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dira333 · 5 months

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Soul-Food - Osamu x Reader

Enemies to lovers - Requested by @notsochillnerd - with Atsumu as a terrible wingman who just wanted to check out his brothers' nemesis...

There is only one thing more annoying than Miya Osamu with his cooking talent, excellent marks, and unfairly good looks: his twin brother Atsumu.

“No.” You say again, arms filled with produce. He’s in your way and he’s not even sorry about it.

“Come oooon!” He whines, draping himself over the railing of the stairs as if this is a photoshoot for some perfume. “I’m so hungry! And Osamu won’t cook for me! I’ll even pay you!”

“Wow, now I want to do it even less, knowing you might not have paid me in the first place.” You snark, patience wearing thin.

“Now get out of my way, I need to get to my room.”

“To do what?” He steps to the side, but his face remains close to yours. You’re not the fastest as it is, even less when carrying that many vegetables.

“I need to cook.”

“Perfect.” His grin is so wide, it could split his face. “You cook, I’ll eat.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

You hesitate, if only for a second. But Atsumu is like a shark and that was the single drop of blood that he needed.

Half an hour later he’s sitting at the little table in your apartment.

Your kitchen isn’t spacious, but equipped with everything you could possibly need - there’s a reason this school costs an arm and a leg each year. And Miya Osamu got the scholarship instead of you.

You wouldn’t have any problem with it if not for your father breathing down your neck. He’s got the money to send you here twice if he wanted to, but in his twisted mind, a 100% is barely a passing grade and you should have been able to win the scholarship, monetary status be damned.

“What are you making?” Atsumu asks from behind you.

“Udon.”

“Why is it black?”

“I’m using Sepia.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.” You snap back, hoping against hope that he will fall quiet. He doesn’t.

You’ve spent almost a year in a class with Osamu.

He might not always get a better mark than you, but he quickly figured out how much you hated it when he did. There’s nothing worse than someone else gloating over your loss.

The teachers love him and tolerate you.

So far they’ve been kind enough not to put the two of you into a group project, or maybe they just played it safe. The sheer bloodlust you feel when he grins in your direction must have tipped them off.

But this year is going to end soon and your teachers expect you to come up with a dish. Your own creation, not unlike the dish you had to make for your entry exam. This time, however, it’s supposed to showcase what you want to do, going forward.

You can’t bring the same thing you made for your entry exam, even though it was perfect and a delight - you made it roughly one hundred times before.

Your father has always been a fan of the Kaiseki Ryori and while you had loved taking part in the Haute Cuisine as a child, feeling grown up as you nibbled on tiny bites of expensive food, it has lost its appeal on you.

After all, there’s a set number of times you can eat a meal, even Chawanmushi, before you get sick of it.

“Hello? Are you still listening?” Nuisance number 2 asks behind you and you flinch, staring down at the dough that you kneaded for too long.

“What’s Osamu doing for his exam?” You ask, feeling a little guilty about your attempt at spying.

“Why do you want to know?”

Nevermind. Now you only feel annoyed.

“Just because. Maybe I want to talk about something other than you.”

You move to throw the dough out, only to be stopped by Atsumu’s voice.

“What are you doing?”

“I messed it up. It’s not going to taste good.”

“So what? I’m hungry.”

“You want to eat gross noodles?” You eye him warily, but he shrugs with a grin.

“It’s definitely going to be better than what I’d produce myself. But since I hate cooking, I’d probably just get takeout pizza anyway.”

“Aren’t you an athlete?”

“Yeah?”

“And they let you eat Pizza?”

“They don’t know. Or they don’t care. Whatever you like better. I mean, they gave me a list of stuff I should keep away from but that’s like, all the food I usually consume.”

“Here.” You pull out a pen and paper. “Write down what you eat in a day. Snacks included. And drinks.”

“Why?”

“If I have to endure your chatting, you might as well get something out of this. Now, shoo!”

You turn, lid of your composter already open when his voice reaches you.

“DON’T THROW AWAY THE DOUGH!”

“Fine!” You snap. “You can eat your disgusting noodles!”

They don’t taste that awful in the end, not with your delicate sauce with mussels and steamed broccoli that turned out so good Atsumu licks his plate clean.

You’d been part of the track club in Middle School, switched to Volleyball in High School because they had fewer practice hours per week. Your marks had always been more important than any side activities, your future as a part of Haute Cuisine decided before you could walk. But it had been fun, especially when Coach gathered you after practice to talk about the importance of self-care. How certain foods could make or break you. How important salt and minerals were for your body, how food was more than calories, protein, carbs, and fat.

You’re not even a little bit rusty when you scribble down a meal plan for him. You keep it easy and as cheap as possible, light on the cooking because you figured he must be the opposite of his twin in the kitchen if he came begging for food… You’re not sure if you’re buying his excuse of a brotherly fight, but you’re not ashamed to say that you didn’t mind him praising your food over Osamu’s. Suck that, Miya!

Meanwhile, Atsumu’s brows are pulled so high, they’re hiding behind his bangs.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“Your new meal plan. You follow that, you’ll increase your stamina.”

“But it’s so much work.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Whatever.” You get up, throw the pen down at the table. Your patience has never been the best anyway.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He follows you to the sink but not to help with the dishes.

“You could cook for me.” He offers it like it’s a great deal. You snort.

“I bet there’s something you want. Something I could do for you…” He wiggles his brows now, looks disgustingly like Osamu when he got a better mark then you. And that kickstarts your brain.

“I want Osamu… I mean the recipe…You know, what Osamu made to get the scholarship. If you can get me that dish of him to try, I’ll cook for you.”

Atsumu grins in a way that doesn’t feel good but he nods.

“Alright, it’s a deal. You’ll cook for me and I get you the dish.” He holds out his hand to sign the deal but you’ve been the daughter of a cutthroat banker for too long to fall for that.

“I’ll cook for a week.” You tell him firmly and watch with a sick satisfaction as his face contorts. He looks awful when he’s pissed and there are definitely not enough moments of the Miya twins looking awful.

“Two weeks.

“One week, only dinner.”

“One week, lunch, dinner and snacks.”

“Are you insane?”

“Do you want Osamu’s food?”

There’s a moment of Silence, and you’re eyeing each other, calculating who’s bluffing and who’s not.

“Fine.” You huff eventually, because you feel it in your bones that trying that damned dish will get you a step closer to figuring out what you need to present for your Final.

You feel like a drug addict, going down the deep end, when Atsumu appears at your door one week later, carrying a Bento-Box wrapped in the cutest fabric you have ever seen.

“Are those little foxes?” You ask, eyeing the reddish-tinted animals on the grey fabric.

“What if ?” He asks back, nose up in the air.

“Jeez, I was just curious.” You snap back and muster him. He doesn’t look malnourished.

“What did you eat this week?”

“Why do you ask?” He sets the Bento-Box on your table and saunters into your kitchen, peering into the still empty pots and pans.

“You’re an awful liar.”

“Okay, so I told Samu that you cooked for me.” He throws his hands up in the air like you’re the one making a big fuss about things. “Told him it was fingerlickin’ good. Got him all angry and puffy.”

You are not ashamed to say that comment lifts you off your feet just a little bit. Hah!

“So?” You ask cooly, untying the Furoshiki with eager fingers.

“So he insisted that he would cook for me. Everything went according to plan, I pretended it wasn’t as good as your food until I asked for the dish he made for his entry exams.”

“Did you know what it was?” You ask as you lift the lid of the box.

“Maybe.” He says and you can hear in his voice that he knew. He probably didn’t tell you just to experience this.

“He made Onigiri?” You ask, your voice a little shrill.

You had made Chawanmushi, a dish literally to die for, practiced one hundred times, and he beat you with Onigiri?

“Try it.” He reaches for one of the Onigiri in the box and you slap his hand away.

“Mine!” You hiss angrily and his grin is almost feral.

“I’ll take a walk around the block then.” He jokes, moving toward the door. “Leave you alone with it.”

“Leave.” You wave him off. “I’ll make dinner later.”

“Half an hour.”

“Leave!” You huff and the door clicks shut behind him.

You bite into the first Onigiri and time stops for a second.

The rice is cooked to perfection, but you know the different varieties well. He must have splurged on this kind, bought from a boutique farmer of some sorts.

It’s filled with tuna and spring onion, but it tastes different then all the Tuna Onigiri you’ve had before. You write down all the different things you can taste, compare them to the knowledge you have but still - did he use a spice you don’t know? A combination you’re not familiar with?

The taste lingers, but you cannot put your finger on it. You feel a little weepy too, as if you had just watched your favorite movie from when you were a kid. You sniff and take the other Onigiri, bite into almost cautiously. It’s Tenmusu, your favorite kind of Onigiri.

This time, literal tears run down your cheeks. The shrimp is crisp, the sweet sauce calling you back to childhood, reminding you of the few free afternoons you got to spend with your mother, just the two of you, no work allowed. You only remember to write down the taste and ingredients when the last bite has disappeared and your hands leave the paper stained.

Well… You’re no closer to figuring out what to make for your finals, but you might be getting your period soon. Why else would you be moved to tears by food?

“Onigiri, huh?” You ask Osamu after class the next day. You can’t help yourself.

He looks up from his phone, surprise on his face. It’s ridiculous how good that makes him look.

“What about it?”

“I heard you made Onigiri for your Entry Exam.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiles, the kind of smile that makes you want to slap it off his face. “Tsumu told me he made you try it.”

You can feel your face go slack. WHAT?

“What did you think?” Osamu asks, way too confident for your taste. “Did you like them?”

You can’t decide between a huff and a snort and the sound that does come out reminds you more of a dying walruss.

“They were probably pitying you.” You point out, nose in the air. “I showed up with Kaiseki Ryori. I made Chawanmushi.”

“Ah.” Osamu sounds like he’s not sure what that is. But you’ve gone over that in class, he’s just messing with you.

“Well, when do I get to try it?”

You blink. “What?”

“Yeah, it’s only fair, right? After you tried mine.”

You swallow thickly, look around for some help, but you’re the only one’s still in the hallway.

“Fine.” You huff eventually, because he does have a point. “As long as I don’t have to eat it.”

His brows furrow and your mind unhelpfully supplies you with the information that his eyes are a different shade than Atsumu’s. Osamu’s eyes are almost as grey as his hair, reminding you of the sky outside.

His mouth moves and you blink, try to focus on his voice, but fail. Your collar feels too tight around your neck and you pull at it, too aware of Osamu’s eyes that flicker to your neck and stay there. God, what’s going on?”

“What did you say?” You ask in the most snooty voice you can manage. “I wasn’t listening.”

“Why do you cook something you don’t like?” He asks. “Don’t you enjoy cooking?”

Something snaps inside you like a rubberband that has been pulled taut for too long.

“Why do you care?” You sniff and he rolls his eyes.

“I was just asking.”

“Sure you were. But you’re psychological warfare doesn’t work on me! You can flutter your long eyelashes at someone else!”

Osamu laughs. “I wasn’t-”

“Neither was I. Well, are you coming or not?”

“Where?”

“You wanted to try my Chawanmushi!”

“Gesundheit.” You turn, not the least bit surprised to see Atsumu standing there. It’s lunchtime for him, he’s coming to collect his goods. “Or was that a codeword for something naughty?”

“Oh god, you’re awful.”

You know that the Chawanmushi has turned out as perfect as all the other times. You can tell by sight and smell, but you cannot bring yourself to try it.

The thought of it has you swallow back bile but you serve it to the brothers with the biggest smile you can manage.

“Here.” You present it in tiny, elegant bowls.

“Are you in pain?” Osamu asks and you drop the smile.

“Go f-”

“Why is it so tiny?” Atsumu asks, eyeing the bowl skeptically. “I’m hungry.”

“I made you Curry.” You tell him off. “This is just a tasting. You can’t eat full bowls with Kaiseki Ryori, you’d never manage that amount of food.”

“Don’t underestimate me.” Atsumu digs in, spoon clinking loudly against the bowl to the point you fear for its life.

He’s done with it before Osamu has even tasted his, still smelling the dish carefully, pulling the spoon through as if to check for clumps.

“It was fine.” Atsumu gives his mark as one would comment on an order of KFC. “Now, the Curry?”

You huff but don’t get up, eyes still trained on Osamu. Then, finally, he brings the spoon to his mouth. If you’re focusing a little too much on his full lips, that’s entirely because he’s the world's slowest eater at the moment and nothing else.

His face remains passive.

Cold sweat runs down your back as he slowly but surely finishes the dish and nods appraisingly.

“It was good.” Osamu says calmly. “The Curry?”

Breathing is a little hard at the moment, but you manage to get up, collect the bowls - you don’t throw them at the floor in a fit of rage and you’re very proud of yourself for that - and get them safely to the kitchen sink.

Your hands shake a little as you serve the Curry in three different plates, but if the boys notice, they don’t comment on it.

“I hope you like it.” Your voice is back to normal, your wounded heart tucked safely back into your chest. “It’s packed with protein and healthy vegetables to make sure you have all the necessary nutrients. You could eat this every day and wouldn’t have to worry about losing out on anything.”

Atsumu digs in without another word. He beams around the spoon, curses loudly.

“This is so good.” He says, mouth full.

“Pig.” Osamu announces next to him, puts the first spoon into his mouth and-

You can see it, in the widening of his eyes and the light blush that appears on the height of his unfairly sharp cheekbones. He likes it. He likes it very much.

You should probably feel a bit more upset about the fact that they insult your Chawanmushi but get high on your Curry, but then again, it just feels good to watch Osamu have the same reaction to your Curry that you had with his Onigiri.

“You should make this for the Exam.” Osamu points out in between a groan and another spoonful of Curry. “It’s amazing.”

“No!” Atsumu shakes his head, still speaks with his mouth full. “The Udon you made yesterday. That was crazy good.”

“What Udon?” Osamu’s voice has a tint to it you cannot place. Does he know about the Onigiri you tried but not about the deal itself? Is he jealous he didn’t get to try them?

“Okay, so she makes the Noodles herself, right? This time without the freaky black stuff-”

“Sepia,” you throw in but he ignores you, “But she used pork belly for the sauce and something creamy and mushrooms, I think-”

“Shiitake.”

“And I tell you, Samu, it was so so good! Like, it reminded me of Mom making that stew, you know? When Dad had that big sale thing and we got to celebrate it?”

Osamu’s eyes light up in a way that has you looking down at your food, heart thrumming in your chest like a hummingbird on speed.

“Can you-” He hesitates for a second. “Can you make me that?”

“I could.” You point out, not at all feeling the upper hand. You feel nervous instead as if this is a test or something worse. You swallow thickly, try to think of something to wager against it. Your mind is unhelpful at best, offering the possibility of a date - as if!

“If I get your recipe. For the Onigiri.”

Osamu’s mouth clicks shut. He blinks, clearly surprised. Then he grins, the kind of grin that tells you this isn’t going to work in your favor, at all.

“Sure. So, Udon tomorrow?”

“I was going to make Katsudon tomorrow.” You point out, pissed that he’s overthrowing your meal plan. Atsumu looks like he’s gotten a glimpse of heaven.

“Really?”

You hate to think about it, but the week is nearing its end and Osamu feels less like the devil and more like the dangerously cute boy from your class now. The dangerously cute boy who’s going to get a better mark than you, take the promised internship at one of Japan's leading five-star restaurants and laugh in your face if you don’t shape up right now.

Your father is as helpful as ever.

He’s currently obsessed with the Yakimono part of Kaiseki Ryori, taking you out to dinner each weekend only to try new variants that you should use for your Final Exam.

The food is good, there’s no denying that, but it lacks the emotional touch you had with the Onigiri.

The same Onigiri that you’ve made three times already. They never taste like Osamu’s.

You’re suspecting that he skipped on one ingredient in the recipe, the one thing you could not put your finger on when you tried them.

“Hey.” Atsumu’s waiting at your door when you return from coffee with your mother. She had been even less helpful, talking about the new dessert dish she was creating. You might have gotten her cooking skills, but you hate baking almost as much as Chawanmushi.

“I thought we said we would skip the cooking over the weekend.”

“Yeah, about that.” He lifts a heavy bag. “I wanted to ask for a favor.”

“I’m not setting for you.”

“Why would I- Never mind, I wanted to ask… Could you like, show me… how to cook?”

You blink in surprise.

“Why would I teach you that? Don’t you have your brother?”

“He’s not a good teacher.” Atsumu points out and you snort.

“So you want to learn how to cook? And stop harassing me and Osamu?”

“No, no, I will still harass the two of you for food, but it looked easy when you did it, so I thought you could teach me, maybe?”

“Fine.”

“I’m even pa- Fine? Oh, wow, that was easy.”

“If I can ask you some questions in turn without you judging me?”

“Me, judging someone? Never.” He puts a hand on his chest, probably aiming for his heart, but he’s now swearing on his left ribcage.

You watch like a Hawk as Atsumu prepares the Omurice. He’s got a bad habit of getting distracted, but he’s not a bad student.

“So…” You swallow your nerves. “You and Osamu used to play Volleyball together, right?”

“Yeah. He could have gone Pro, like me. But he said…” He raises his hands to make air quotes and lowers his voice into a deeper pitch to mock Osamu, “Skillswise I'm just as good as you. But I think that, when all's said and done, you love volleyball just a teensy bit more than me.”

“And you were okay with that?”

“Nah.” Atsumu flips the Omurice onto a plate and hands it over to you. “Try.”

“It’s good.” You hand it back to him. “Eat.”

When Atsumu leaves, you’re left with even more questions than before.

What does it mean to love something so much you’re willing to pass up something good?

Atsumu is making good money as a Pro, even now. But Osamu had no idea if he was going to make it into this school until he tried.

And why did he make freaking Onigiri?

Midnight has come and gone when you put a jacket over your sleepshirt and slip out of your apartment in nothing but booty shorts and bunny slippers.

You’re not sure if there’s a nightguard. There might be, this is still a mixed dorm filled with hormonal teens and tweens.

Even though you’ve never been to Osamu’s place before, you know the route by heart. You had memorized it in a childish fit when you realized his room was just below the fire escape.

You wouldn’t allow him to survive you in case of an emergency.

You knock twice before you can hear movement. The door opens and you almost swallow your tongue.

His hair is in disarray as if he’d dragged his hands through it all night and there’s the imprint of his pillow left on his cheek. He’s topless and you keep your eyes trained on the imprint on his cheek as if you don’t notice his happy trail or his still well-trained abs.

He blinks slowly and yawns.

“What’s up?” He asks. Something moves over his face, quick like a sparrow. “Shit, are you hurt? Did something happen?!”

“No, no, I… Shit, I don’t know, I-”

“Come in.” He pulls you inside, but he calculates wrong, uses too much force for your quivering body. You end up mushed against his chest, face plant right into the warm skin.

If you die like this, you won’t even be mad about it.

“Shit, sorry.” He grabs you and puts you at a distance again, blush high on his cheeks.

“Your Onigiri.” You start, before he can realize that you’re flustered too. “You didn’t list all the ingredients.”

“I did.”

“Did not. They don’t taste the same.”

“Ah.” He makes that insufferable sound like he knows everything you don’t.

You want to poke his abs, but you decide against it, mainly because it would make you look weird. But they do look ni-

“Tea?” He asks and you hold your right hand with your left, just in case it turns sentient.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Your Onigiri don’t taste like mine, because I make them for someone.”

“What?”

“The Tuna one.” He looks at the kettle instead of you, but his voice is wistful, distant. “I always make that one for Tsumu.”

“And the Tenmusu?”

“It’s my Mom’s favorite.” He says softly and you can’t help it, but you start to cry.

“Your Mom likes Tenmusu too?”

“Ah, shit, don’t tell me- Wait, here, take this…” He hands you a tissue to blow your nose and dry your tears.

“So you’re saying your secret ingredient is love? You’re really going to stand there and make me believe that you got the scholarship because you put love in your food?”

He shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me. But there’s a reason your Chawanmushi did not taste as good as your Curry.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“Gladly.” He smirks at you and this time your hand is faster than your mind, pointer finger digging into the firm muscle of his right pectoral.

“Don’t mess with me.”

“Why not?” His face moves closer to you, or did you move closer to his? “Isn’t it fun?”

Whoever moved first doesn’t matter now as his breath washes over you. His eyes skip to your lips and you lick them, no thoughts left in your brain.

Behind him, the kettle whistles, signaling that the water’s cooking, but neither of you moves.

This could end very badly, or very great, however you want to look at it.

Your mind, helpful as ever, comes up with a sentence that just slips out of your mouth unprompted.

“Atsumu said that you loved Volleyball a little-”

He draws back the moment he hears you speak, face now closed like a window that has let down its shutters.

“Right, Atsumu.” He says, interrupting you. “You should get back to the bed.”

“But the tea…”

“I forgot.” He takes the kettle off the stove. “I was going to make a hot water bottle for myself. Sorry.”

Somehow, somewhere, you took a wrong turn.

Maybe it was when you started liking Osamu, in this weird way that has you enjoy the bickering and the competitiveness. Maybe it was even before that, when you let Atsumu get away with his needling, fed him Udon instead of throwing him out.

Or maybe it was even before that, when you didn’t put up a fight everytime your father decided for you, when your mother put work before spending time with you.

It’s a good thing that Finals are right around the corner.

You can’t focus in most classes, left staring holes into Osamu’s back.

Atsumu’s stopped showing up himself, probably now a master in cooking for himself. Or he’s gone back to Osamu, to fantastic Onigiri and whatever else he knows how to make.

Four days before the Final, someone bangs on your door.

“Jeez, I’m coming.” You pull the door open to reveal Atsumu, soaked and clearly pissed..

“You okay?” You ask. “Or do you need a towel?”

“Why are you not a couple?” He asks back. “Like, the tension was there, you were practically undressing each other at the table - in front of me, might I add - and yet you’re not even speaking to each other? I even cooked all my meals these past weeks in the hopes of hearing good news but Samu’s acting like a bug crawled up his ass and died.”

“What are you even talking abou-”

“Oh, don’t fool me.” He steps inside and moves toward your bathroom without asking. “I just ran here because all I get from Samu are cryptic messages. Did you say something?”

“No, I-”

“Spill.” Atsumu points at the kitchentable, hesitates for a second, then he points at the kitchen itself. “Make some food while your at it. Also, can I have some change of clothes?”

You make Okayu with ginger and honey, the rice porridge a comfort to your heart and a boost to Atsumu’s immune system.

It’s not a long tale. It could be, probably, but you refuse to go into more detail than necessary. Atsumu might be kind of a friend, in his weird, annoying way, but he’s still Osamu’s twin brother.

“I’m gonna go talk to him.” He grabs the bag with his clothes and stalks off, dressed in one of your oversized hoodies and bright pink pajama pants, both things slightly too short on him.

“Give him a chance when he comes back,” are his parting words.

But Osamu does not show up.

Neither does he the next morning in class.

One of the teachers calls you over after class.

“You and Miya-san are pretty close, right?” She starts, speaks on while you’re still trying not to choke on your spit. “Could you bring him the notes from today? He called in sick. Tell him to take care and rest, so that he can take part in the Final.”

“I-I will.”

You end up in your own room instead, debating if you should just leave everything in front of his door and run. If he’s not at the final, you automatically win. But that’s not a win you’d feel good about, if you’re being honest to yourself.

Before you know it, you find yourself making Oyaku again, with Ginger and Honey, the one food that always gives you comfort and boosts your health. The process is simple, but it still calms you down every time. When it’s done, you look down at two portions and know what to do.

“Osamu?” The door is closed, but you can hear faint shuffling behind it. “I made you Oyaku. I heard you’re sick and got your notes from the teachers. I didn’t tell them that I’m a friend of yours, but she was convinced of it and didn’t let me change her mind. But I… we kinda are friends, right?” You feel so weird talking to the closed door.

“Even if you don’t like me, we got to keep up the reputation. Eat the Oyaku, okay? Winning doesn’t feel the same if you kick yourself out of the game.”

You put everything in front of his door and leave, lingering at the end of the hallway, just out of sight, until you hear his door. When you look back, the Oyaku is gone and all you have to do is wait.

Osamu is already outside when you step out of the classroom.

“Already finished?”

“Onigiri doesn’t take that long to make.”

“Ah, right.” You nod, don’t know if you should avoid his gaze or follow your instinct and look a bit more closely. He sounds healthy at least.

“What did you make?” His voice is gruff when he asks.

“Ginger Honey Oyaku.” You answer, voice soft. “Which might confuse the teachers because I had all the ingredients ready for honey-glazed pork belly but I decided against it at the last second.”

“I’d have loved to try that pork belly.” Osamu sighs dreamily. “But that Oyaku was so good. I could eat that everyday and never get tired of it.”

“Same.” You smile but it falters when you feel his eyes on you and you know you’ve got to say it. “I made it for you.”

“Yeah, I know-”

“No, what you said… about the Entry Exam.” You can feel your heartbeat, like the fluttering of hummingbird wings. If you’re going to pass out during your confession, you’re going to kill Osamu for it.

Behind you, the door opens and two more students step out. Osamu looks at them and back at you and you nod, point down the hallway. “Let’s take a walk?”

There’s a broom closet not far down and you slip inside only to regret it seconds later. There’s barely enough space for the two of you, his breath washing over you as you try to focus on the words you need to say. Out loud, so he can hear them too.

“I want to beat you.” You can hear him snort, but you keep your gaze on your hands. You won’t be able to speak if you look into his eyes. “But you’re also really funny and caring and cute, in a way. I could see myself, I mean, I already, you know-”

“What about Tsumu?” He asks, voice strangely hoarse.

“What about him?”

“Don’t you like him more? You don’t feel the need to beat him every two seconds, right?”

You roll your eyes and groan.

“Seriously? The best thing about Atsumu is that he looks kinda like you.”

If you had wanted to say more - you didn’t, but you hate letting anyone else have the last word - it leaves your mind the second his lips press onto yours.

Your mind’s not yet caught up, but your body is, hands dragging through his hair to pull him closer, to marvel at the softness of it - what conditioner is he using? - to have him a little closer.

His hands are on your hip, your back, roam over your shoulders, leaving warm trails and goosebumps behind.

Then there’s bright light and a shrill shriek and you burst away from each other only to face one of your teachers.

“What? The indecency! During an exam no less! Detention! Detention!” Her garbled words don’t make much sense, but the last word you understand.

Osamu sends you a look, his eyes speaking of little guilt and a promise to continue this latter. You can’t help but feel the same.

As it turns out, Detention automatically overrules your exceptional Exam marks. Neither of you wins the internship. Neither of you cares.

Osamu had applied to an Onigiri shop not far from the school as a second option and with your last name you have no trouble securing an internship with a well-known nutritionist for Pro Athletes.

Your father is not happy about your change in dreams, but when you explain the earning capacity of this position, and the business plan you’re already halfway through making, your excitement swaps over.

Your mother, as usual, barely listens. But you take it in stride, her usual droning on about a recipe she’s working on, by thinking about how in less than an hour, you’ll see Osamu again.

“You guys owe me.” Atsumu declares during Movie night. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, the last piece of the Pizza in his hands. “I’m talking about food for life.”

“We could have done it without you,” Osamu insists, arm around you, face nuzzled into your hair. He pretends he’s watching the movie, but you know better. He’s been thinking about the cheese crackers in your pantry for hours.

“If I hadn’t pulled you out in the rain to talk things through, you wouldn’t have gotten sick and your girlfriend wouldn’t have made Oyaku for you! That’s enough reason for you to love me forever!”

“If you hadn’t interfered he wouldn’t have had to think we were dating instead.” You point out and dig your hands into Osamu’s grip on your arms, moving away from him.

“Babe, what-” He starts but you nod in the direction of your pantry. “Get the crackers. I can’t watch you any longer.”

“Really?” His face lights up like a child in front of a Christmas tree. It’s worth the ridiculous price you paid for the crackers.

“Really.”

He kisses you and the moment could be perfect. But there’s still Atsumu, fake gagging in the background.

My Kofi if you want to tip me

#I loved writing the banter #hope this is something good #my writing #osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x you #haikyuu drabbles #hq x reader #miya osamu #miya twins #miya atsumu #osamu fluff #osamu drabble

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hungharrington · 6 months

Note

I want Stevie to make me a needy little mess kissing everywhere on my tummy and thighs while purposely avoiding where I need him most

now why would loverboy be such a tease to his favourite person? maybe if they had done something to deserve it…. this one goes out to @boyfriendstevie for indulging my goofy ideas <3 while it’s technically smut it’s like… only hot if u find love hot HAHA fem!reader MDNI this entire blog is 18+

The radio sings idly behind you, midway between the kitchen and the lounge, and when you hear the fridge door close, you think nothing of it.

The novel in your hands has your attention, your body lax as you lay spread lazily across the couch. Your shoes are off and your jean shorts unbuttoned, your bra abandoned many hours ago; a picture of a well-spent Sunday afternoon.

“Someone’s awfully comfortable.”

Steve’s voice sounds from above you and you pull your eyes from the page before you to look up. He’s standing behind the couch, arms crossed, his expression… unreadable.

“Mmhm.” You hum with a happy smile. Laid back, you raise one of your legs and give his arm a poke with your toe. “Wanna come join?”

Steve smiles lightly, rounding the couch til he’s at the end of it. His hairy thighs lean up against the arm of the couch and he hums thoughtfully. “I dunno, I was gonna eat.”

A dirty thought crosses your mind. You laugh and part your thighs just an inch, insinuating just exactly what he should eat.

“Oh?” You say.

Steve catches on quick. His eyebrows hike up and he rolls his eyes, his endeared smile giving him away.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He asks, even as he moves forward to kneel on the cushions— his hands finding a place around each of your ankles. Your tummy burns as you realise he might be serious.

“I wouldn’t complain,” you quip back with a cheeky smile. Steve’s hands on your ankles shift up, smoothing up your calves with such evident adoration it makes your blood sing.

“Wouldn’t complain, she says,” Steve echoes your words with a mock-contemplation, pretending to ponder as his thumbs rub softly at the skin of your thighs. “Anyone ever call you a princess?”

He asks while his hands keep travelling up, his fingers tucking into your unbuttoned denim. Your hips lift as he pulls, letting them slide down your legs and be discarded to the floor.

Steve’s got an intense look in his eyes now, his flicking between your face and your barely clothed core. You feel yourself grow more excited.

“Mhm,” You answer his question, your breath hitching as Steve’s hands land back on your knees— sliding them down your thighs and drawing a line with his thumb right along the sensitive inner parts. “My boyfriend, actually.”

“Your boyfriend, huh?”

He bends down between his words to kiss one of your knees. You sigh, the novel in your hands pushed to the ground and forgotten completely. You hear it land with a clutter. Steve’s huge hands are still moving, still massaging up and down your thighs— til they creep higher.

“Tell me about him, this boyfriend.” Steve muses, beginning to smile. His hands ruck your shirt higher and higher, the callouses on his hands the perfect friction against your nipples. He gives them a good pinch and you gasp, your back arching into his touch.

“Uh huh…” you start, entirely distracted by how his lips have started to trail kisses down your thighs. Just a few touches in the right place and he’s got you soaking the cotton of your panties. You might be embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on.

“Well, he’s prob— probably the hottest guy in Hawkins.” Your voice skips as his mouth starts to reach the V of your thigh. His plush lips start to suckle, a dart of his tongue soothing over you as he sucks a hickey into the soft skin of your inner thigh.

His mouth pulls off abruptly. “Wait, probably?”

“Definitely.” You quickly amend. Steve melts into a smug grin, diving back down to continue his hickey as you let yourself sweet talk him. “Definitely 100% the hottest dude in town. Most attractive in the st—state, if you ask me.”

Steve hums against you appreciatively, switching his focus from one thigh to the other. You can feel your legs beginning to twitch, feel yourself clenching around nothing in pure anticipation. Steve nips and soothes at your thigh, his hands still roaming, still squeezing and pinching at your nipples enough to make you sigh sweetly.

When he finally moves from your thigh, it’s only a moment of relief before you realise he’s moving up to kiss at your tummy.

“Go on,” He urges you, eyes flashing up to meet yours with a grin. He knows you’ve caught onto his teasing now and despite how it makes your skin flutter, his kisses, the languid press of his mouth, all are just so so close to where you want him. But not close enough.

“He’s also,” You huff, all breathy now. You can feel how wet you are for him— can already envision how good it’ll feel when he gets his mouth on you. If he ever gets his mouth on you. “The biggest tease in the world.”

Steve pulls back from his motions with a pout. He’s still kneeling on the couch, your legs parted around him and at your words, his hands slide down to rest on your hipbones. His thumbs swatch up at down your panty line, teasing and tantalising. You squirm.

“Ughhhhh, why are you being a tease right now?” You ask, slumping back on the couch with a half a mind to stick your own hand down between your legs.

Steve’s hand gently touches your chin, pressing it lightly so you tilt your head forward to look him in the eye when he says, “Because you ate my pickle.”

You blink at him owlishly for a moment, his words throwing you for a loop. Then a laugh titters out your mouth and you cover it with your hand.

“Oh my god, I totally did.” You giggle, half at your lousy memory for stealing Steve’s final pickle from the him — and half because he’s actually petty enough to bring it back up during sex. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Are you? I don’t think you are.”

You laugh again, head thrown back and then nod as best you can. “I am! I’m sorry I ate your pickle, baby.”

Steve’s faux-bitchiness melts away and he pouts for a moment. “You know, I was looking forward to that.”

He jabs your thigh playfully and you can’t help but laugh again. Steve stares at you unabashedly— something hot in his chest at this mixture of laughter and pleasure and a silly little bicker over a pickle.

“I can offer only one consolation,” you say, laughter now gone as you peer up at him through your lashes.

When you know you’ve got him hooked in, you nudge your thighs up and spread them a little further. You watch as Steve shivers, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

He shifts on his knees, one hand pressing into his shorts which have become tighter and tighter. When he gathers himself, there’s a new fire in his eyes — fixed on his next meal.

“Well, best get rid of these then, huh?” He murmurs, his fingers finally pinching at your panties and moving to tug them down your legs. You shuffle to let him, the heat pooling in your stomach as he tucks them into his back pocket without a second thought.

This time when his mouth kisses its way down your thigh, Steve can barely wait — skipping past his previous hickies to lick through your folds with eagerly. You gasp and moan, hips squirming up to meet his mouth and Steve takes it all gratefully — more than content to spend his Sunday afternoon with his tongue between your thighs.

#i’m really on my goofy shit recently huh #idk it’s hot to me! i love silly banter! i love eating on the couch! :D #steve harrington x reader #steve x reader #steve harrington #jay writes #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve smut #smut

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

Text

based on this post by @liightsnow <3

“Lucas, what’s your favourite song?”

“Oh, uh. I don’t know.”

“Figure it out,” Steve says tightly. “And tell me. If we don’t have the taPes we can get some in town in the morning.”

The room is quiet, tense, and everyone knows what’s going through Steve’s head.

Just in case.

It’s almost uncomfortable, all of them sitting around the basement of Nancy’s house, on the sofas and the floor like they’re waiting for something.

“Mine’s Time After Time,” Erica says after a moment. “Cyndi Lauper.”

Dustin snorts.

“Excuse me?” Erica says, tilting her head, and Eddie suppresses a smile, looking back and forth between them. “Why is that funny?”

“Nothing,” Dustin says, shrugging.

“‘Nothing?’ Why’d you laugh then, huh?”

“Just…” The others are all watching too, suppressing their own tired smiles as they bicker. “You’re such a hard-ass, it’s kinda funny that your favourite song’s a romantic ballad.”

“Language,” Steve scolds. Eddie’s smile grows.

“What’s your favourite song, then, asshole?” Erica asks.

“Language,” Steve says louder. Eddie is grinning now, rocking back and forth, looking away from Steve’s scandalised expression to Dustin’s face, which is now flushing pink.

“…Angeleyes,” he admits. “By ABBA.”

There’s a chorus of muffled laughter around the room.

“ABBA?” Eddie questions, making a face, and Dustin raises a finger at him.

“This needs to be a judgement-free zone—“

“You were just laughing at me for Cyndi Lauper,” Erica interrupts, shoving at him.

“That’s ‘cause it was funny.”

“ABBA’s kinda funny, too,” Lucas says, shrugging. Max is next to him, giggling behind her hand, headphones around her neck, and Eddie can’t remember the last time he saw her laugh. Dustin flips Lucas off.

“What’s your favourite song?” he asks, slumping into his seat and crossing his arms, almost pouting.

Lucas pauses, thinking for another moment before he says, “Rio,” firmly. “Duran Duran.”

Steve gives an approving nod, and Eddie rolls his eyes. Figures the jocks would have the same music taste.

“Why?” Dustin asks. Lucas makes a face, tossing a hand.

“‘S a good song, why do I need a reason?” he asks, then leans forward. “Why do you like Angeleyes?” he teases. Dustin turns pink again.

“Makes me think of Suzie,” he says begrudgingly. “Does Rio make you think of anyone special?”

“Shut up,” Lucas snaps, backing off. Eddie glances at Max, whose cheeks are pink she she looks down, still smiling. Eddie’s grin widens.

When he glances at Steve, he’s smiling too, watching the kids fondly. And Eddie is grateful for this moment, for the softness and banter and bickering and normalness, even if it’s brief.

“Robin, what’s your favourite?” Lucas asks, ignoring the way Dustin is snickering at him.

“Uh,” she sighs, looking up at the ceiling, arms around her legs that are drawn to her chest. “Emerald Eyes, Fleetwood Mac.”

“Wait, do we all have the tapes for these?” Steve asks. "I think I have Fleetwood Mac, but..."

“I have Erica’s,” Nancy says. “In my room. I might have Dustin’s too.”

“I have mine at my house,” Lucas says. Steve hesitates.

“I might have it too,” he says. “I’ll check when we stop at mine tomorrow.” Lucas nods. “Nancy, what’s yours? You have it?”

“Yeah,” Nancy says. “I have it, its’s One Way or Another. Blondie.”

Steve nods.

The rooms falls quiet again. Eddie looks at Steve again, at the way he’s sitting on the floor, arms around his legs like Robin. at the way he’s biting his lip, deep in thought. There’s a crease between his eyebrows. He looks too old, not at all like the boy Eddie used to see in the hallways at school. It feels weird to miss him.

“Steve,” he says quietly. Steve blinks, looking up at him like he’s startled. “What’s yours?”

“Uh, Shout At The Devil by Mötley Crüe,” he says. “I have it in my room.”

He’s met with silence.

Eddie finally stops rocking back and forth, staring at Steve, wondering if he really just said what Eddie heard. Steve blinks and looks back at him, then at the kids.

“…What?”

“Mötley Crüe?” Lucas says slowly.

“Yes?”

“Since when do you listen to metal?” Dustin says, and Eddie would go after him for his tone (he sounds disgusted) if he weren’t still frozen, stuck in place.

“Since, like, middle school,” Steve says defensively, rocking Eddie’s world even more. “What’s your deal?”

“I thought you were gonna say something by, like, Wham,” Max says dryly. Steve makes a face.

“Or ABBA,” Erica adds, dodging Dustin’s elbow.

“He listens to metal all the time,” Robin says, and Eddie finally tears his eyes away from Steve to look at her, wide-eyes. “Drives me crazy.”

“You don’t mind Van Halen,” Steve says defensively, leaning forward to look at her, and Eddie’s gaze finds him again.

“I do when I get out of school,” she says sassily. “And I’m tired, and I want a nap, and I get into your car to hear some guy yelling—“

“It’s not yelling, oh my god—“

Eddie’s lips are parted as he looks at Steve in awe as they bicker. He snaps out of it when Steve looks at him, their eyes meeting across the coffee table, and he blinks.

“What?” Steve says, half-smiling like he knows. Eddie shrugs, starting to rock back and forth again.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he says lightly. Steve raises an eyebrows. (God, why is that hot?)

“To have good music taste?” he asks, amused. Eddie shrugs again.

“Debatable.”

“The hell do you mean debatable?” Steve says, defensive again. Eddie grins.

“Mötley Crüe’s glam metal—“

“You are so fucking annoying,” Steve says, his eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Eddie throws his head back with a loud Hah! as a chorus of Language! rings around the room, followed by giggles as Steve makes a face.

“What’s yours?” Nancy asks, kicking Eddie lightly from where she’s sitting on the sofa.

“Master of Puppets,” he says, his smile fading. “Metallica. I have it in my room, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to get it from the trailer—“

“I have it.”

Eddie’s eyes snap back across the coffee table. Steve is looking at him. Earnestly. Seriously. Eddie furrows his brows.

“What?” Steve says. “I have it.”

“Who are you?” Dustin says, and Steve finally looks away from Eddie to glare at Dustin.

“You be quiet, Angeleyes.”

“It’s a good song—“

“For a twelve year old girl, maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Erica interrupts.

Their voices turns to white noise. Eddie stares at Steve, his cheeks flushing with heat, and he pulls a piece of his hair across his face absentmindedly, gazing and gazing and gazing at Steve while he bickers with Dustin. Steve’s smile when Lucas joins him in teasing Dustin makes Eddie’s face flush warmer, and Eddie blinks hard, dropping his hair and looking away so he doesn’t combust.

He turns a little bit to find Nancy staring at him, her head tilted, eyebrows raised a little, her eyes shining with amusement even though her expression kind of looks like she’s watching a house fire.

“Unbelievable,” she says after a moment, and his face turns hot, and he knows he’s blushing profusely as he points at her.

“You can’t say shit to me.”

She raises her hands in surrender, wide-eyed.

She gives him the same look the next day when Steve comes back with the tapes. Steve calls, “Eds,” while Eddie is laying upside down on one of the sofa, and Eddie tries to sit up before Steve tosses the tape to him. He manages to catch it, looking at it curiously in a lapse of memory before he remembers just as he spots his name written on the label, slanted and a little loopy in Steve’s handwriting.

He looks up at Steve while Steve walks away to find Robin, and he’s smiling again, and Nancy is rolling her eyes.

“You’re acting like he made you a personal mixtape,” she says when Steve is out of earshot. “He’s getting you a tape so you don’t die a gruesome death—“

“Listen, Wheeler, I’ve been through a lot,” he says, letting his head fall again as his eyes close. holding up a hand to shut her up. “Let me have this, please.”

“Okay, Eddie.”

She’s smiling.

—————————

Without you, my hope is small Let me be me all along

Eddie inhales slowly, feeling coming into his body. He can see bright light through his eyelids, and he feels cold, but something warm is touching his hand.

Let the fires rage inside Knowing someday I'd grow strong

Fingers playing with his, tracing them, running across his knuckles, squeezing and massaging and holding gently. The music that's playing is quiet, like it’s coming from headphones instead of a speaker, and Eddie’s lips twitch into a smile when he recognises the song.

Without you, without you

His hand finally shifts, his fingers twitching, and the hand holding his tightens as weight makes the bed he’s on shift.

“Eddie?”

Eddie exhales, squeezing his hand a little bit and turning his head. The pillow he’s laying on is really soft, and he hears his hair scratch over the fabric.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says weakly. His voice is scratchy and rough and almost unintelligible, and it hurts to speak. He winces. Feeling seeps back into his body, and he groans.

“You okay?” Steve asks softly, and his other hand is touching Eddie’s face, tracing his cheek lightly.

“My whole body hurts,” Eddie grumbles, closing his eyes again.

“Yeah, no shit, moron,” Steve says, but he’s laughing a little, and Eddie snorts, coughing. He turns his head so he isn’t coughing into Steve’s face.

“Fuck.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” Steve says softly.

Eddie sighs, relaxing into the bed as Steve touches his face again, squeezing his hand. His fingertips brush over his forehead and cheek and the bridge of his nose.

But with you in my life You're the reason I'm alive

Eddie slowly turns his head toward the music, squinting in the bright lights of the hospital that reflect off the sterile walls and while blankets that are covering his body. There’s a walkman next to him on the bed, the chord of the headphones tangled as the music plays quietly but loud enough to be heard. Eddie closes his eyes again, smiling softly.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind glam metal,” Steve says. Eddie can hear his smile. “Pretentious fucker.”

Eddie laughs weakly again, coughing.

“I don’t mind,” he whispers.

He turns his face into Steve’s palm and kisses it. And then his face flushes with heat as Steve leans down and presses his lips to his forehead. He wants to hide behind his hair, but he’s too tired to reach up to pull it across his face, and then he doesn’t really want to hide as Steve smiles at him with this softness in his eyes that no one’s ever looked at Eddie with before.

“I thought they were gonna follow us through,” Eddie says quietly. “The— The bats. ‘S why I stayed.”

Steve squeezes his hand.

“I told you not to be a hero,” he whispers.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Steve kisses his forehead again, and then he leans over Eddie, pressing their foreheads together.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, so softly that it seems like it’s to himself.

Eddie sighs, focussing on the pressure of Steve’s forehead against his, of Steve’s fingers twisted around his. He smells like expensive soap, citrusy and warm.

“You wanna go to a Sabbath gig with me someday?” he mumbles. Steve laughs softly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Cool.”

#banter is so fun to write #this ended up much longer than i meant it to but #also went into this w no plan i had no clue how this was gonna end #oh well #steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie oneshot #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things #stranger things one shot

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forestryprompts · 6 months

Text

Character A: You know, for someone so clever, you have an uncanny ability to always get us into trouble.

Character B: Trouble finds us, my dear, and I simply offer it a seat.

Character A: Maybe next time, offer it a cup of tea and a polite exit strategy.

Character B: Ah, but where's the fun in that? Besides, trouble has terrible taste in tea.

Character A: I can't decide if your audacity is infuriating or endearing.

Character B: Why not both? Keeps things interesting.

#dialogue prompts #prompt #story starter #writeblr #writerblr #writing inspiration #writing prompt #dialogue prompt #writing prompts #prompts #writing ideas #writing #imagine your otp #otp prompts #imagine your ocs #oc prompts #humor prompts #banter prompts #cute prompts

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kinkmom · 7 months

Text

Get Kissed, Idiot

Ashley knows how to rile Andrew up. 😏 Luckily the outcome is to fuck her and not kill her (this time).

Hopefully the gif keeps a readable speed. :'0 Too bad I don't know how to easily make rolling text like RPG maker does, it would have been a cooler visual.

#The Coffin of Andy and Leyley #TCOAAL #Gravescest #Coffincest #Andrew x Ashley #Andrew Graves #Ashley Graves #dubcon #kinda? he needs a little encouragement :)#straight #the arts #writing banter is so much fun :D

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donelywell · 11 days

Note

If Sonic ever got stuck in Werefox form, what would happen?

I know this is technically not what you asked for- but I'm gonna use this as an excuse to draw Tails' first reaction to witnessing the start of a Super Full Moon transformation cycle.

It's odd that there isn't a lot of stories where Sonic teaches Tails something. I know Tails is a genius, but he's like 3 here.

But yeah! Sonic does sometimes technically get 'stuck' in his Hedgefox form.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic the werehog #dadnic #(but he isn't aware of that yet)#miles tails prower #tails the fox #roadtrip!sonic au #sonic fanart #wholesome sonic and tails wednesday #This was gonna be uploaded on time- but these two just HAD to banter so much #I say that like I'm not the person who's writing them...#Coincidentally- tonight seems to be a full moon for me.

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jasminesfury · 1 year

Text

silly funny quirky prompts?

um. hi. more pre/post smut actually

part 2 !!!

cw: suggestive, obviously

<while panting> “well..three times a night is certainly a record isn’t it?” “records are meant to be broken”

“still hate me?” “definitely” “just as much?” “hmm…maybe * pinches fingers* a little less”

“oh well that was..” “yup” “and that” “i know ” “and THAT” “oh my god” “…..” “round two?” “oh definitely”

one of their roommates being like “you know all i want for christmas/my birthday/etc is some noise cancelling headphones i think they’ll be utilised quite a lot actually” “…that is three months away” “you both are the reason i need them especially after..that time so go figure”

if it’s friends to lovers: them knowing exactly what the other likes and doing their best to like do those things

if it’s enemies to lovers: “this changes nothing i still hate you” “sure you do”/“didn’t seem that way two minutes ago”

<while making out> “is this moving too fast” “i uhm- maybe yeah” “…” “fuck it anyway?” “great idea” <resumes making out>

“YOU SLEPT WITH A??? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING????”

“you’re so cute when you get all blushy”

“are you..are you blushing?” “NO physical activity just makes me red okay”

eye-fucking each other across the room and someone just says “earth to A/B?? hello??”

“name one thing we benefit out of this relationship?” “well..” “the sex doesn’t count” “it is good” “THATS NOT THE POINT” “do you disagree?” “..no” “there you go”

character A making it their absolute goal for character B to admit that the best sex they’ve ever had is w/ A, and they both are kinda surprised when it actually happens

“that is simply not possible” “challenge accepted”

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unboundprompts · 2 months

Text

Random Prompt #132

"Do you think you'd love me in every universe?"

"I don't even like you in this one."

#writing prompts #creative writing #dialogue prompt #writeblr #story prompt #otp prompts #random prompt #character banter prompts

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

Text

Nico really fucking hates capture the flag.

Well, not always. Last week was fun. Last week was the annual Everyone Against The Stolls (to atone for their crimes), and Nico got to chase Connor around at top speeds, cackling, committing his shrieking and begs for mercy to memory. That was nice. That almost made him forgive the fucker for digging a trench under Nico’s unwelcome mat for him to fall into at seven thirty in the godsdamn morning.

But tonight’s game is boring.

He’s been standing, alone, at the base of the flag for the past forty bajillion hours. He’d raised a few dozens skeletons to spar with at first, since animating them to fight himself isn’t technically against the rules, but that got dull fast. (It isn’t much fun sparring with a partner who doesn’t have a brain. He already has to do that enough with Percy when he comes to visit camp.) He’d climbed the various trees around the clearing, or at least he tried until he got reamed by the dryads for climbing on a manner that was too annoying (?), and tried his hands at a few summoning spells. Nothing held his interest long.

And now he’s just standing, doing nothing, and he’s not allowed to leave. He has to stay in this stupid spot on the off chance that someone comes stumbling over to fight him for the flag.

“You’re our best swordsman, she said,” he says mockingly, beaming the nastiest vibes he can manage in Piper’s vague direction. “We need you on our defensive line, she said. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.”

His checks his watch. He groans. He looks critically over the grass, looking for a softer patch, and when he locates it he throws himself dramatically upon it, groaning louder.

“This sucks!” he yells, to no one.

“Will you shut up!” shouts back the dryad he pissed off earlier. “For the love of photosynthesis! Fuck!”

He bites his tongue hard to hold back laughter. (If he can avoid getting his entire cabin overgrown with prickle bushes again, that’d be great.) “Sorry,” he calls, trying with everything he has to sound contrite. Convincing his father to fight the Titan War was easier, actually. Acting is not his calling.

“Hmph!”

At least listening to see if she’ll come out and yell at him again provides something to ease his boredom. Yes, he’s going to regret bothering her, but in his defense, solo guarding is cruel and unusual punishment. He’d rather sit by an outlet with a fork and see if he can poke and let go fast enough to avoid dying. That at least would be interesting.

A rustling of leaves recaptures his attention, and he pauses.

“Holly?”

When no one answers, which is odd because she’s taken every opportunity in the last hour to either insult him or pelt him with stones, he lifts his head.

“You’re not going to scare me, dude. I had my fear glands surgically removed to become a better soldier.”

Not true. Obviously. But a fun bonus of being the camp weirdo is that no one doubts anything he says. He’s working on convincing everyone younger than him that he needs weekly tributes of chocolate delivered to his door every Friday or the dead are going to take over the world. So far, it’s working.

“Look, Holly, I’m sorry about the zombie, okay, I promise it didn’t mean to sneeze part of its brain on you —”

The rustling sounds again, only this time Nico can see that it’s not Holly’s tree, and in fact she is nowhere to be found. Alarmed, he jumps to his feet, shifting so he’s balanced on the balls of his feet, poised to attack. Is Piper’s plan failing? Has someone actually managed to make it all the way over here without getting (gently, probably, although they lost the last game and Piper gets cranky without dessert) maimed?

The rustling sounds for a third time. This time, an armoured someone stumbles out of the underbrush, tripping over their own foot and nearly landing flat on their face.

Nico has his sword at their throat in a millisecond.

“Wo-oah, Morbius. That’s probably my least favourite sword you could stab in me.”

Nico goes bright red. “I have never wanted to stab you more than right this second.”

Will, chest plate skewed to the right, quiver completely empty, and black paint smeared under his eyes, snickers. He puts a finger on the tip of Nico’s sword and pushes it away from his neck.

“The opportunity was right there, babe. I couldn’t not.”

“You really, really could. In fact at all times, you should remember these words of wisdom: shut up.”

“…Damn. Inspiring.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the smile on his face and the obvious pleasure in his expression. He’s even feeling merciful enough to accept Will’s kiss, although his sword keeps a good amount of distance between them. (Will’s on the blue team, after all. It would be unprofessional to be fraternizing with the enemy.

…Well, too much, anyway.)

“What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the other archers, sitting in trees and causing havoc.”

Will shrugs, grinning lazily. “I quit. This game is senselessly violent and I’m Against It On Principle. I’m a pacifist, you know.”

“Uh huh.” Nico raises an eyebrow. “I assume this doesn’t count you choking Cecil out in a headlock, this morning.”

Will opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again.

“Cecil is my mortal enemy,” he grudges after a moment. “He doesn’t count.”

“‘Course not. Not like you cried for two hours when he went to visit his mom last weekend or anything.”

“Will you — stop saying I cried. I barely teared up, okay. Barely.”

Nico can’t quite force down the stupid grin that pulls across his face, matching Will’s, nor can he resist grabbing the leather straps of his boyfriend’s armour and hauling him close.

“You better not be here to distract me,” he mumbles, leaning close and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Will hums, settling his hands on Nico’s hips.

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Drama queen.”

“Excuse — I am the least dramatic, I’ll have you know. I’m a pinnacle of solemnity. I am a shining beacon of stoicism. I am — mmfh,” He trails off. “Okay, doing this now, mhm.”

Nico smiles triumphantly into the kiss. Will, he has found, is very easy to shut up, despite his long-running nickname of Motormouth. It’s almost like he has an off button that can be accessed only by Nico sticking his tongue in his mouth. Nico is doing his civic duty, honestly. He should be compensated for his service.

(‘Course, doesn’t hurt that Will smells, like, really good, all the time, and his lips are soft as hell and he is actually quite the kisser, in fact. That is definitely a fun bonus.)

He smooths his hands over Will’s shoulders, travelling up the sides of his neck and settling in his hair. Will keens, slightly, when he wraps a finger around a frizzy golden curl and tugs, slightly, when he scratches his nails along his scalp. The rush of power at the feeling makes Nico dizzy, and his sword clatters to the ground as he busies himself with more interesting — and important — things.

Like pulling more of those sounds from his boyfriend’s throat. Or making his knees buckle, again, like he did the other night — gods, that was good, it made Will flush scarlet and Nico feel like he was fuckin’ floating, to have Will so needy and touchy and totally at his mercy —

“Free line to the flag! Go go go go!”

Nico startles, whirling towards the sudden cacophony of noises. To his horror, what looks like half the camp, helmets shining with plumes of blue, comes pouring into the clearing, weapons raised, voices mixing in one long, victorious shout. He lunges for his sword, but before he can grab it, two strong arms tighten around his torso, pinning his hands to his side.

Immediately, he knows he’s been set up.

“Oh, you — fucker!”

He feels the curve of Will’s grin against his neck. “First shower privileges for a whole month, baby.” He noses along his jaw, pressing an apologetic kiss to his cheek. “Couldn’t resist.”

Nico struggles, aghast, watching the once-red flag shimmer in Lou Ellen's hold to a bright, shining blue. “I am breaking up with you, you traitor, you Iago, you vixen — ”

Will snorts. He ducks down and pecks Nico on the lips, again, and again, and then shifts to his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his temples, his forehead, and all over his face, making louder and louder mwah sounds until Nico is laughing, punching his shoulder and shoving him away.

“Okay! Okay. Let me go, you villainous toad. We will discuss how much you’ll have to grovel for my forgiveness after Piper finishes yelling at me for getting distracted.”

Will presses one last kiss to his nose, smiling cheekily before stepping away, heading towards his boasting team. “Enjoy that lecture! Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nico rolls his eyes, resting his aching cheek in his hand. “Love you too, asshole.”

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