

“Hey,” she started, all casual, “can I use the car after you drove to practice?”

You turned, confused. “What you mean? I thought you was staying for choir?”

Dawn shrugged like it was nothing. “Yeah… no. But Daddy still got my car jacked up and I just need it for like… an hour. Promise I’ll be back before it’s over.”

You eyed her, suspicious but tired of arguing. “You better be. And don’t scratch it Daddy just gave me this thing.”

“I ain’t stupid,” she said, rolling her eyes and grabbing her bag. “Thank youuu, sissss.”

The two of you slid into the car, the evening breeze dancing through the windows. You pulled up to the church, parked on the side lot and switched seats so she could slide behind the wheel. As you hopped out and shut the door, you didn’t even see the quick check she did in the rearview or the text she sent before pulling off to see whoever she wasn’t telling the Lord about.

You took a deep breath, walked up the church steps and opened the door expecting voices, laughter, maybe a choir member or two already warming up.

Instead, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

You stepped in and the soft hum of piano drifted from the sanctuary. There he was.

Samuel Moore.

Sammie sat at the baby grand, head tilted down and fingers gliding across the keys like the music was coming straight from his bloodstream. He hadn’t seen you yet or maybe he had and was just pretending not to.

You stood there for a second, heart thumping.

He finally looked up, slow and deliberate, mouth curving into that lazy, knowing smirk. “Look who showed up early.”

You swallowed, stepping closer. “I thought practice started at five.”

He chuckled, not missing a beat. “It does. You just couldn’t wait to see me, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but your face burned anyway. “I came to sing, not flirt.”

“Mmhm,” he said, still playing. “You always wear that lip gloss to sing?”

You folded your arms, but your smile was giving you away. “You always come to practice alone just to be a menace?”

He let a final chord linger in the air, then stood, walking around the piano with a kind of slow, deliberate swagger that made your knees wobble a little.

“I came to get ready,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “But now you here… and suddenly I feel real inspired.”

You looked away, biting your lip just a little too hard.

“Don’t do that,” he said low, voice brushing against your neck like a prayer and a warning. “Do you know what that does to me?“

You laughed, stepping back before the air got too heavy.

“Boy,” you said, “go warm up your vocals or something.”

“I’d rather warm up with you,” he said, voice low and syrupy, like he was trying to melt into you right there between the piano chords and stained glass silence.

You gave him a look that should’ve been stern enough, warning, laced with a little holy fire but all he did was grin wider and take one slow step closer.

“Samuel…” you muttered, planting both hands against his chest, palms flat like a benediction, trying to put something, anything, between the two of you.

But space? Space wasn’t something Sammie knew and especially not when it came to you.

Before you could take another breath, he had you gently backed up against the pew. Not rough, not wild just firm enough to remind you that he was there. That he saw you. That he felt all of this, same as you.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, soft but full of warning, like he hated how your voice wrapped around his full name. Like it did something to him.

He took both of your hands in his, warm and calloused from Keyboard keys and old hymn books and he held them right in front of your chest. His thumbs brushed the back of your knuckles slow.

“You know I like it better when you say Sammie.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “You’re not supposed to be this close.”

He smiled again, leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek. “Ain’t no rule sayin’ I can’t stand near a beautiful girl.”

“Ain’t no rule sayin’ I can’t swing my purse at you, either.”

That made him laugh quiet and deep, the kind that came from his belly and he leaned back just a little, still holding your hands.

“Fine Y/N,” he said, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll behave.”

“For now.”

And he let go, just like that.

But even as he turned away to sit back down at the piano, you still felt the echo of his hands on yours and you still heard the way he said your name like it was part prayer, part problem.

And you weren’t sure which one scared you more.

You were still catching your breath when the old wooden church doors creaked open, the clatter of shoes on tile snapping through the sanctuary like a clapback.

“Hey y’all,” Brittnay called, voice pitched and firm like she’d been born with a mic in hand and a clipboard in the other. Her natural hair was pulled up into a slick bun, edges laid like holy ground. Her eyes flicked over you quick, clipped and cool before landing on Sammie like they always did.

Malik, Terrence, Josh, Paul, Essence, Ruth and a couple other choir regulars spilled in behind her. Laughter and the soft glow of phone screens trailed them like perfume. A few nodded at you. Josh and Terrence? Yeah, they did the most.

“Hey now,” Terrence said, eyes roaming like he was reading scripture on your skin. “Didn’t know the choir was auditionin’ angels.”

You blinked once, slow. “You say that to every girl?”

Terrence let out a sharp laugh, quick and mean. Brittnay gave you the kind of side eye that could curdle communion wine. Sammie, of course, was watching from the piano, one brow lifted like he’d just found his favorite hymn.

Brittnay clapped her hands once. “Alright now, get in place.”

Voices shuffled, shoes scraped and you took your spot near the alto section. Brittnay handed you harmonies like a challenge, but you caught on easy your voice already seasoned by pews and potlucks and a mama who made you sing before you could speak.

Sammie’s hands graced the keys and Amazing Grace rose slow and sweet. His playing was deliberate, like he was coaxing the Spirit out of the strings. You let your voice fall in soft, steady. By the time y’all reached “was blind, but now I see,” even Brittnay had stopped frowning.

Redeemed followed louder, fuller. Ruth belted like she had something to prove. Malik clapped off-beat. Sammie added these bluesy runs between verses, just subtle enough that you noticed. When your voice met his melody, he smiled like he knew you would.

After the last stretch of “His child and forever I am,” Brittnay tapped her phone screen and the music stopped cold.

“I’ll drop the rehearsal vid in the group chat,” she said, already typing. “Y’all know the drill.”

Buzzes filled the room as messages came through. Choir folk grabbed bags and Bibles, hugging, joking, easing toward the door.

Terrence lingered, leaned in close. “You need a ride home or you straight?”

Before you could get your answer out, Sammie slid into the space like he’d been summoned.

“She good,” he said, dangling his keys like temptation. “I offered already.”

Terrence held up both hands. “Say less, preacher boy.”

Brittnay turned to you, smile taut. “Welcome to the choir.”

You gave her a tight nod. “Thanks.” But her voice held no warmth. Felt more like a warning than a welcome.

Some of the group still standing and talking while others went out, voices fading into the humid night air. You turned to Sammie.

“I actually got a ride,” you said, half a lie. “Dawn should be here any minute.”

You stepped out the doors, swinging your hips like you weren’t irritated as hell inside.

But the parking lot was empty. One car left.

Your phone was already in your hand, thumb moving fast.

You tapped the mic and held it close.

“Dawn Elise Whitaker. Where are you? More importantly where is my car? If I don’t hear from you in the next five minutes, I will summon Granny and you know she still got that wooden spoon from 2004. Call me back.”

“You always holler into your phone like that?”

You didn’t even need to turn. That voice? That lil smirk woven into every word? That was Sammie.

You spun around. “Dawn took my car to go God knows where, probably somewhere no Bible touches and now she’s ghostin’ me like a Pharisee in a leggings.”

Sammie laughed, deep and full, like it came from somewhere way down in his ribs.

“Well then,” he said, holding out the passenger door, “Let me be your chariot tonight, church girl.”

You looked up at the sky like maybe God would write no in the stars. But it stayed quiet and dark. And Sammie was already grinning like he knew you’d fold.

You sighed. “Alright.”

He opened the door, still with that look like he was always one second from saying something slick.

“You ready?”

You slid into the seat. “I guess.”

Sammie climbed in behind the wheel. “Let’s get you home before you start second guessin’ this blessing.”

He winked, turned the key, and the engine came alive deep and low, just like your nerves.

And with that, the two of you slipped into the Clarksdale night, your phone still silent in your lap, your heart beating a little too loud for a simple church girl.

The ride started quiet, windows cracked just enough to let in the cicada song and the last breath of sunset. Sammie tapped the wheel with two fingers, watching the road like it had answers he’d been praying on.

You sat with your arms folded, pretending to scroll on your phone but really just waiting for a text that still hadn’t come.

He glanced over, smirk playing soft at his lips.

“You always walk like that after choir practice?”

You looked up, brows furrowed. “Walk like what?”

He leaned back, hand resting at twelve on the wheel, voice a little lower than before. “Like you was floatin’. Swingin’ your hips like you ain’t know half them boys was ’bout to break they neck watchin’.”

Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “I saw Terrence. Lookin’ at you like you was communion and he ain’t ate all week. And that whole ‘you need a ride’ line? Nah. He wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout cars.”

You side-eyed him. “You jealous?”

He didn’t answer right away, just let the engine hum and the night fold around the car like velvet. Then—

“Would it be wrong if I said yeah?”

That shut you up.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. The soft curve of his jaw, the gold chain catching a glint of streetlight, the way his hands gripped the wheel like it was a steering wheel and a prayer all at once.

He caught your stare and smiled. “You be lookin’ at me like that, church girl, I might crash this car on purpose.”

You snorted and turned away, heat rising in your cheeks. “You so full of yourself.”

“I’m full of a lotta things,” he said, voice dipping playful. “But mainly just thinkin’ ’bout you.”

Another silence passed, this one more weighted, like something holy and unspoken was sitting between you both.

He cleared his throat. “What’s your favorite Bible story?”

You blinked. “Wait?! what?”

He shrugged. “I’m serious. You got a favorite? Don’t act like you ain’t grown up around the Word.”

You stared at him, thrown. “I mean… yeah. Ruth, probably.”

That made his smile falter just a little. He looked at you different then softer, like your answer unlocked a door he wasn’t ready to open yet.

“Ruth,” he repeated. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked, gaze back on the road. “You loyal. You strong. Got that kind of beauty that don’t ask for attention but still gets it anyway.”

You didn’t even have time to respond before his phone lit up on the dash, screen flashing Brittnay and connecting automatically to the car’s Bluetooth.

Sammie groaned. “Damn.”

He hit the answer button and gave you a quick “Shhh,” finger pressed to his lips.

“Hey Brittnay.”

“Hey Sammie,” her voice came through the speakers sharp and sweet like sugar with lemon juice. “I meant to ask before you left can you get that girl’s number? The new one. Y/N?”

Your eyes widened. Sammie glanced at you, trying not to laugh.

“I wanna add her to the choir group chat,” Brittnay continued, tone going flatter now. “Since apparently she’s in now.”

You leaned closer to the speaker, lips twisted. Since apparently?

Sammie coughed into his fist. “Yeah, I’ll get it to you.”

“Mhm,” Brittnay said. “Well. Night.”

The line cut off, the silence loud.

You raised a brow. “She said that like she didn’t ask me to come and like I snuck in through the back door.”

Sammie chuckled. “That’s just Brittnay. She don’t like when new folks catch the spotlight without askin’ her first.”

“Well tell her I didn’t ask for it.”

“I won’t tell her anything,” he said, while the camera to a stop because of the red light. “You tell her next Sunday with that voice of yours.”

He met your gaze and didn’t look away.

“You really jealous?” you asked again, quieter this time.

His lips twitched. “I’m not used to sharin’ what I want.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat steady and loud in your ears. Before you could answer your phone lit up in your hand.

Dawn calling.

You were only ten minutes from home, the street signs startin’ to look familiar and the sky deepenin’ into that Southern blue black.

You picked up with a sharp inhale, ready to fuss.

Before you could get a word out, her voice came fast and panicked, like she’d been rehearsing it on the ride over.

“Wait don’t go inside yet! Please, Y/N, I need you to meet me at the old corner store. You know, the one near Mr. Lee’s barbershop? I’m pulling up now. I can’t go in alone Granny already think I’m halfway goin’ to hell.”

You sighed and looked at Sammie, who raised his brows at your expression.

“Dawn. Girl.”

“I know, I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, okay? Just help me out. I promise I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

You held the phone away from your ear for a beat, then brought it back. “You better be there when I pull up.”

“I’m already here.”

She hung up before you could argue.

Sammie smirked. “That your Pharisee again?”

You gave him a look. “Yes that’s her.”

“Mhmm,” he said, flipping the turn signal like he already knew where to go. “She gon’ owe you for this one.”

As the car turned down the familiar road toward the corner store, he tapped the steering wheel. “Since I’m still playin’ chauffeur, you might as well gimme your number.”

You squinted. “Why?”

He grinned, leaning into that tease he wore like a second skin. “Well, one you gon’ need a ride again. And two Brittnay want it. Remember.”

“Right,” you said slowly, typing it into his phone when he handed it over. “Only for the choir.”

He looked at you sideways. “Unless you want me to use it for somethin’ else.”

You snatched your hand back, heat pricklin’ up your neck. “Drive the car, Samuel.”

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered, still smiling.

By the time y’all pulled up, Dawn was leaning against the side of the store, hoodie up, like she wasn’t out here actin’ a whole fool just thirty minutes ago.

She scurried over to your side, knocking on the window. “Unlock it!”

You did, barely rolling your eyes before stepping out.

She grabbed your hand quick. “Okay. We was at the church a little late, right? That’s what happened.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered.

“I know,” she whispered back. “You the realest.”

Before y’all started walking, you turned back to Sammie, who hadn’t pulled off yet.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, voice softer now.

He leaned over the wheel, one arm draped lazy but his eyes locked with yours. “Anytime, Ruth.”

Your breath hitched just a little.

Dawn looked between the two of you, confused and amused. “Y’all flirting or quoting scripture?”

You elbowed her.

And Sammie? He just laughed, like he had all the time in the world to keep teasing you until you gave in.

By the time y’all reached the house, the porch light was still on and the living room window glowed warm behind the lace curtains. Inside, the air was still, thick with that kind of silence that don’t mean peace just waiting.

You and Dawn stepped through the front door like two kids fresh from trouble. Not even five seconds in and you froze, Pops was sittin’ in his favorite chair, Bible closed on the side table, glasses perched low on his nose. Doris sat straight on the couch, arms crossed, face carved in stone.

Both of them looking dead at y’all.

“Evenin’,” Pops said, slow.

You swallowed. “Evenin’, Pops.”

Dawn’s voice cracked a little. “Evenin’, Granny…”

Doris didn’t even blink. “Mmhm. Y’all smell like outside.”

You and Dawn exchanged a glance like that would help, but it only made you more suspicious.

“We were at practice,” you offered.

“Late, huh?” Doris cocked her head, still lookin’ at Dawn.

“Yeah,” Dawn said too quick. “Real late. The choir uh, we recorded stuff and, uh, Brittnay wanted to run a second round—”

“Baby,” Doris cut in smooth. “Don’t lie with your whole chest if your socks tell a different story. You done scuffed up your shoes runnin’ through gravel and your neck still got perfume from somebody else’s bathroom.”

Dawn blinked like she forgot how to use her mouth.

You coughed into your hand, stifling a laugh, but Doris turned to you next.

“You went to practice, Y/N?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Doris squinted, then sighed. “Alright. Go on. Get ready for sleep. Your mama gon’ want to hear how choir’s goin’ in the mornin’.”

“Goodnight.”

You booked it down the hall, still hearing Pops mumble, “You too grown to be actin’ so foolish,” as Dawn shuffled into her seat for the interrogation of the year.

By the time you shut your door, you went straight to the shower and got ready for bed.

Your bonnet was tied and your oversized tee hit just above the knees as you curled into bed, the hum of the ceiling fan lulling you into stillness. You had barely flipped your phone over when the screen lit up.

Unknown Number You make it home alright, church girl?

You smiled, thumb already flying before your brain could catch up.

You I made it. Barely. Dawn almost got me grounded at my big age.

Sammie. Coulda been worse. I coulda drove you straight into temptation.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin stretching wide across your face.

You You already did. Now I gotta pray twice before bed.

Three little dots danced before his reply dropped.

Sammie I like a girl who knows her way to the altar. But I also like a girl who pays her chauffeur. You got some gas money, miss ma’am?

You stared at the message, laughing into your pillow.

You I’ll cashapp you $5. That cover it?

His response came fast.

Sammie Mm. Nah. I don’t take cash.

You Then what you want?

Sammie A kiss. Just one. Payment in full.

Your breath caught a little. Fingers paused mid type. This boy had no business texting like this while you were tucked under your grandmother’s roof.

You You tryna go to hell, Samuel?

Sammie Only if you drivin’.

You threw your phone across the bed and squealed into your pillow, heart knockin’ around your chest like it was trying to break free.

You stared up at the ceiling for a long beat before whispering out loud to no one, “Lord… why he gotta be like this?”

Your phone buzzed again.

Sammie Sleep good, choir girl. Don’t forget to pray. Twice.

Taglist: (Does the @ work?)

@cosmicautomatonshark @fanfictiononly4 @pinkpantheris @andthatsonmaryhadalillamb @sweetalittleselfish-honey

#preacher boy sammie #sammie x black reader #sammie sinners #sammie x reader #sammie moore #sinners #sammie x church girl #x black reader #x female reader #x fem blackreader

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hermesserpent-stuff · 6 months ago

Text

more thoughts about creeds intro for brotherhood gambit au

Creed is tired and hungry. He claws his way out of the ditch and snarls a bit to himself. Magneto owes him. Big time. That mission was far more complicated than the man had promised. And he had ended up in a ditch! Dead if not for his powers. Creed had gotten done what he needed to be done. The dried blood is proof of that.

He starts walking.

And walking.

Walking.

Then Magneto fails to show where they are supposed to meet. Anger flares. He moves on, growling deeply.

Creed stumbles to the building that he knows Magneto had been sending teens. He needs to report in about the last job and recuperate some strength.

He bangs on the door, flicking a bit of mud onto the front stoop. It splashes over the welcome mat.

The door opens and a teen stares up at him. There is a flash of recognition there. Red eyes widen and then blink.

“Bonjour? Why’s the infamous Sabretooth drippin’ mud on my doorstep?”

The teen asks, head tilting.

“I'm looking for Magneto. Have some things I need to settle with him.”

The kid hums.

“In. It's cold out here, monsieur. And I got chili on. Come on.”

The kid settles, pulling the door wider. Creed comes in and settles at a table he is lead to. The house smells vague of water damage and cleaning products. The teen putters about the kitchen spooning out a bowl. He glances at Creed and then spoons a second bowl. Both are settled in front of Creed, along with some water. Creed starts eating, ignoring the spoon, simply tilting the bowl into his mouth. The teen settles in a chair opposite.

“‘Neto ain't here. Never comes round. Not regular like anyways. Now, Mystique will be back tonight. She comes by to eat dinner, and leaves if she don't like what I be cookin’.”

The kid scrunches his nose in offense at the last sentence. Creed growls. The teen plops another bowl in front of him.

“Not Remy's fault our fearless leader hides away all the time. Talk to Mystique. She sees him more often than the rest of us. Now. Imma fill the tub and heat it. You can keep on eatin’ till you're good. Then you gonna take a warm bath and settle in for waitin’.”

Remy says calmly. Creed tilts his head and decides that this is probably his best option.

“Fine.”

“Good. Pots yours. Been told you eat a lot. I'll have to make… somethin’ else for Toad and Blob. They can handle sandwiches for now. I'll go draw the bath monsieur.”

The teen nods to himself and trots off.

Creed feasts, the taste of the food heavenly to his empty gnawing stomach. When he goes upstairs he finds Remy withi his hand in the water reading a text book. The kid looks up at him and shakes out his hand.

“Its pretty hot now. Pipes don't make no heat so you wont get any more hot water from them. Desole monsieur.”

The kid states and then stands.

“I dont think any of the clothes in the house gonna fit you. Not that youd wanna wear any teens clothes.”

Remy says with a nose scrunch, looking at the muddly clothes. He then snaps his fingers.

“We do got somethin’! Big ol’ sweater and pants. Ill grab them and trade your stuff so I can clean up your duds.”

“You’re a regular old housewife aren’t you.”

Creed states and Remy rolls his eyes.

“Someone has to ensure the guild’s form of xenia is followed.”

Remy huffs. And then cocks his head to the side.

“And I don't wanna clean up mud from all over the house monsieur. Now! Let's get a movin’!”

Remy claps his hands together and trots out of the room. Creed shifts off the clothes and sinks into the warm water. A sigh comes unbidden from his mouth as he relaxes. He draws the curtain and closes his eyes. He hears Remy renenter and the shifting of cloth. Then the door closes again with a firm click. He slips a little more under the water. After a moment he starts running his hands through his hair. He finds soap that doesn't smell awful and scrubs at the dirt and blood.

It is a little relaxing to be able to get all the gunk off. When the water get cold he pulls himself out and dries off and slips into the provided clothing. He walks back downstairs and finds Remy facing off with a crouched teen.

“What I tell you about shoes on my counters t’crapaud??! I can't keep cloroxing them. I know that you like jumpin’ up mais, not my counters!!”

Remy rubs at his face looking like a tired mother. The teen looks like he is about to say something when he spots Creed. He jumps up and onto Remy who causally catches him like its nothing.

“AHH! Yo! Whats the kitty doin’ here???!”

Oh. Toad. He had seen him at a fight before. Its one of Magneto’s drafted teens.

“T’crapaud. Petit brigand, dont be rude! Man’s a guest. Now, scoot. He goin’ to the livin’ room and your gonna wipe down my counters so I can make your dinner.”

Remy gently puts the teen down and shoos him off. Toad looks at Creed with huge eyes and Creed gives a small growl and the kid scampers. Remy turns on a dime, eyes sparking.

“Non! You be a guest and you dont be growlin’ at mon petits. I will extend my hospitality, mais if you gonna spit in the face of it, I will not hesitate to show you how Guild treats enemies invading the house.”

Creed tilts his head and then nods.

“Got it. Won't hurt anyone while here.”

He says with a shrug. He won't promise to grow or hiss. It's his nature. Remy nods and then waves his hand.

“Livin’ room this way. None of the spare rooms are made up yet. I'm workin’ on it. But for tonight you got a couch. Desole.”

“Eh, it's better than a ditch.”

Creed says with a shrug and plops himself down on the couch. He stretches out with a yawn.

“Fair. I'll keep the others outta here. Get some sleep grand chat.”

Remy tosses a blanket over him and Creed blinks.

“Quoi? Need more?”

The kid asks and tosses another blanket over him. Creed lets out a confused murp and Remy walks off.

Creed wakes up several hours later. He can tell that it is past midnight. He gets up and slinks over to the kitchen. Surprisingly he finds Remy there, spreadsheets layed out with assorted bills and coupons strewed about. Remy looks up from the pile and a red flush flickers over his face.

“Oh, ah, sorry. Mystique never came, so I let you sleep.”

Remy has puffy eyes and Creed can smell salt. But there is no tremor from tears in his voice.

“Gotcha. Got anymore to eat?”

Creed asks and remy breathes.

“No more meat. Chili was the last of the chicken. There is a bone broth, but just some. Id… there wont be anymore meat in the house for a few days at least. Its too expensive.

Creed notes the kid fiddling with the papers and swipes them up.

“Hey!”

“Jesus kid, do you run the whole budget of this joint?”

He asks, looking over the expenditure columns written in freakishly neat hand writing for someone that is definitely not legally able to drink or be this responsible. He sees a few sticknotes penciling in estimated costs for repairs around the house and what priorities things had.

“I-... it started out as just the groceries. Mais I noticed… well, someone has to do it. And Mystique’s to busy bein’ the principal to look after us.”

Creed puts the papers down, thoughts quickly flashing through his head. The kid had treated him better than most strangers ever had or would. And he did eat all the chili on his own, where it could have fed the teens of the house twice over.

“Can you cook animals if they are freshly killed? I like hunting and I like eating.”

The kids eyes have no right looking that hopeful when aimed in his direction.

“Oui! I can cook just about any meat. If you show me how to skin and carve up the stuff I aint dealt with before, this cajun cook anythin’ you drag back!”

Creed hums.

“Yeah. alright. I can show you a few tricks for carving up meat. Ill go hunting tommorrow some time.”

“Maybe a bit later in the day, so its not dead for hours while Im in school? I can give you the schedule!”

The kid looks genuinely excited. Its… novel. Most people got grossed out at the mere thought of him dragging a kill home. But here this kid is, basically begging for it.

“Yeah. sure. Means I get to sleep more.”

“Oui! Oui! Though, Imma wake you for breakfast. We having pancakes. And coffee. Dont want a guest hungry while Im away.”

#gambit #brotherhood gambit au #hermes speaks #sabretooth #victor creed #remy lebeau #x men evolution

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arbitrarykiwi · 5 months ago

Text

Kiwi's Masterlist

MDNI!!! 18+ Here you’ll find all things I’ve written! Requests, one-shots, and multiple part fics all at your disposal!! Master list will be updated over time- <3 Wiwi

᯽ = sfw / fluff ꕥ = nsfw / smut

The symbols are there to give you a general idea of the fic- whether it’s sfw and not involving overly sexual themes or nsfw and involving smut or sexual themes. Be aware that each fic comes with its own ‘warnings’ section to please read those before reading the fic!

ꕥ Third Times a Charm: Taste Test 1/3 , Oral Fixation 2/3 , Body Talk 3/3

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - you first meet him at a club. After one taste he’s hooked, coincidentally running into you two more times.

ꕥ It’s Just Business, Baby: Workplace Conflict 1/4 , Overtime 2/4 , After Hours 3/4 , Professional Provocation 4/4

The Salesman / The Recruiter x Recruiter!Fem!Reader - you’re the new hire that he hates with a passion. He’s always in competition with you. When you enrage him so much he begins to track you down, trying to find you outside of work, you play along.

᯽ Dates with Nam-Gyu

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - Drabble about what dates with Nam-Gyu would be like.

᯽ Captured in Low Resolution

Thanos / Choi Subong x Fem!Reader - while in your boyfriend’s music studio you finally ask about the low quality image he has taped to the corner of his computer screen.

ꕥ Pill Poppin!

Thanos / Choi Subong x MusicProducer!Fem!Reader - your client Choi Subong comes by the studio late at 2am. Figuring he’s up to no good, you snap at him. Turns out he comes bearing gifts.

ꕥ LIVE…In the Studio

Thanos / Choi Subong x MusicProducer!Fem!Reader - after hours of trying to add an intro into a song, none of them work for the great rapper Thanos. He takes it into his own hands to get a live sound clip that would be perfect for his song

᯽|ꕥ What’s Better Than One Boyfriend?! TWO Boyfriends!!!: I , II ,

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader x Thanos / Choi Subong - a collection of answered requests regarding my thoughts on the relationship dynamic between thangyu and you! Mix of in the games and no games au.

ꕥ I Like ‘em Weird

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - there’s just somethin’ delicious about the socially awkward and standoffish guy you’ve been seeing in the club.

ꕥ Passed Around

Thanos / Choi Subong x Fem!Reader x Nam-Gyu - smoke seshes with your boyfriends always end up this way…you’re passed around like the blunt you all were smoking.

ꕥ More to Love and Double the Fun!!

Nam-Gyu x Thick!Fem!Reader x Choi Subong / Thanos - while at a party you want nothing more than go go home. The two of them scout you and answer your pleas; you just don’t go to your home.

ꕥ You Can Take It

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - you seem to take him as a fool and not take him for his word he decided to visit your bunk during lights out to teach you a lesson.

ꕥ Introvert Meets Innocence

Awkward!Loser!Nam-gyu x Fem!Reader - after Thanos and your friend decide they have had enough of you and Nam-Gyu acting like nervous high schoolers talking to their crush, they treat you like high schoolers; locking you in a room for a round of ‘60’ minutes in heaven.

᯽ The Happiest of Birthdays

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader x Choi Subong / Thanos - a drabble about how your boyfriends Nam-Gyu and Thanos celebrate your birthday!!

ꕥ Reckless Temptation

Bum!BabyDaddy!Nam-gyu x Fem!Reader - you’ve had enough of Nam-gyu’s shit! He never helps you with your daughter and can barely pay you rent. You finally confront him late at night after he comes home shitfaced. Sure you’re mad and yelling in his face, but he doesn’t hear you. He can’t stop thinking about how pregnancy made curvier, how your breasts were larger, and how badly he wants to fuck you senseless.

ꕥ Suck ‘em Dry!

Choi Subong / Thanos x Fem!Reader - when you meet the egotistic, purple haired rapper at one of his after parties and he was so confident he’d be the one to ruin you…you decide to flip the switch and ruin him by givin’ him some crazy head.

ꕥ Etched in Ink

Nam-gyu x TattooArtist!Pierced! Fem! Reader - after asking Thanos about where he goes for his tattoos, Nam-Gyu schedules an appointment with you. He had no idea you’d be so fucking hot.

ꕥ Play Thing

Nam-gyu x Fem!Reader - one of his favorite things to do with you is just play with you. So, when he buys you a fun new toy he makes sure you get good use out of it and that he got his moneys worth.

᯽ Now streaming…

Streamer!Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - your streamer boyfriend seems to have a lot of fangirls who are under the wrong impression that he’s single

ꕥ Streamer!Nam-gyu Headcannons

Streamer!Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - random headcannons I have for streamer!namgyu, includes small smut at the end

ꕥ After Work Relaxation

Nam-Gyu x Fem!Reader - namgyu has long stressful days at work, thankfully he has his pretty lil girlfriend to help him with his after work relaxation

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stonedficz · 3 months ago

Text

✰ star shaped ✰ ch. 3 ❛is what i know true?❜

[schlatt x streamer!reader]

ch. 1 / ch. 2 / ch. 4

a/n: this is mostly revised. if you see something - it’s more than likely intentional. like and comment! luv u all! eat up bbs, momma made DINNERRR

You were both up all night.

You were planning. Podcast ideas, videos, scripts, guidelines, blog posts - everything. You planned to make the best of the opportunity you were offered with your favorite person, your crush, your everything. You had so many feelings about him. Parasocial love, deep admiration, all of it. You were obsessed. He was a star.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He didn’t know why. His feelings swirled in his chest, making their way down to his stomach. He played with the hem of his shirt for hours as he sat at his desk, catching up with b-t-s work for things like GamerSupps, his pc company, and his channels. He almost felt anxious. Anxious? Him? Sometimes, but rarely. His stomach twisted in a knot the more the thought of you came into his mind.

“The fuck is wrong with me,” he breathed out heavily, glancing down.

2:00 am

“Shit.” He leaned back in his desk chair. “I’m hungry as fuck, I don’t know why I’m still up, AND I can’t do shit till tomorrow because everything’s fucking closed.”

riiiiiiiiing, riiiiiiiiing, riiiiiiiiing

click

“Ted?”

“Yea bud, what’s up? Everything alright? You never call this late. Hell, you barely call.” Ted tiredly chuckled through the phone.

“Look, iii don’t know man, somethin’ just…” he sighed in confusion, holding his forehead with one hand.

“Genuinely, Schlatt, are you okay? Like do I need to call someone or is this just.. stress?”

“No man, I’m fine. Fuck. I just, did something and I’m not stressed I’m just - God, I don’t even fucking know. I think I’m just hungry. I didn’t do anything BAD, I just, y’know, made a choice and now I’m unsure, I guess.” He sighed, leaning back into his chair.

“As long as everything’s fine, then okay. Go get some grub man. Maybe smoke some weed, if you want. If only you were in LA...” Ted’s voice gradually raised in playful pitch till Schlatt interrupted,

“Alright, fuck you.” He chuckled.

click.

That was how most of their calls went. He got up and towards the kitchen, setting his phone down to grab some leftovers to heat for a late dinner. He looked back down at his phone while his food was in the microwave.

"shit." he ran his hand over his face, hearing the microwave beep. His eyes were locked onto his phone. "What is it with me tonight?" he spun around to open the microwave door and retrieve his dinner, when all of a sudden, he heard a

ding.

His eyes darted to his phone. Who could it be? He didn't have notifications on for anything but friends, and everyone he knew was asleep, or busy.

His eyes squinted.

From here (the microwave) he could see an icon on the notification. Instagram. Now, who would be messaging him at this hou-

He saw the username.

cookkizkill

hey! sorry for sending this message so late, but I got the pod map together. just a bunch of ideas. i'd like your thoughts on them when you get the chance! let me know if you'd be avaliable to call sometime tomorrow (really, today, since it's .. the morning)

He hesitated.

He shouldn't reply now. It was unprofessional. It would make him look bad. Well, maybe not bad, but weird. He shouldn't reply this fast to someone he didn't know.

But he felt like he knew her. Six months of reading messages, having one sided conversations through donos, and watching her youtube videos - it all added up to a perceived feeling of knowing.

"Oh God." he looked down at Jambo in defeat. "I'm a parasocial freak, aren't I, Jambo? Am I just like her?"

"Mow."

"Fuck you too, you little shit." he sighed heavily and picked up his phone.

There was no use in hesitating. If bad things were to happen, they'd happen no matter what they did. The same for good things. His small actions - so long as they were well-meaning - truly were just that. Well-meaning. He had nothing to lose. God only knows he WAS the uncancellable man of youtube, anyways.

cookkizkill

i also wanted to say thank you. i don't want to run you off with any sentiments, but I genuinely appreciate you offering to do a collab with me.

something like this both means the world to me, and has the chance to change my life. I've been watching you for a long time - to have an opportunity like this - something like you were given, makes me really happy and proud of myself. im super excited to get to do this pod!

jschlatt

i appreciate that. You're a sweet kid. We can call in the morning, go ahead and add me on discord @.jschlatt and we'll get to talking. I'll be ready to discuss everything by 11. My lawyer got the papers back from you so everything is good to go.

He could go to sleep now. He was okay. Whatever he felt earlier had mostly dissipated.

You blacked out after reading that text. Literally, from exhaustion and shock, your nervous system just powered down and helped you out. You had been laying in bed thinking about him, this, and all your feelings for hours. Hours. You hadn’t eaten dinner, you were losing your mind, and the worst of it was, you didn’t even take a shower. You were gonna be so pissed when you woke up. Oh, no, you weren’t. You were gonna call Schlatt. How could anything upset you?

Schlatt ate his leftovers and went on with his night, very quickly falling asleep after finally eating.

Eleven a.m. couldn’t come any faster.

You were ready by 9. Dolled up, dressed to the nine, perfectly calculated with notes, thoughts, and words (as well as some fan questions teehee), sweating in anticipation of meeting your favorite person - your role model, etc. You couldn’t imagine what this would be like. You got prettied up just in case it was a video call, but you figured knowing him, it would be audio only. Knowing him..

Did you?

Who’s to say he’s never been true to himself online. Maybe, even theweeklyslap project was simply to provide an alibi. He could be fake. You could be getting scammed. God, that would hurt. You’d drop out if this was fake. In fact you’d probably do meth, if this turned out to be fake. It would rip you apart.

You wished he would rip you apart. If you could even get into the same area code as him, it might satisfy you. There was a growl deep inside of you that wanted him. Not particularly sexually, either, but something that ached. You were desperate. Humiliatingly so.

You didn’t know what it was. His hands? Arms? Shoulders? Posture? Face? Whole body? Irresistible personality? Maybe it was because he acted like a douchebag. You liked douchebags, based off all your ex-boyfriends. Maybe he was as sweet as condensed milk, and he just didn’t show it.

Maybe he was what you wanted. Maybe he wasn’t. You didn’t know - nor did you care. The clock struck eleven, and you saw his user come online. You called at 11:00:30. Thirty seconds past eleven, so as to not be overtly early.

He probably didn’t notice.

He did.

“hiiii!” you exclaimed happily, and sweetly.

“Hello, hello. How’s it going this morning?” he chuckled sweetly. He had a gamersupps shaker in hand. On brand.

(Yeah, he had no clue you were recording this whole conversation. Teehee.)

“It’s so good! I’m so excited! This is an amazing experience, being able to discuss a collaboration with my role model. How is your morning? Have anything good to eat?” your heart was pounding out of your chest. Your hands wrung themselves under the desk you sat at.

“Well, you’re one for small talk, huh sweetheart?” he smiled and chucked. “I had some eggs. They were pretty good. Seasoned ‘em well too. What about you?”

‘oh my god’ you bit your lip as you nodded and ‘mhm’d’, though he couldn’t see you. ‘he’s so.. UGH.’ your stomach flooded with butterflies. It’s everything you hoped it would be, in these first 4 sentences. That is, meeting him.

“Ah, you know me - too busy grinding to eat. I just had a snack.” you smiled and laughed, opening up your notes. You were shaking. Vigorously. Something about this - what was it? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

Was he flirting?

No, never. That’s not like him.

Well…

“Take it from me, good meals fuel the soul. You need ‘em to make good content.” he sighed. “Now- why don’t you hit me with your ideas here? Whatcha thinkin’?” he purred slightly. He genuinely sounded excited to talk about this proposed podcast ep.

‘oh my god. his voice.’ you groaned in your mind. This was almost painful. You were given exactly what you wanted, unfortunately. You got your cake.

Now you can’t eat it.

“So - here’s my thoughts.” your voice shook. Oh, God, were you going to reveal your hand? How nervous you were?

“I’m thinking we do a cooking episode. Y’know, how you guys did those video podcasts? But the kicker - we’re at our own places trying to cook the same recipe, seeing who can get it closest to the original picture, and or taste.” your voice continued to shake. The look on your face was, needless to say, scared. You were so nervous. The performance anxiety got to your bones - terminal. You felt like you were drowning in emotion. You could scream, cry, shake vehemently, all the big things.

Well, at least your camera wasn’t on.

“Ooh. Okay, okay. I like the idea so far - Jambo, fuckin’ stop - shit, hold on.” you heard him rustling. “Look at this fucker.”

He turned his camera on.

He held jambo to his chest and face. Your jaw dropped, and your eyes shot open. You were SO screen recording this. Quickly, however, you collected yourself and turned yours on too, snatching your own cat from beside your chair so fast he almost got whiplash.

“OH MY GOOOOODDDDDDD!” you screeched. “I love Jambo!” you shot your head back while you held Jeremy (the cat) on your chest. “I love your cats.”

The next words to leave your mouth would be life or death.

“You like my pussy?” you chuckled, rotating the chair enough for Jeremy’s dumb face to be visible in the camera. This was a terrible, terrible joke to make during your first impression.

His eyes went wide for a split second. Involuntary. You caught it.

He hoped you hadn’t.

He shut his eyes, tipped his head, and jutted out his lower lip in appreciation for the bit. Jambo head butted him.

“Dumb fuck, that wasn’t meant for you.” he scoffed, putting Jambo down. “Anyways, I do like the idea. I think that would be good for my first cameo on your channel - y’know, just to tease the people.” he tipped his head to the side in thought out approval and nodded.

“I appreciate that!” you smiled with your whole face, breathlessly.

‘wait.

first cameo? FIRST? FIRST? WHAT THE HELL DOES HE MEAN FIRST?!’

“You know I gotta ask, though -“ your breath hitched. You couldn’t breathe. You coughed impulsively to try and make yourself have the strength to speak. “What do you mean by ‘first cameo’?” your lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. God, he was easy to read sometimes. You knew him too well parasocially.

“Oh, you know what I mean sweetheart. Don’t play dumb.” He furrowed his brow and looked directly at the image of you on his screen with a small smile, “Your fans - even if there isn’t a million of them - all know you love me. How insane would it be for you to show them you know me? Either way, I’m down to collab more because I have an appreciation for what you do. You stay true to yourself, it’s something to respect.” one hand rubbed his obviously freshly trimmed chops.

‘did he shave to call me? was his plan all along to show his face?

did he want to see mine?’

You were silent. Awestruck. Breathless. All of it. How were you SUPPOSED to react?

“Schlatt, how did you feel - “ you choked slightly. “- how did you feel when you met your idol, Mr. Sark?”

“Like I was gonna shit my pants. Why? Did you shit yours?” he chuckled, taking a sip. He smiled slightly deviously.

“Yeah. It’s all over the floor. Actually, I shit so much that my cat drowned. You didn’t notice, but, earlier he jumped off my lap and fell right into it like it was quicksand. Gone forever.”

He chuckled breathlessly for just a few moments. “What the fuck are you even going on about?” His brows furrowed again as he continued to laugh for, like, no reason.

“You’re fuckin’ stupid. I think we’re gonna get along.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. and YES, I almost did piss myself. This is all just - I don’t know, it’s cool! This is my dream, getting to meet you. It’s insane to me that I was granted this INSANE wish. I feel like I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe you don’t.” he sighed. “Maybe you’ll never blow up, or get any semblance of a fan base -“ his words rolled of his tongue. He smacked his lips. “but, the opportunity is here. Are you gonna take it? Or are you going to revel in this idea; concept, even, that you just don’t deserve it?

Make the best of it. If this doesn’t help you out, at least you met your ‘idol’, and gained an acquaintance.” he raised his brows as he looked closer to the floor in thought, pursing his lips.

He’s said this before.

To who? He wasn’t the sentimental type, from what you could tell. Not for a stranger.

Is some of this what he told himself all those years ago? When he first blew up?

“You give some good advice. I feel like I’m on theweeklyslap. This is, well, an honor.” you smiled sweetly. The more you talked to him, the more calm you got. You were still excited, but something about him told you that you were safe. “Let’s plan to do this next week? Next Wednesday, if you’re free?”

“You call, and I’ll be ready, toots.” he nodded his head with his brows furrowed in serious sentiment.

He let a small smile crawl onto his face. You knew he was looking at you again.

Your eyes squinted as you smiled in intrigued confusion. “Perfect. I’ll call Wednesday. I’ll send all the nitty gritty details over so you can be really ready.” you nodded back, an even more confused, and apprehensively happy smile spreading across your face.

“See you then sweetheart.”

Click.

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ghostlycamil4 · 20 days ago

Note

completely alr! was thinkin about requesting for a bakugo x male reader where theyre childhood friends, and bakugo had always been strangely peotective of reader. he doesnt realize until one of his friends point out out that he may like reader and he questions himself a bit. fluffy ending, please and thanks!

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝐹𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑌𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛

i loved the dynamic sm childhood friends, katsuki being unknowingly protective, fluff all around. tysm for sending this in!!

The heat was unbearable. Bodies packed together, music thumping in his chest, the bitter taste of alcohol thick in the air. Bakugo barely paid attention. Every time someone bumped into him, he shot them a look, ready to snap.

But he didn’t.

Because the only thing in his head was you.

You’d gone to the bathroom. Said you’d be right back. Five minutes. But fifteen passed, then twenty.

An uncomfortable pressure settled in his chest, right under his sternum. And without thinking, he started pushing through the crowd, shoving people with his shoulder, ignoring the insults and annoyed glances.

“Where the hell are you…?” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight.

That’s when he saw them: Kirishima, red-haired, shirt unbuttoned halfway, laughing at something Denki (clearly wasted) had just said. They were leaning against the back balcony, oblivious to the chaos inside.

Bakugo approached fast, like an animal on edge.

“You seen him?” he barked, no intro, voice rough and demanding.

“Huh?” Kirishima blinked slow. “Who?”

“Y/n.” The name came out like a code. Something private between them.

Denki made a thinking face, then shrugged.

“Maybe he’s just havin’ fun. It’s a party, bro. Ain’t like he’s gone missing.”

Kirishima nodded slowly, clearly drunk.

“Chill out, man. You’re not his damn dad. He’s probably out there, dancin’, flirtin’... havin’ a good time.”

Bakugo’s scowl deepened. A muscle twitched under his eye.

“Why do you even care so much, huh?” Denki laughed, elbowing Kirishima. “You’re always tailin’ him like some guard dog.”

“Or his boyfriend,” Kirishima added with a loud laugh, both of them cracking up way too hard.

Bakugo didn’t respond. His throat clenched, and the only visible reaction was the way his fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle.

“What…?” The question slipped out halfway, like he didn’t know if he should finish it. Like he was scared to.

Kirishima was the one who dialed it down.

“Hey, it was a joke… but still, we can keep your little secret.”

Bakugo opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His expression faltered for half a second, like something deep inside shifted. Something old, too familiar, and impossible to name.

“Piss off,” he muttered finally, turning away.

But he didn’t deny it.

And that was enough for both friends to exchange a knowing look.

The night air hit his face like a slap.

He stepped out of the house without knowing if he was running away or searching. Maybe both. His chest hurt—not like he couldn’t breathe, but like something was squeezing him from the inside, slow and cruel. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to crack it, trying to shake the tension, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

And then, he saw you.

A few meters away, under a flickering streetlamp near the back garden. Sitting on the edge of a planter, can in hand, cheeks flushed. Hair a little messy. That easy smile.

“Bakugo!” you waved, clumsy but cheerful. “I was lookin’ for ya.”

Fucking idiot.

The relief hit him like a storm: heavy, intense, immediate. But he didn’t admit it. He couldn’t. So the first thing he did was scowl and open his mouth to snap at you.

“Where the fuck were you!?” he growled, not moving. “You said five minutes. Do you have any fuckin’ idea what—?”

His voice cut off.

You shifted, trying to stand. You wobbled. You laughed.

“I was with Mina… then Ojiro. They gave me somethin’ that tasted like weird juice. Did it have tequila in it?”

Bakugo clenched his fists.

He wanted to keep yelling. Wanted to scream. Wanted to say he’d gone out of his damn mind thinking something happened to you.

But then he really looked at you.

Your smile. Half-lidded eyes. The warmth in your cheeks. And the way you looked at him like he was your safe place, even drunk.

“You’re drunk,” he said, like it was a scientific fact.

You shrugged and smiled, tilting your head a little.

“Just a lil’ bit.”

And then you took a step. Misjudged it.

Your foot caught on a raised root in the grass, and you swayed to the side. You didn’t fall—Bakugo was already there, moving on instinct, grabbing your arm tight before you could tip over.

“Tch…” he hissed under his breath, annoyed at himself for not acting sooner. “We’re goin’ home.”

“Don’t wanna,” you said in a pouty tone, your eyes sparkling from the alcohol and something more playful.

Bakugo frowned. Didn’t let go of your arm.

“I said we’re goin’ home.”

“Why’re you so grumpy?” you whined as he started walking, not giving a shit whether you agreed or not. He pulled you along with a firm but careful grip, like he knew it wouldn’t take much for you to stumble again.

“Because you’re a fuckin’ mess,” he snapped. “And I’m not lettin’ you end up God knows where with God knows who. Not when you’re like this.”

“Like what…?” you asked, words dragging just a bit from the booze-laced tone.

Bakugo didn’t answer. But his jaw clenched, and a faint flush crept up his neck.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

You laughed quietly, letting him take you. Not because you couldn’t walk, but because… it felt nice. That he worried. That he looked after you—even with all his damn growling.

“Get on,” he ordered without looking at you.

“I can walk.”

“And I can ignore you, but I don’t. So get on,” he said again, softer.

With a mischievous smile, you latched onto his shoulders and pushed yourself up, letting him carry you piggyback like you weighed nothing. His hands steady under your thighs, your arms draped loosely around his neck.

You rested your chin on his shoulder, face tilted just enough toward his cheek.

“You’re comfy,” you murmured, already halfway asleep.

“You’re fuckin’ insufferable,” he shot back, but there was no bite in it.

He just walked. Steady pace. Straight path.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

#ghostlyreqs4bakugo #bakugo x y/n #mha x y/n #bnha x you #katsuki x you #bakugou x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo x male reader #mha x male reader #bnha x male reader

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