#for a while a couple years ago if i wanted to draw a wc character i would only draw him but i dont think i ever posted ANY of it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

some-kindofgnome · 3 years

Text

for auld lang syne

“And then I woke up in the hospital alone, and I saw the doctor alone and took a taxi home alone. I went to physical therapy alone and saw my counsellor alone. Whatever you thought, Katsuki, whatever you believed made me spend six months staring at my phone and thinking I’d ruined everything.”

It’s time for your agency’s extravagant New Years’ Eve party. But after a little sabbatical, there are some things you’re not ready to come back to.

characters: katsuki bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.2k

warnings: smut (18+ please!) aged-up characters, pro hero!bakugou and pro hero!reader, mentions of injury, near-death experiences and gunshots, smoking, drinking, angst with a (filthy) happy ending, me being a whore for glamorous new years’ parties

notes: This fic has been dragging me across the coals since Christmas- I could not get it out of my head, despite how much work I knew it would be to get it out on time. Still, it feels supremely worth it. I have a metric ton of love to give to @hoe-doroki for beta-ing this mammoth on such short notice (I dumped it in her lap at 4am) because she really helped me whip it into shape. As always. 💖

Happy New Year, everyone.

(MASTERLIST)

“Won’t be long now.”

Anxiety bleeds into the already-nervous voice of your driver, muffled by the plexiglass divider that separates you. You’ve been sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the past four red lights, barely inching toward the intersection with every green.

You’re well past fashionably late at this point. You’re sure that the commissioned driver’s fearing for his job at this point, knowing exactly how long ago you were supposed to have arrived at your own party.

But you couldn’t care less. The longer it takes you to get there, the better. The vodka you’d downed neat, standing over the bar cart in your polished apartment, sours in the pit of your stomach. And the fact that your outfit barely allows a spare breath isn’t exactly cooling your nerves, either.

You’re draped over the door, resting one elbow on its edge to cushion your jaw as you lay your forehead against the chilly glass. Outside, the crowded traffic casts a golden warmth over the bluish urban night, betraying the slow swirl of fluffy snowflakes that drift lazily into the street.

Tonight has all the makings for an ideal, albeit bitterly cold, New Year’s Eve. But if it were up to you, you’d be watching all the wonder unfold from the comfort of your own bed.

You’ve been away long enough, though, says your agent. It’s time, says your manager. You stay away from the spotlight for too long and we’re going to forget about you, says the Internet.

The glittering gold fabric your stylist presented you with would’ve swelled your heart on any other occasion. He knows your taste to the button. And after breaking into exhausted sobs at your first fitting together, you’d been able to tell him that the outfit was perfect.

At long last, the glossy windows of your agency loom outside. You push the backseat door open before your driver can even kill the engine, stepping out as gracefully as you can muster and pulling the folds of your designer coat demurely closed around your glamorous party clothes. You’re greeted by swaths of flashbulbs and determined shouts of your hero name, and suddenly the practiced gracious smile that you’ve always saved for the cameras is stretching your lips one more time.

You used to love something about this. But you’ve almost never had to face it alone.

Inside, the party’s taken off without you. Your coat’s taken before you can even see who’s hands are slipping it deftly off your shoulders, but by the time you’re ushered into the elevator and sent all the way to the top floor, you’re already sweating with the anticipation of all that’s waiting for you.

The doors open to a rush of guests, each noticing you simultaneously and pushing in to greet you.

Arriving late does absolutely nothing to dissolve the grandness of your entrance. Your attention is immediately pulled in a handful of different directions as celebrities and dignitaries and politicians shake your hands and congratulate you. People you’ve never met are telling you how good it is to see you on your feet again and, despite the overwhelming distractions, you can’t stop searching the crowd.

You don’t want to let yourself search for somebody in particular, but you spot him long before your shame catches up with you.

It’s not a glimpse of his mussed hair you catch, bobbing through the crowd. Nor is it a slip of the edge of his suit, the most devastating shade of midnight blue you could have possibly imagined.

Your eyes, like magnets, are drawn right to his crimson gaze. Lightning shoots through your chest, and you look away so fast you nearly pull a muscle in your neck. You cast your gaze immediately to the red-faced MP in front of you and let yourself stare. Still, from the corner of your eye, you can see the way he lingers, still facing you.

You haven’t seen Katsuki in months. Luckily, your ability to multitask has not faded, and you make easy small talk with the mayor and his wife while you sense him, in all his midnight splendor, disappearing into the crowd again.

A close call. Too close, in fact, not to warrant a drink. You excuse yourself kindly from the mayor’s attention, cutting through the glamorous partygoers until you reach the bar at the center of the room. It’s crowded, but you grab the bartender’s attention quick enough and order the first of many glasses of Dom Perignon.

The agency knows how to spend, for a special occasion.

It’s while you’re trapped at the bar, waiting for that imperative first drink, that he corners you. You spot him an instant too late, sidling between two dancing couples and crossing the short distance between you. There’s no way to skirt subtly away from him now. Instead, you lean more fervently across the bar and immerse yourself in an intense examination of the liquor, shelved decoratively behind the working bartenders.

He hesitates—possibly for the first time ever—but you’re determined not to watch as he searches for the right way to bridge the silence. You spot the way he stuffs his hands into his pockets, and when he finally speaks it’s low and sharp and bitter.

“That’s a nice dress.”

He has to lean too close to make his voice heard, speaking low and gruff to you in a way he never used to. You’re too anxious to care whether he sees the way you close your eyes to dull the fervent ache that flares in your chest.

He’s not allowed to say things like that to you. Not now.

“Listen.” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, pushing ahead.

In the throes of closeness, it’s easy to pick up the tremor in his voice. That kind of shake used to scare you. It’s the way he’s always spoken to you when he’s keeping his temper at bay in public.

He’s opening his mouth to say something else, something deeper and far more expository perhaps, but your champagne arrives with no moment to spare. You pluck it eagerly from the bartender’s fingers with an exceedingly gracious smile and turn quickly in the direction you swear Katsuki’s not blocking.

“Watch it.” He grabs your wrist to keep you from sloshing half your fresh champagne down your front. His touch sears hotter than you’d dreaded, and you can’t stop yourself from flinching at the rough brush of his calloused fingers over your tender inner wrist.

Fuck.

“Don’t run off,” he insists, squeezing your wrist just a little tighter. Your entire body is drawn tight like a bow, but you’re not actively searching for an escape route at this point. Sensing this, he slowly unwraps his fingers, dropping your hand and letting you down half your drink in a couple of parched gulps.

“You look…” you start to say, letting your eyes wander his immaculate form one more time. Whoever cut that suit for him knew his shape well. It fits perfectly. Contrasts his golden hair like the night behind a harvest moon.

Absence has not culled your feelings for him. Especially not when he comes back to you like this.

You take another long, slow sip, ignoring the way Katsuki’s brows shoot toward his hairline when you nearly empty the glass. His gaze darts to the narrow flute in your hand, the prints of peachy lipstick that mar it.

With your heart beating a touch slower, you try again.

“You look good.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes.

“I can’t—” he starts, shaking his head as his eyes swim the crowd. “I’m not doing this.”

“What?” Your stomach drops. When he looks at you again it’s dead straight, burgundy and blazing in that way that used to make you molten.

Now it makes you want to cut and run.

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ play nice, like this,” he pushes. He takes a step toward you, letting your name—your real name—fall from his lips as tender and soft as a prayer. “Explain to me why my agent had to tell me you were gonna be here tonight.”

“Katsuki,” you plead quietly, backing away from him a touch. “I don’t want to—I can’t. Here. Please.”

For a million other people he might press on. He might get angry and demand an answer, threaten anything it takes to solve the puzzles in his brain. For you, his strong jaw ticks and he shoves clenched fists back into his ironed pockets.

“Let’s just,” you begin, “make it through to midnight, okay?”

“Fine,” he bites, but he doesn’t like folding to you. He gets you back by clearing his throat and extending you a palm, drawing the attention of the people around you. They turn, charmed by the agency’s finest reappearing as the duo they’ve always adored.

There’s a glint of something in his eyes as he gives his chin a little jut toward the dance floor.

“Dance with me, then.”

You’ve been to hundreds of opulent agency spectacles together. Charity benefits, galas, holiday parties and the like have always been studded by your presence. But no matter how many times you’ve entered the party together, you never managed to get him onto the dance floor. Despite your whining and pleading and fussing, he’s never ever let you drag him out there.

So this feels like a particularly low blow. But the orchestra’s struck up a dreamy rendition of The Way You Look Tonight and there are too many people watching for you to turn him down.

Instead, you down the rest of your champagne, set it on the bar behind you, and slip your hand defiantly into his.

“Fine.”

His fingers close gently around your palm and he gives it a lingering squeeze that turns your blood to venom.

You’re already racing through a complex plan to survive this attention as he walks you onto the dance floor. Some of the other couples pause in their swaying to send a smattering of applause over the crowd. You can feel the winning smile tugging at your mouth, forcing you to swallow the panicked ache in your chest.

Katsuki pauses at the center of the dance floor and pulls you slowly closer. The low dip of your gown places his warm hand on bare skin when he settles it in the small of your back, and you’re sure he doesn’t miss the sharp little suck of breath that you’re not prepared to hide.

He does not try to speak, so you’re silent as you settle a shaky hand on the shoulder of his perfect suit. He’s as perfect a dancer as you’ve always known he’d be, and he leads you into a smooth little sway that’s easy enough to navigate in your precarious gold heels but sweeps you into the music like a scene from years gone by.

“Hey,” he grunts a few bars in, ducking a little closer as his fingers press into the bare skin of your spine. He pulls you against him, forcing your tense body against his. The gentle dip of his hairstyle brushes your temple as he leans forward to murmur in your ear. “You’re holding your breath.”

You deflate against him, letting your eyes fall shut. When you take your next careful inhale, your head is filled by the heady, smoky scent of him. Your heart pounds so forcefully it’s practically blinding you. But above all else you hate yourself for still feeling all of this, after so many months of promising to force it away.

Katsuki knows you well enough not to try and trap you in conversation in public. But he doesn’t pull back any further, continuing to hold you flush against him, letting your soft cheek brush his with every couple of steps.

Despite your best efforts, you’re drowning in him: the strength of his touch, the fluidity in his movements. His thumb strokes the base of your spine with an easy rhythm that you’re trying hard not to notice. It’s becoming too much. He’s holding you closer than a colleague should, tucking his nose too attentively against the side of your head for a courtesy dance. You’re overthinking too many of the signs. You’re letting yourself believe what should have been thoroughly dashed to pieces so many months ago.

It’s when tears well behind your glittery eyelids that you put a stop to it.

“Katsuki, I—” You can’t finish, pushing yourself sharply away from his chest. Whatever expression of dreamlike peace that had touched his eyes fades quickly as he sees the telltale wet sparkle in yours, and he reaches for you an instant too late.

He calls your name softly, fingertips brushing the edge of your upper arm. But your tears are spilling over and you’re backing away and you cannot be here anymore, not when people are starting to see.

“I can’t do this,” you plead. “I can’t pre—I’m sorry.”

With a final shake of your head, you turn and hurry clumsily from the dance floor, pulling up the beaded skirt of your heavy gown and sweeping, as quickly as possible, to the glass doors shut tightly against the imposing snow on the terrace.

It’s bitterly cold, nearly fifty storeys up, and the wind whips mercilessly past your bare arms with biting chill. You can’t stay out here long, but it still feels better than the alternative.

With shaking fingers, you dip into the tiny bag you’ve been wearing over one shoulder. You’ve stashed exactly one emergency cigarette in its silky depths. You haven’t smoked in weeks, but something told you that tonight would beg one.

You have to back away from the railing to even light it in the wind, but you’re barely two puffs in before the door behind you opens carefully.

It’s the last person in the world you hoped for. And the only one you can imagine finding you out here. He’s got a glass of something neat in each hand—amber in one, clear in the other. He spies the cigarette in your fingers and his soft, concerned expression melts into a scowl.

“You’re still smoking?”

You take a defiant drag, blowing the smoke in his direction. The wind catches it, carrying it in a sharp curve back over your head. Katsuki licks his lower lip, but you can tell by the way his nose twitches that he’s trying not to chuckle.

You nod toward the whiskey in his right hand. “How many of those have you had tonight?”

“Not enough,” he quips. He nods toward the cigarette. “Put it out.”

“You don’t get to order me around anymore.”

“I said put it out.”

Your livid soul wants to defy him. You’re craving the conflict that inevitably comes when you both dig in your heels. But you’ve got no energy left to fight, so you flick the smoke dejectedly onto the wet pavement and crush it under one delicate pump.

“Better?” The attitude cuts cruelly through your voice. Katsuki just pushes the other glass into your hand and you know that it’s gin before you even have to smell it. You roll your eyes.

“The healthier alternative,” you snarl, but he’s finished with your games.

“Come inside,” he prompts. “You’re gonna lose your nose out here.”

“I’m not sure that’s your problem any longer.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what? Katsuki, I wanna hear you say it.”

He’s throwing back an irritated slug of his drink, but he bristles, gesturing wildly with the cup.

“Like we’re not gonna be partners anymore.”

His voice is punctuated by a horrible, involuntary sob that breaks from your lips. He’s always been able to read you so well, picking up on things that you’re not even ready to acknowledge. But he’s right. That is how you’ve been speaking, because you can’t even imagine standing next to him in a photo right now, let alone letting him take your life into his hands.

Katsuki moves forward, shocked by your tears, but you hold your empty palm out straight and, like he would only for you, he relents.

“Because I don’t think we can be anymore.”

“Shut up. Look at you. You’re fine. You look…” his eyes cast briefly over your form, “fine.”

You clap a hand protectively to your abdomen, remembering the painful tug and knowing that he’s missing the point.

“That’s not why,” you snap through your tears. “That’s not even…close to why. Katsuki, don’t be dense.” Your voice is breaking because you’re about to say it, the thing you couldn’t even bring yourself to feel as you were zipped into your gown earlier tonight. And if you’re going to say it, there’s no point in doing it with gusto.

Might as well go out like the whimpering fool you are.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whine, “because somehow, despite my best efforts, Katsuki, I fell fucking in love with you, so hard, and you knew I did, and so you…you don’t. You don’t, and I’ve ruined everything, and that’s fine, but I—”

He pulls your name from the very depths of his chest. If you were expecting fire and brimstone, you’re met with an even more harrowing sight—soft, somber, remorseful Katsuki, looking at you like he’d stop the world on its axis if it would make things better.

The memories are too easy to reconjure, and the sunshine of that sticky summer afternoon that changed everything lights up behind his gaze.

There was a crime syndicate you’d been uprooting for months. An underground hideout tucked well away from the prying eyes of hero society. A stray spray of bullets—bullets, of all things, finding the gaps in your shattered armour and nearly taking you from him.

You’d been sure. Both of you. There were too many shots. There was too much blood. The hideout was too well-hidden for anybody to find you in time. Your vision was bleeding out around the edges, and you saw Katsuki cry real tears for the first time.

In a slurred heap of breathless prose, you’d unloaded everything. The most important secret you’d ever kept from him came spilling from your blood-tinged lips.

You were glad to go, if it meant you never had to lose him. Glad to be the one to selfishly leave him behind. You were going to be okay if you never had to face a world without him in it. Because—and you’d choked this on a fresh wave of blood and ungraceful spittle—you’d loved him as long as you’d ever known him.

Six days later, you woke up alone in the ICU. And that was the last you’d seen or heard or known of the man who’d once promised to have your back, always.

Katsuki silently finishes his drink. His cheeks and nose have flushed deeply from the ruthless chill, and he turns to give the city one last glance before moving toward the door.

“Come inside,” he gruffs. Deep shivers have broken out along the column of your spine, but you wrap your frigid arms around yourself in protest.

“I’m not going back in there.” Not like this.

“Idiot,” he snaps softly. “Look at you. You’re gonna die for real if you stay out here.” He tightens his jaw and slams the empty glass down on the windowsill. Then he looks at you with all the lights of the night blazing in his crimson stare.

“Let me take you somewhere quiet. No one’s gonna see.” His chest rises and falls with a deep breath and he reaches carefully for your arm. “I promise.”

Even with a breaking heart, you’re a fucking sucker for him. Your voice is teary and pathetic but pinched by cold.

“Fine.”

He slips an arm around your shoulders—making your chest lurch—and you duck back inside. Immediately he takes you to the wall, putting himself between you and the rest of the party. With the breadth of his chest he shields you from prying eyes that grow drunker by the minute.

You skirt the edge of the party, making it to the stairwell door on the opposite wall. Somebody by the bar looks up just in time to see Bakugou tugging fiercely down on the handle, but you slip onto the fluorescent-lit landing and the silver door falls shut behind you without consequence.

You’re turning around to grab for the door that isn’t closing fast enough as he slips through it, colliding gently with his chest. Bakugou grabs your wrists to stop you, and for an instant you’re nose-to-nose, smelling him and the whiskey on his breath and the faint odour of paint that never quite faded from the concrete walls.

If not for the tears leaving streaks in your makeup, you might let yourself believe he’s lingering in front of you on purpose.

You pull from his grip and turn back toward the stairs before either of you have the chance to imagine more.

Your office is at the end of the hall on the next floor down. It’s a corner office studded with windows, far too lovely for someone who spends as much time in the field as you do. But you’d worked hard to make it a personable space, with plants and artwork and a couple of very comfortable guest chairs in emerald velvet.

Katsuki rolls his eyes every time he has to wave off the odour of your favourite scented candle, but you’ve caught him admiring what you’ve done with his office, too.

Now, the space is too tidy for either of your tastes, a little dusty from so many months of neglect. You’ve been out of commission for six months, and nursing a heartbreak far too immense to allow any casual visits to the agency.

He closes the door behind the both of you. Locks it, just in case. You’re already pacing across the rug and perching on the edge of the desk, gratefully taking some of the weight off your aching feet.

He keeps his back to you for a long moment, fingers lingering on the brass doorknob. His shoulders bob with a deep, harrowing sigh.

“You were dying.”

He turns around, and in the quiet dark of your office his eyes are lit up with a deeper fear than you’ve ever seen in him. He comes toward you and sits in one of your squishy little chairs, steepling his fingers and settling his elbows on his knees.

“You don’t–” he shakes his head and lowers it, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. “You don’t understand. You weren’t making any sense.”

“I was,” you bite back, gripping at the edge of your desk. “I meant everything I said to you, Katsuki; I remember every word.”

He flinches. He looks so sorry it’s starting to genuinely scare you.

“That’s not it,” he demands, straightening. “You didn’t. I did.” He slapped a hand against his chest, the dull thud reverberating through your own heart.

“You said those things and I didn’t believe you. They couldn’t have been true. Not when I’d spent so much fucking time wishing they could be. I couldn’t tell myself you felt that way about me. I couldn’t hope. Not when I’d come so fucking close to losing you so easily, I—”

His voice breaks and he looks away, and you might be crazy but his chin gives a telltale little shake like he’s holding back tears.

“So you thought it would be easier to what? Fucking ghost me like a bad Tinder date?”

That hurts more than it should. You’ve seen Bakugou at his very worst, bleeding and soot-streaked and showing you feelings he never means to. For a very brief period in your lives, you believed yourself to be special.

“Don’t play the innocent,” he snarls. “You never talked to me, either. I had to find out from my fucking manager that you were outta the hospital.”

“So you never thought to drop by? Bring some fucking… flowers?” You can feel the venom filling your mouth and you’re not altogether certain you’re strong enough to swallow it this time.

“And tell you what? That I was in love with you and, maybe I heard you wrong, but you said something while you were dying in my fuckin’ arms and I was hoping for some goddamned clarification?”

“Yes!” You sob, the word ripping itself from your chest and landing wet and heavy on the floor between you. “That! Anything would have been better than radio fucking silence. Katsuki, I was sure you hated me.”

“Well I fucking love you, okay?” He rises from his chair, taking one step forward. It lands him almost right between your thighs and you hate how close he is, but you have no power to pull away. He cups your jaw in strong, gentle fingers, forcing your eyes to his.

“I fucked up,” he presses. He leans down and presses his forehead to yours and this time his proximity is on purpose. You drink it down in eager gulps.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. Despite your tears and the ache in your heart, you give a wet little laugh and nuzzle your nose against his.

“I missed you, too.”

He takes your hands and pulls them both to his chest. And for a long moment you just sit there, curled over one another in the dark and growing accustomed to the idea of being okay again.

“Did you just…” you start after a long moment of silence. His eyelashes flutter against your cheek as he tucks his cheek against yours, but the grin that pulls your mouth is enough for him to stand back and look at you.

“Did you just admit to making a mistake?”

You’re laughing at your own joke before Katsuki can even roll his eyes. But he’s scowling good-naturedly and tugging himself against you by the hips.

“C’mere, you brat.”

He’s leaning in to close the distance between you when muffled chanting from upstairs makes you pause. You tilt an ear toward the window and light up, easily recognizing the five, four, three, two, one as the magnitude builds.

Bright flashes of gold and red light up the sky outside your window in a brilliant display. And all at once the lingering ache drains from your chest and you shoot Katsuki a fond little smile.

“I guess it’s midnight.”

“We missed the fireworks,” he notes, nodding toward the window as he edges back toward you.

“Not really,” you confess, and the first real big smile breaks through the pain when he steps up between your knees again, nice and tight and deliberate.

He cups your jaw in one hand again, settling the other palm on your knee, where it peeks through the golden slip of your dress.

“Happy New Year,” you whisper, eyes falling shut. You hear the way he smiles, that bare little chuckle that used to make your heart light up like stars.

He leans in and kisses you without another word. It’s soft but firm and so loving, so much better than any brush of the hand or lingering glance. Better, even, than the way he danced you into a stupor upstairs. This is yours and nobody else’s.

And you’re not letting him go anytime soon.

You let the kiss deepen as naturally as you can, dropping your jaw and letting the bare press of his tongue roll against your teeth. You reach up and grab his jacket by its lapels, hitching him even closer as the fireworks die out behind you.

He’s not backing down, either. Katsuki draws his hands from your body to unbutton his jacket, shrugging it away easily without breaking the kiss. He’s pressing his mouth to yours in long, lingering spells, tasting you eagerly while his hands have to stay busy. But as soon as he can he’s touching you again, teasing his fingers under the slit of your dress and brushing them over your bare thighs.

“Katsuki…” you whine into his mouth, turning your head to gasp and fill your empty lungs. He finds the next bare patch of skin, kissing down the side of your jaw. He finds your earring where it lays against your tender neck, sucking the crystal into his mouth and giving it a gentle tug.

“Fuck,” you gasp, and he grins into your skin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve had enough already.”

“Not a chance,” you growl. There are millions of questions flooding your subconscious. But years of tension and desire spiral more fiercely between you. It’s energy that demands release. And you don’t want to wait another second.

“God,” he groans hard, collapsing gently into you. As he presses forward against you, the twitching swell of his erection pushes into your bare thigh. You slide your palms down the meat of his chest and find his mouth again, kissing him with searing intent.

“Look at you,” he rasps into your mouth, gripping hard at the weighty skirt of your beaded gown. “You’re a goddamned vision in this, you know that?”

You pull back to look at him, raw sexual energy briefly dispersed by his tender confession. For a long moment you sit there, panting at each other, remembering how much this is about to mean.

Fuck it. If he’s in, so are you.

“Help me get it off.”

You slide to your feet, pushing him back a couple of steps to accommodate you. As soon as you turn around he’s sliding a palm up your side, thumbing at the fabric to find its zipper.

“God damn,” he growls, leaning in to kiss a path down the column of your spine. He drops to one knee as he works the zipper down the back of the dress—sitting low, thanks to its open back—letting his mouth trail all the way to the waistband of your underwear. All the while, you brace a palm on the edge of your desk, trying your best not to implode.

This is more attention than you ever could have prayed for.

He peels the thin straps down your arms and shoves the whole mess to your feet. You’re bending down to unbuckle the straps on your heels, but he stops you with a hand on the back of your thigh.

“Leave ‘em on.”

His voice sends a sharp pang of arousal through your entire body. When he stands, trailing his fingers all the way up the back of your naked thigh and over the swell of your ass, the arousal disperses into a dull ache that settles in the pit of your stomach and throbs incessantly.

He digs his fingers into the flesh of your hip and turns you to face him. Your nipples are already peaking in the chill of your office, and he sucks a deep breath through his teeth as he slides his palms up your tummy.

There’s puckered scar tissue and new ridges on your abdomen, but there’s no pain when he traces brushes over them.

He pauses, looking down with dull shock tugging his brow. You’re holding your breath again, watching him circle the roughest part of your new scars with one tender thumb.

“It’s okay,” you plead, cupping his cheeks and forcing his eyes back to yours. There’s pain littering his gaze that you’re determined to dissolve, and you lean in to kiss him until he’s groaning into your mouth and drawing his hands toward your chest.

“God,” you breathe, goosebumps betraying you as they race beneath his fingers. Katsuki watches your face as he dips his head, pushing your breasts together and laying kisses between them.

“Please,” you whimper, reaching forward and settling a hand over the front of his pants. You palm the shape of his cock through the pressed wool and he flinches, biting gently into your tender flesh.

“Katsuki,” you pant, squeezing and rubbing the hard swell in a gentle, heady rhythm as you set your ass on the edge of your desk again. “I need you.”

“Jesus,” he curses, dropping his hands and reaching desperately for his tie. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me before I even get my cock out, sweetness.”

It’s the dirtiest thing he’s ever said to you. And it shows. You’re a shivering, lustblown mess already, but the petname that falls from his lips is enough to make you whimper.

He shrugs out of his shirt and pushes you further onto the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you and pushing your thighs apart with strong fingers.

“Always kinda wanted to do this in here,” he confesses with that cocky smirk that’s always made a hummingbird out of your heart.

But Katsuki doesn’t give you too much time to swoon over his pretty words, kissing a path up the inside of one plush thigh and nipping at your sensitive flesh. He helps you brace your heels against the rug and lift your hips, peeling your underwear off and rucking it down your knees. There’s something very naughty about the way it feels to settle your bare ass on your polished desk.

But there’s something even naughtier about the way it feels to have Katsuki on his knees in front of you.

He pushes your thighs apart again, harsher this time, and settles your knees over his shoulders. You’d like to ride the wave of self-consciousness that threatens to crest when his breath ghosts over the folds of your heated sex.

He pushes higher for a moment, taking your sides in his hands and drawing lovely little kisses down the rough length of your scar. You push self-consciously at his head, making him pull pack and settle a hand over the flesh instead. He tilts his chin up, shooting you a look so filled with guilt and sorrow it nearly shatters the moment.

He wasn’t there for the pain. And as he kisses back down to your hips and thighs, you let yourself hope that this will be enough to make up for it on both sides.

But then he leans in and licks a long stripe up your cunt and the groan that echoes from his chest makes it hard to do anything but cum on the spot.

“Fuck,” you sigh wantonly, letting your head fall back as you brace your palms on the wood behind you. Your fingertips dig into the surface and he settles into an easy rhythm, slipping his arms under your thighs and tugging you tight to his face.

He’s not shy with his voice, either, grunting and sighing into your pussy with every stroke of his tongue. The noises double your pleasure almost immediately, coupled with the obscene slurps that vibrate all the way up your spine.

It doesn’t take long at all for him to find that tender little spot, the perfect direction from which to swirl his tongue against your clit. It’s obvious in the way your legs go tight around the sides of his head, the way you shiver and cry and clap a hand to the back of his head.

He grunts hard into your body when your fingers rake through his hair, harder still when your tense thighs press the narrow points of your heels into the flesh of his back.

“Katsu,” you whimper, already fucked out and tender like you’ve never been for him, “I’m gonna cum. Fucking shit, I-I’m gonna…”

He takes your warning like a hit, leaning more fiercely into you, keeping his rhythm with intense precision. Later, you’ll try not to think about why he’s so good at this. But right now, all you can think about is the way your pleasure rears up and crashes over you, sending loud gasps and breathy mewls of ecstasy from your chest as you squeeze his head and pull his hair and roll your hips shakily into his persistent mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he snarls, sitting back on his haunches and swiping a palm over his flushed lips. He looks up at you, rubbing your thigh with one free hand as you come down panting from your ecstatic high. Between his legs, his cock juts obscenely down one thigh of his suit pants, and he palms himself shamelessly as he gets to his feet, taking in every inch of your pleasure-soaked self.

“You’re gonna make me cream my fuckin’ pants someday,” he chides, fumbling with his belt and impatiently shucking his pants. His undershorts follow closely, and you’re barely on your feet again before he takes you by the shoulders and turns your back to him.

“C’mere.” He slides a hand under one of your thighs, hitching it gently onto the edge of your desk and coming up tightly behind you. The brush of his knuckle against your ass proves that he’s stroking himself, and the tip of his stiff cock leaves a little print of wet precum on the back of your leg.

“Please,” you moan, still hazy and shaken from your first orgasm. Still endlessly needy, though, when Katsuki’s involved. “God, baby, just fuck me already.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you can’t say shit like that,” he groans, twitching behind you. “It’s like you don’t know how fuckin’ sexy you are.”

He braces a hand on your bare hip and then you feel it, the tip of his drooling cock pressing up between your slippery folds. It’s enough to make you whine and arch your back, wiggling your hips impatiently against his.

It’s enough to make Katsuki lose it.

“Shit,” he growls, gripping the fat of your hip and pushing forward, sliding home with one smooth thrust. He bottoms out inside you right away, buried perfectly in your belly and making you feel every inch.

“Baby—” you start to breathe, but he doesn’t waste time. Katsuki reaches around and lays his palm flat on your sternum, pulling you back against him. He keeps his other hand braced on your hip for leverage, dropping his mouth to the crook of your shoulder while he starts to thrust.

All you can do is keep your knee planted on the edge of your desk and try not to scream as he fucks you in steady, long thrusts, lapping and sucking all along the side of your neck while his hand roams over your chest and thumbs your nipple. Whatever hairstyle you’d left the house with has come long undone by now and you’re sure that if your makeup wasn’t smudged before, it’s certainly not going to survive the drool and sweat and heat that he’s forcing through you with every push of his hips.

The slap of his body against yours fills the space, punctuated only by your harsh pants and quiet whines of pleasure. Katsuki’s fingers dig harshly into your hip, gripping you tighter each time he anchors himself back into your fluttering cunt. Your walls are clamping ruthlessly around him, but he doesn’t miss a beat, slipping that free palm away from your nipples and down your belly to strum rhythmically at the swell of your stiff clit.

“I love you,” he grunts breathlessly behind you, and the raw truth behind it brings a rush of warmth to your chest you can’t ignore. You turn your head sharply towards him, pushing your forehead to his and feeling every beat as his breathing becomes laboured.

His body’s growing tight behind yours, his thrusts losing some of their impeccable rhythm as his brow knits against yours. He’s concentrating hard—holding back, you realize—and you reach down to cover his hand that braces your hip, giving it a relenting squeeze.

“Baby,” you plead. “Let go for me, baby, I can feel it.”

“God,” he mutters. “No—fuck, gonna make you—with me, sweetness.” Your body is clenching in preparation for your own climax already, and the fact that he can even pick up on it shouldn’t surprise you.

“I’m there,” you promise. “I’m there, Katsuki, fuck, just cum for me. Please.”

His arms tighten around you, seizing you hard against his heaving chest. You lean forward and seal your mouth against his, kissing him as he loses control and cums with a shout that echoes at the back of your throat.

He grabs your ass in one hand and fucks madly into you, spurting warm handfuls of cum into your belly and biting down hard on your lower lip. The erratic twitch of his fingers on your still-aching clit and the warm release inside you is enough to bring you to another tight, simpering little peak—not as powerful as the first one, but just as significant.

He stays behind you for a long moment, pinning you to the desk while he goes soft inside you. Finally he peppers kisses down the back of one shoulder and steps away from you, already smoothing his hair and taking in the image of you, in nothing but your heels, dripping with his cum.

The first of many, you let yourself hope, as you turn to carefully face him.

“I guess we missed the countdown,” you quip, reaching for your discarded panties. Navigating the strappy thing seems a great deal more complicated now that it’s not Katsuki tearing them off you.

He smirks at you in a way that does not make it easier to concentrate on the task at hand. Especially since he’s watching you struggle, easily buttoning himself into his now-creased shirt.

“I didn’t miss a thing.”

He’s already half-clothed by the time you get your underwear on again, stooping to collect your delicate dress from the floor and thumbing the sequins that pepper its surface. His smirk has dissolved into another pensive look as he examines the cloth.

“If I’d known,” he tells you, pressing the scratchy fabric into your hands, “I never would’ve—”

You lean up and push your mouth to his, soft and loving and just enough to silence him.

“I know.”

Once Katsuki’s got the rest of his clothes on, he helps you carefully into your dress and gets behind you one more time to help you zip it. He can’t stop kissing you even for a minute, peppering his lips over your back, neck, arms. He turns you around and takes your hands, kissing the backs of each palm with devotion that, if you stop and think about it, you’ve seen in his eyes a thousand times before.

“You’ll make it up to me,” you promise good naturedly, letting him slide his arms around your waist. He looks at you again, diligent and honest.

“I will.”

“Good.”

You slide your hands up his sleeves of heart-stealing midnight blue, smiling so big it ought to hurt. You tilt your head toward the door, giving your chin a little jerk as you squeeze his biceps through the pressed wool.

“For a start,” you say, daring to lean a little closer while he’s still feeling tender, “how about another dance?”

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #bakugo katsuki #bakugo #my hero academia #bakugou #bnha #bnha bakugou #bnha bakugo #it's new years eeeeeeve and i am not #spending it with him #sigh #;.;

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mianavs · 3 years

Text

the re-education

Falling in Stockholm part 5 (finale)

a/n: thank you for all of the likes and reblogs! a sequel will be written in the future with another major character that i hinted at in the beginning~ hope you guys enjoy this final part :)

tw: non-con, somnophilia, smut, torture, mind break

wc: 2.3k

Falling in Stockholm

You were at an onsen.

The hot water surrounding your naked form relaxed your fatigued muscles and enveloped you in pleasure. The longer you soaked in the steaming outdoor bath, the warmer your cheeks became and the dizzier you felt. Leaning back against the rock wall, you closed your eyes as a jet of water rose up and surged between your upper thighs drawing a low moan from you. Released of all your tension, your mind fogged up and eyelids grew heavy as your body began to nod off.

Hard grips on your thighs and a painful intrusion in your cunt woke you up to your horrific reality. Your limbs were still restrained by leather straps and tied to the four corners of the bed. The blindfold was still secured over your eyes and served to distort your sense of reality. Cool air still tickled your naked body that remained splayed open as the initial dull pain between your legs dissipated. Your captor’s ministrations on your sex while you slept made it easier for him to slip in and out of your slickened cunt.

Dabi’s disembodied grunts stopped when you started to struggle against his hold on your thighs.

“I knew this was the best way to wake you up.” He laughed still rutting into you like an animal in heat.

“Sick bastard!”

At your insult, Dabi slammed his length painfully into your abused hole. Each thrust hit your cervix without fail until you were whimpering in pain from the roughness with which he fucked you.

“H-hurts. It hurts! Agh-”

Dabi’s deformed hand gripped your throat depleting your lungs of air. Soon, your body began to spasm and choked gasps escaped your mouth as you desperately writhed underneath his iron grip.

“You feel so good, Y/N,” Dabi chuckled but continued pounding into your messy cunt. “You tighten up when you can’t breathe.”

Dabi’s cruel laugh faded away as the lack of oxygen messed with your head. Specks of white dotted your darkened vision while your body tensed painfully as the remnants of your will to fight were squeezed out you. It was all too much and you eventually stopped resisting. Barely holding on to your consciousness, one final groan and hot spurts of semen into your womb preceded the release of your throat. Wheezing and coughing for air, you never appreciated the feeling of Dabi’s cum oozing out of your cunt more than you did in that moment.

The weight on top of you shifted and the bed creaked as Dabi got off and walked away. The hum of the bathroom light followed by the sound of running water served to calm you down while your breathing evened out. The longer the blindfold stayed on, the easier it was for your mind to wander until you eventually succumbed to sleep.

You were drowning.

Cold water splashed your face and you woke up gasping and coughing on a soaked bed. The clanking noise of metal bouncing on concrete made you jump in surprise. Your ears then started to ring and your drumming heart rose to your throat clogging your windpipe until you couldn’t breathe. The panic attack wreaked havoc on your mind and body and you tugged at your restraints and screamed like a wild animal. The sound of Dabi’s footsteps stopped your hoarse screams and overwhelming terror stiffened every muscle until you lay absolutely rigid.

“Shhh…it’s time for your re-education,” Dabi’s hand hovered over your cheek but you recoiled from his touch. A sound of displeasure left his lips before his hand connected with your face and a harsh crack echoed in your ears.

“Who are you?”

Dabi’s question was met with your silence. You didn’t know what answer he wanted and believed remaining silent was your best bet. There was a deafening silence before a disembodied sigh came from Dabi that was then followed by the crack of a whip.

“AGH!-”

“Who are you?” The question was the same but you made sure to answer this time.

“Y/N!” You cried out not knowing what else to say but hoped it would stop the torture.

Dabi brought the whip down on your right leg this time and tears burned your eyes. The excruciating pain from the whip was similar to the one his quirk inflicted and that, along with your already weakened state, crumbled away at your cracked sanity.

“H/N!”

“L/N!”

“FUCK!”

“HELP-“

No matter what you said, the crack of the whip remained constant. To your horror, Dabi started hitting the same spots ripping open old wounds or making fresh ones on the expanse of your skin. In your delirious state, you weren’t sure if the warm dampness on your skin was leftover water, sweat, or blood.

“…d-don’t…know,” you mumbled, trembling violently. “W-who…am I?”

The sound of the whip made you flinch instinctively, only this time it hit the ground instead. You waited for Dabi to make a sound, a movement, but he remained still while you waited for the pain to come.

“Mine,” that rough voice replied. “You’re mine.”

Suddenly, hands clasped your cheeks and you gasped in response. His warm breath drew closer to your face and you braced yourself for another rough kiss only to feel it travel to your ear.

“Years ago, I was a lost child until the Mayor saved me—just like you. He trained me separately but told me everything about you. Your quirk, your personality, your strengths, your weaknesses, but most importantly he told me about our future. He wanted us to work together—to be together—and take down hero society.”

“M-mayor?” Cohesive thoughts were beyond the capabilities of your fractured mind. That one word was the only thing you could get out.

“Mhmm,” Dabi purred into your ear. “He trained me just like he trained you. We were going to meet soon but those heroes had to go and ruin everything. They killed the Mayor and took you away from me.”

Memories of the Mayor’s death flooded your mind. The stand-off between him and a faceless hero. You, jumping in between them to shield the Mayor like he’d train you to do. Exhausting your quirk and being thrown out of the way. And finally, the life leaving the Mayor’s eyes as you crawled to his body with tears streaming down your face.

You couldn’t reject your memories any longer. The Mayor had been like a father to you and his death had hurt you as much as your parent’s death did. The heroes had to pry you away from his corpse and even then, you fought against them tooth and nail. The only way they managed to control you was with tranquilizers and quirk inhibitors. For a couple of months, your new reality consisted of hospital visits, interrogations, and drugs until the HPSC molded you into an obedient child that they could ship off to an orphanage.

“I t-tried but…heroes…too strong.”

“I know, I know.” Dabi reassured you by pressing his lips to your temple; this time you didn’t pull away. “Do you understand now? I’m making things right again. I’m trying to help you, Y/N. The heroes messed with your head but I’m gonna make it better—just like the Mayor.”

“H-hurt?” You whimpered after Dabi’s warmth disappeared.

“The faster you let go of your hero identity, the less it’ll hurt.”

Your re-education continued with Dabi posing questions and you answering them honestly. Dabi could tell when you were lying and would punish you accordingly.

“You know better than to lie to me, Y/N.”

The punishments Dabi inflicted were less harsh after your conversation. It was like Dabi knew you were trying to fix your tainted mindset and rewarded you by not hurting you so much. In turn, you stopped seeing Dabi as a villain and saw him more like a mentor. He was going through these great lengths to help you and you accepted each burn, slap, punch, cut, and bruise with gratitude.

Each session ended with a kiss to your forehead and sweet words of praise that made your heart soar with pride. Dabi always cleaned you up after each session. He released you from your restraints, cleaned and disinfected your wounds, gave you a bath every now and then, and made sure to feed you and give you water before lying you on the bed. You usually fell asleep before he tied you back up but even when you didn’t, you never fought him on it. After all, everything Dabi did was for your own good.

Then, just when your mind was almost completely fixed, you woke up to a deafening silence that seemed to last forever. You realized Dabi wasn’t in the room nor in the premises and you grew anxious. The longer he was gone, the darker your thoughts became regarding what had happened to him. A particularly terrifying thought that came to mind incited a full-blown panic attack that left you sweaty shaky mess.

What if the heroes got him?

What if they find me and ruin me again?

What if they killed him?

No No No No!

You needed Dabi. He couldn’t just leave you like that. He promised to make things better. He promised to fix you. You couldn’t live without him; you were his. You lay on the bed with tears soaking your blindfold until poisonous thoughts flooded your mind and contorted your fear into rage.

It’s the heroes’ fault.

Those bastards will pay if they hurt him.

I’ll kill them all

Your mind and body eventually tired themselves out and you fell into a deep sleep. With your mind altered to what it had once been, you dreamt of the Mayor. He looked the same as he’d been when he’d died while you were your current age. He wore a proud smile on his normally hard-set face as he looked at you. Suddenly, his eyes shifted and you felt a presence next to you. Turning, you saw Dabi standing next to you. He looked down at you with a smirk before possessively wrapping his arm around you and bringing you to his chest. You closed your eyes and melted into him, inhaling his signature scent of musk and smoke. Looking back to the Mayor, his smile had grown seeing you and Dabi together and approached the two of you. Basking in the warm feeling of being in Dabi’s arms and having the Mayor’s approval, you closed your eyes and hoped the dream would never end.

The rattling of the door woke you up in an instant. Your entire body tensed as you waited for the door to open and the sound of footsteps to inform you who it was. You’d burned the sound of Dabi’s footsteps into your memory ever since he’d taken away your sight.

When the door swung open and the familiar lazy shuffle of Dabi’s feet reached your ears, you broke out in tears of relief. Your cries seemed to shock the man who stopped moving for a while before rushing to your side.

“W-where w-were…you?! I-I was…w-worried!” Your body shook as sobs tore through you.

Dabi remained silent but you heard him take a step forward and before you knew it, his hands hovered over your ankles and undid your restraints before working on the ones around your wrists. When your hands were finally free, you ripped off the soaked material over your eyes only to be blinded by the harsh florescent lights of the room. As soon as your eyes adjusted, you were able to make out Dabi’s face.

After not being able to see him in what seemed like forever, you were overcome with emotion as your eyes hungrily took in his face. He looked tired and worn out but, other than that, perfectly imperfect. The disfigured face that once made you sick, now made your heart race.

With tears of joy, you threw your weak arms around his neck and clung to him, burying your face in his neck.

“Please! D-don’t…leave a-again”

His arms wrapped around your waist and held you up. “I’m sorry.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as heat pooled into your core the longer Dabi’s hands were splayed on your bare skin. It felt like an eternity since he’d held you so intimately and you craved more. Taking matters into your own hands, you trailed your mouth up his marred neck to his face leaving a path of kisses in your wake.

“I…missed you,” you admitted to his astonishment before you crashed your lips onto his deformed ones.

You took the initiative, tasting his mouth and relishing in the warmth of his wet tongue. Your fingers dug into his messy hair and used it as leverage to pull him closer, deepening your kiss. The trance Dabi was in broke when you began tugging on his hair and he took over the kiss, leaving you breathless and aroused.

Soon, a familiar ache in your sex had you grinding against Dabi’s jeaned thigh for some much-needed friction. Noticing your intentions, Dabi smirked against your mouth before resting his knee on the bed and allowing you to straddle his thigh. As you continued to desperately rub your clit on the rough material, he kissed and sucked on a sensitive spot on your neck that drew soft whimpers from your bruised lips. Your slick dribbled out of your cunt and covered Dabi’s leg but you didn’t let that stop you from chasing your orgasm.

A strangled cry and your creamy cum coating Dabi’s jeans signaled your release. Exhausted from your exertions, you collapsed against Dabi completely spent. He held you up as he maneuvered himself to sit on the bed before setting you down on his lap and wrapping his arms around you. Snuggling against his chest, you could hear his rapid heartbeat that matched your own and it was all you needed to admit out loud the realization you’d come to.

“I…love you, Dabi.” You murmured, desperately clutching his shirt as if that would stop him from ever leaving you again. “Please…stay with me.”

“Always.” Dabi replied tightening his hold on you as if that would keep you by his side forever.

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motherjoel · 4 years

Text

in case (spencer reid x reader)

summary: you and spencer are each others forever, and spencer vowed to make this christmas your best yet.

a/n: the yard sale scene is based off of that moment in the office between michael and holly lol, i just thought it was so cute. also i am just so excited for christmas even though its months away so im sorry in advance. let me know what yall think!

wc: 3.1k

The LaMontagne-Jareau household was having their annual yard sale and as they do every year, they invited the team to sell anything they didn’t want anymore. You and Spencer had just moved in together a few weeks ago after dating for a year and you definitely had some things that you could get rid of, so you jumped at the opportunity to clean house. As you were packing some of your knick knacks into boxes, you noticed your boyfriend sitting in front of your shared bookshelf, closely examining its contents and placing the books into two piles. His brow furrowed when he placed another book into the smaller of the two stacks. You set down the lamp you were holding and walked over to a frustrated Spencer.

“You know Spence, you really don’t have to get rid of any of your books. I promise, I don’t need the shelf space,” you chuckled before examining the piles.

“I know, I just feel bad that you can't put any of your books up there. Besides, I’ve read everything anyway,” he said with a frustrated sigh. You patted him on the back before sorting through his “sell” pile. Picking up one of the hardcover books, you noticed it was one of your favorites.

“‘The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe’? You were getting rid of this?” you asked in slight shock.

“Oops, wrong pile,” he remarked, softly taking the book from your hands. “You remember the first time we read this together?” he asked, flipping his fingers through the pages.

“Um, of course. Last year, before we were an item,” you recalled. “I was at your apartment and we ordered a pizza and opened a bottle of wine, which you proceeded to spill all over me,” you laughed, Spencer blushing profusely at the memory.

“And you were wearing white…” he trailed off.

“And I was wearing white. I know you have an eidetic memory but this must be the dirty side of it because I know full well you saw my bra through that shirt,” you nudged him teasingly.

“Hey, why do you think I asked you out in the first place?” he jokingly asked. You nudged him again and laughed.

“So I changed into your ‘I Heart Vegas’ t-shirt and your FBI sweats and made you read to me as an apology,” you smiled, recalling the memory that you held near and dear.

“And you’ve never looked better,” he laughed, pecking your lips.

You set the books down and left him to his sorting, returning to your own work. Once the two of you were ready to go, you hauled the few boxes into your car and made the drive to JJ’s.

“My favorite lovebirds are here!” Penelope shouted, standing up from her seat on the lawn next to Morgan and making her way over to you and Spence. You gave her a quick hug.

“Hey Pen! I’m surprised to see you here, I know you’re pretty sentimental when it comes to your things,” you asked as she began to help you carry your things onto the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve had firsthand experience with that when I accidentally knocked over her llama mug. The thing shattered and she refused to call me ‘chocolate thunder’ for days” Derek chimed in, standing to help you with the boxes.

“Okay, in my defense, I like to keep my sacred things sacred. I didn’t want my poor llama to face such violence!” she yelled, and you all laughed. “But you’re right, I’m just here to count the money,” she confessed, and you nodded.

You all chatted about your days as you unpacked your boxes, the rest of the team showing up in the meantime. As you unpacked, you came across your old neon sign that said “boss bitch,” and you couldn’t help but laugh, drawing the attention of your friends.

“Damn Y/N, I never pegged you as someone who’d have a sign like that,” Emily said, walking over to get a closer look.

“How come I’ve never seen that?” Spencer asked, observing the cheesy light.

“Gosh, i’ve had that since college. I found it in the back of my closet today and I don’t really have much of a use for it. I do love it though,” you remarked. Emily left you and Spencer alone after being distracted by Henry.

“You know, if you really like it, you can keep it. If there's a problem with the neon, I can take a look at it,” Spencer said, taking the sign from you.

“Oh no, it's not that. I guess it's just more meant for a ‘bachelorette’ pad,” you said.

“Oh okay. You can save it if you want, just in case,” he said softly. This got your attention as you looked up to him.

“In case? I don’t have an ‘in case’. Do you have an in case?” you asked, wondering if your boyfriend had any doubts about your move in.

“No, I don’t,” he said, as if he was just realizing how real the two of you were. He leaned down and your lips met his. You pulled away from him and continued setting up your table, a smile on your face the entire time.

A couple months had passed since the yard sale and you were absolutely loving the little life you had with Spencer. And as the weather got colder, it was nice to have someone to snuggle next to during the winter. Christmas was coming up and you couldn’t wait for Christmas Eve at the Rossi household. Dave had decided that this year, he would start a tradition for the team, a “night of the seven fishes,” and of course his famous Rossi pasta. Everyone was able to go- this was why you loved this team. You were all “misfits,” especially with your home life- these people had become your family and you theirs, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You went Christmas shopping every day leading up to the fateful Rossi dinner. One of those days, Spencer came with you and the two of you had finished up pretty late- it was already dark out. Spencer offered to drive home, which was a little out of character, but you were too tired from your day that you didn’t question it. You noticed he was taking a different route then normal, however, so you decided to interject.

“My love, you’re going like the complete opposite direction of home,” you giggled.

“I know, I just thought we’d take a detour to look at the lights,” he said nervously. You just shrugged and went with it.

You turned up the radio when you heard your favorite Christmas song start to play. Spencer began to sing along quietly, and you looked at him surprised- he never sang in front of you. He glanced at you and laughed, before continuing his serenade. You decided to join in, belting out the lyrics to Maria Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas is You,” turning to Spencer and singing to him on the “you” parts, earning a chuckle.

After you had been driving for a bit, he stopped the car and stepped out. You didn’t recognize your surroundings, but it looked like you were in a park. It was decorated beautifully with countless Christmas lights and ornaments hanging from trees. It truly took your breath away. Before you knew it, Spencer was opening your door and offering his hand. You took it and stepped out, still in awe of your surroundings. While you were looking around, Spencer reached inside the car and cranked the radio up, just as Frank Sinatra’s “White Christmas” began to play. He walked in front of you and bowed his head, extending his hand.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, feigning chivalry. You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of the man in front of you, bundled in a jacket and a scarf, nose slightly red from the cold air.

“Of course, good sir,” you said with a terrible curtsy. Taking his hand, the two of you began to slow dance in the middle of the empty parking lot, snowflakes slowly falling down.

“You’re amazing,” you told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You missed,” he said, before leaning back down and giving you a firm kiss on the lips. You laughed into the kiss, wondering how you scored such an incredible boyfriend. You switched positions to get closer to him, your arms wrapped around his neck and his arms around your waist. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The two of you continued to sway as the song changed to “Last Christmas” by Wham! You looked up at him again, missing his face.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love this and I love you for this, but why are we doing this?” you asked, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“I don’t know, actually. I had the thought when we were at the mall, that I just wanted to make this your best Christmas yet. And I know you love those cheesy Hallmark movies, so I figured this was the closest way to bring one of them to life for you,” he laughed and your heart melted.

“Well, my previous statement still stands. You are amazing, Spencer Reid,” you told him, leaning in for another kiss. The two of you swayed for a few songs longer until you both decided that not even you could keep each other warm. The drive back to your shared apartment was pleasant as you closed your eyes, letting the Christmas music and the warm feeling of Spencer's hand on your thigh lull you to sleep.

“Babe can you zip me up?” you asked, putting in your earrings. Spencer adjusted his tie to his satisfaction and made his way over to you in front of the full body mirror to help you with your dress.

It was Christmas Eve and the two of you were getting dressed for the big night at the Rossi house. Spencer seemed a bit more nervous than usual, but you just chalked it up to his occasional social anxiety. Once he finished zipping you up he wrapped his arms around your midsection, kissing you on the cheek. The two of you stood, looking at your reflections, for a few moments. Spencer looked as handsome as ever in his nice sweater, and you were a show stopper in your dark red velvet mini dress. It was moments like these when you stopped to think about how lucky you are to have met him- he was your future and you were his. If only he would put a ring on it.

You pulled yourself from your loving daze and finished getting ready- Spencer was already finished so he was attached at your hip as you pulled on your heels and made some finishing touches to your makeup.

“Ready to go?” he asked, seemingly antsy to get on the road. You giggled at his eagerness and nodded, grabbing your purse and heading out to the car.

On the drive there, you once again cranked up the Christmas music and serenaded him to All I Want For Christmas is You, which was quite a frequent play on the radio. You didn’t mind, however, because it was always a way to get him to blush. Mariah Carey had that effect on people. Before you knew it, you pulled up to the Rossi mansion. Most of the team must have been there already, as it was bustling with life and Christmas joy. The front of the house was completely decked out with lights and decorations- Dave spared no expense when it came to holiday decorating. The two of you made your way up to the door, presents in hand. Garcia was on the other end of the door, apparently a few eggnogs in.

“Oh my gosh, you guys are adorable!” she shouted. You and Spencer shared a knowing look. “Everyone, the lovebirds are here! And looking like the hottest couple since Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively,” she gasped, taking in your dress and feeling the velvet. The confused look on Spencer’s face told you all you needed to know about his knowledge of pop culture, which was none.

Garcia ushered the two of you inside to the living room area, where the rest of the team was settled. Everyone stood up for hugs and assisted you with carrying all of your presents to the tree, which was one of the biggest Christmas trees you had ever seen. You greeted Jack and Henry, who were playing with some toy cars under the tree. You made you way back to the team, and you noticed Spencer talking quietly to Derek and JJ- you decided to let them be and you made your way to the kitchen island to talk to Rossi as he cooked.

“Wow, everything looks so great!” you commented, observing the wide array of food along the table.

“It better, I’ve been busting my ass for hours just so you kids could have a nice meal,” Rossi said, stirring one of the pots on the stove. You laughed at his fatherly comments as Emiy took the seat next to you.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just worried he might be on the naughty list,” Prentiss joked, finishing off her glass of wine and grabbing another bottle.

“Hey, just because I’ve gotten a few divorces doesn’t mean i'm not a good man,” he said, pointing a jokingly accusatory finger towards Prentiss. She lifted her hands in defense and laughed.

“I hear that,” said Derek, who had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. Spencer made his way to the chair on your other side, taking a seat. He nervously fidgeted for a bit, but when you rested a comforting hand on his thigh, his nerves seemed to calm. Soon after you poured yourself a glass of wine, Rossi announced that dinner was served. With a cheer, everyone made their way to the long table, Rossi and Hotch on both ends. You sat between Spencer and Emily, waiting to serve yourself. Once everyone was settled, Rossi stood holding his glass of wine.

“I would like to take a moment to thank you all for coming tonight. There are friends, and there is family. And, there are friends that become family. You are all my family, and I wouldn't want to spend my night of the seven fishes with anyone else. Dig in,” he toasted, and was greeted with a few “salut’s” and pats on the back. With that, you all began to serve yourselves and fill your plates and wine glasses.

Once everyone was full from the delicious dinner spread, you all retired to the living room. Christmas music was playing through Rossi’s amazing sound system, and you were resting your sleepy head on Spencer's shoulder, his arm around you. It had been a perfect night, and you didn’t want it to end. As you were listening to JJ tell a story about Henry’s first Christmas, the song changed to “White Christmas” by Frank Sinatra, and you were flooded with the memory of you and Spencer dancing in the parking lot. You lifted your head from his chest and looked to see he was thinking the same thing.

“It’s our song,” you whispered with a sleepy smile. Spencer nodded and gave you a quick kiss before looking at Derek, who was mouthing “do it now!” As if it were perfect timing, JJ just finished her story and Spencer stood up, gathering the attention from the room.

“Uh, if I could have everyone's attention, please,” he started, nervously clearing his throat. You looked up at him with stars in your eyes, and he returned it. “As many of you know, Y/N and I have been dating for awhile now, and we’ve been living together for a few months,” he began. You looked around the room and made eye contact with Derek, who shot you a wink. You returned focus to your nervous boyfriend, encouraging him with your eyes.

“Living with her has made me realize that I don’t need an ‘in case.’ I normally always have a backup plan for when things go wrong, well, as an FBI agent that comes in handy,” he chuckled nervously. “But with Y/N, I never thought to make a backup plan. I’ve just known that she is my forever,” he turned to you. “Y/N, you are my forever, and I want to make it official- I want the world to know that you mean everything to me,” he shakily got onto one knee, earning a gasp from Garcia and a few tears from JJ. From his sweater pocket, he pulled out a tiny velvet box and opened it. You stood up, hands covering your mouth and tears welling in your eyes.

“Y/N, will you marry me?” he asked, a hopeful glint in his eyes. You were in shock. You almost forgot to answer until you heard a cough from Prentiss.

“Yes, Spence! Yes yes of course!” you shouted, putting the ring on and he stood up as you jumped into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. You barely registered, the whooping cheers from the rest of the team, as everyone embraced each other. Tears were shed by most of them (Hotch tried his best to hold back).

After a minute of spinning, Spencer let you down and you observed the ring. It was one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen.

“I helped pick it out,” JJ told you and you pulled her into a hug and thanked her before embracing Spencer once again, a happy blush across his cheeks.

“Hey, look!” Garcia said, pointing above you and Spencer's heads. Looking up, you saw the mistletoe she was pointing at.

“Did you know that the white berries on mistletoe are actually toxic to humans?” Spencer asked, receiving a few head shakes. You looked up at him in awe, always adoring his facts.

“Come here,” you said, pulling him down by his tie and giving him a passionate (but tasteful) kiss that was greeted with a chorus of “aww’s” and a few “ewwww’s” from Jack and Henry. You both laughed and continued to mingle with the team, showing off your rock. Spencer had made it a Christmas to remember, and you were so eternally grateful to have someone who loved you as much as you loved him.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid/reader #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds reid #Matthew Gray Gubler #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid/you #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner #hotch #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #david rossi

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myelocin · 3 years

Text

so this is love | hanamaki t.

synopsis: takahiro dances with you, in the kitchen, with two left feet and tomato sauce on his cheeks. but still, it feels like home.

characters: hanamaki takahiro, you

genre: fluff/ domestic fluff

wc: 1600+

you kind of want to dance sometimes.

it’s a little silly, and you catch yourself saying that you probably should be learning about the reality of the world by now, but sometimes you really can’t help it.

there was the daddy daughter dance in elementary, where you’d always hide the fliers from your mom so she wouldn’t see. you think you would have worn the golden little high heeled shoes you liked so much.

you think of the homecoming dances every year from junior high to your senior year of high school, the smile stretching on your face afterwards always leaning a little more towards sad than happy. a night spent in the corner of the room, smiling at the pairs of eyes smiling under the dim lights; hands that were made to hold fit together like little puzzle pieces, their bodies moving in motion as if it was simply second nature to sway along to a beat.

“you could have danced still,” takahiro tells you one night, in the kind of voice that he uses when he asks how are you with a different sort of tenderness.

he isn’t looking straight at you when he says it; your eyes trained on his back as he stands in front of the stove. one hand holding a ladle as the other grips the handle of the pot in front of him.

you shift your body, leaning forward to rest your head on top of your folded hands, head turned towards takahiro who moves with a set of slow, practiced, familiar movements.

you smile.

“it wouldn’t have been good for my reputation if i just danced by myself to a slow song in the middle of the dance floor, hiro,” you laugh.

takahiro scoops a little of the soup from the pot and blows, leaning forward to take a sip. he hums in approval at the taste, smacking his lips a couple of times in exaggeration, turning to laugh with you when he hears you chide at him for the noise.

“since when did you care about what people thought about you?”

“i don’t want to look lonely in front of people, hiro,” you answer in honesty.

takahiro smiles as he stirs the content in the pot a few more times before he turns off the flame and closes the lid on the pot. “so you’re lonely?”

you look to your left, past the entrance of the kitchen and into the mantle above the fireplace where despite the dim lights you could make out the takahiro’s photographs from highschool. cropped strawberry brown hair, crescents for smiles, and a corsage with flowers identical to the one on his sister’s hand pinned on his chest.

“you went to prom with your sister,” you snort. “and yet you have the audacity to call me lonely.”

“i felt bad for her because no one asked her to prom when it was her year,” he huffs, and from your seat at the table you laugh when you notice that his cheeks are a little more pink than usual.

“i’m not lonely,” you answer after the laughter passes. “at least not all the time.”

takahiro allows the silence to signal for your continuation. then when the atmosphere felt safe enough—you lean forward and rest your head in the center of your folded hands.

the room feels warm, so you close your eyes.

“i’m lonely when i think about the parts of my life where i was alone.”

he sighs a long sigh once before he turns, leaning his body against the counter to the left of the stove, facing you. when he smiles, something aches in your chest. a feeling that’s both familiar and foreign; welcome, yet unwelcome.

he always did outline the sketch of uncertainty in your life in bold.

“why do you say you’re alone?” he asks, and the voice he uses to deliver his question tells you that he’s a little hesitant with his approach.

still, you lay your truth bare. you always did think that showing yourself scars and all was a terrifying feat, but at the recollection of where you are in the present has the tension rolling right off of your shoulders. like the calm waves on a quiet shore.

“i was alone because for a big part of my life i was terrified to admit to myself that all i really wanted was to hold someone’s hand.”

across the room, takahiro smiles. “when you danced?”

“maybe.”

“we can dance now,” he offers.

“you tripped over your own feet during our first dance,” you snicker, peeking at him from through the fallen strands of your hair.

takahiro grins, beaming down towards you, and in the makeshift silence you delight in the sound of his footsteps drawing closer towards you.

you always liked the sounds of home, you think.

the pitter patter of takahiro’s mismatched home slippers padding across the wooden floors of your apartment; the creaky cabinet that he swore he was going to fix last week, but ended up worsening anyway. when the chair across you slides across the floor with sounds familiar to you, you smile even wider because you think it kind of sounds like a melody.

then like the climax of the most beautiful song, takahiro’s voice chimes in, “get up, we’re going to dance.”

you stare at him, holding out one hand towards you. and like always, looking a little silly with the strings of his apron undone and tomato sauce smudged on his left cheek.

“did you just ignore the part where i brought up your favorite part about our wedding night?”

takahiro rolls his eyes, his hands immediately clasping around yours as he quickly pulls you to your feet. “i did not trip. i just made an oopsie.”

“you face planted at the reception,” you snort. “mattsun has pictures.”

he’s quick to shush you, guiding your arms around his neck as he settles his own on your waist. he smells like rosemary, and you smile. takahiro must have spent his afternoon a few minutes too long around the windowsill herb garden.

“those pictures will never see the light of day.”

“mm,” you shrug. “i can always ask for a few copies.”

“you wouldn’t dare.”

“try me,” you laugh.

it takes a while for you to notice the rhythm takahiro’s set for the both of you, his movements seemingly as uncoordinated as his sporadic hums that you think is supposed to be the music.

though still, your eyes are on his. two familiar orbs of gray, looking like the beginnings of a fire against the warm lights in the kitchen. when he leans in, nuzzling his nose against yours, a smile breaks out of your face at the laugh that never fails to escape from his chest.

“hiro, you smell like cheese,” you ask, your eyes closed at the feel of his forehead pressing against yours.

“i was taste testing the sauce,” he answers.

“so you put cheese in the sauce.”

“i was hoping to sneak it in,” he laughs.

pinching the skin on the back of his neck, you chuckle at his unwarranted confession, “this is not going to end well for you.”

“perhaps the cheese agenda won’t, but every day for us always ends well.”

you smile, content in the fact that even though you’re swaying in a quiet kitchen, led by a man who has two left feet when it comes to waltz, you feel like you’re on top of the world.

“why do you say that?”

takahiro grins, craning his head forward to press a kiss on your forehead. “we’re dancing right now aren’t we?”

you think of takahiro’s prom pictures; a fond smile settling across your features. the smile he wears in the photograph looks warm, and the feeling it delivers to you kind of feels like the moment: a little awkward at first glance, but in place.

a few more taps to the floor from his mismatched house slippers has your heart feeling light. you smell rosemary again, and taste hints of mozzarella when you kiss away the tomato sauce on his cheek.

the feeling of wanting to dance is still there, then you remember where you are.

you remember that in the moment, today’s just a day where it’s somewhere between a regular monday and christmas, and it’s seven pm where you’re dancing to no music in a fifth floor apartment you moved into with a man you married a little over two months ago.

there’s pictures on the wall, an herb garden on the windowsill, and tomato sauce with cheese smeared on his cheeks because he’s a little messy when he cooks. you’re letting yourself be led on a tuneless dance with your husband who has two left feet for waltz, and the slippers he has are mismatched.

there’s no grand story to how you met, fell in love, then stayed in love, but what you have is a hand that’s held out in front of you every time you say that you kind of want to dance. when takahiro smiles, his left eye crinkling more than his right, you know that neither of you are the main characters in life.

but you smile back anyway, in your own little imperfect way because truth be told, neither of you care. it felt nice to be loved knowing that you didn’t need to be the main character for just that.

he steps on your foot and you laugh, thumb swiping away the remnants of tomato sauce that tastes a little too cheesy for your liking.

you think of his words, and how even if some things didn’t exactly play out like the timeline says it would-- the fact of the matter that tonight you’re still dancing remains in place.

“thank you for dancing with me,” you say, and at your words, takahiro feels home.

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nanamismoonchild · 3 years

Text

pairing: tea shop owner! Yoongi x idk! reader

characters: reader, yoongi, ex-seokjin, jungkook

genre: fluffy fluff

warnings: none, if you don’t count the general cheesiness of it all :D

Summary: It’s one of the perfect days to run errands but those are soon forgotten when Yoongi needs help making orders for Valentine’s Day!

WC: 2.3k

A/N: this was an attempt at practice world-building since i want to do fantasy fics, and it is for the lovely @iridescentjin, my secret love, for the secret admirers event. i hope you like and enjoy it, i tried to incorporate somethings I’ve seen on your blog that you like.

Waking up to the soft cuddles of teddy bears would always be your favorite thing. No matter how old you got. You had so many, but they all had a special little place in your heart. To you, waking up with the soft bears meant that it was going to be good--no, it was going to be a great day.

As you throw the blankets away and wiggle out of bed, you smile and stretch your still tired muscles. Having showered the night before, you only have to freshen up a little before putting on your most comfortable walking clothes. It was your off day and you planned on getting everything on your to-do list done while the universe was gracing you with a good day. Starting with a quick stop at the boba tea cafe at the end of your street.

The drinks there were famous in your part of the district, leaving the other districts upset that they couldn't crossover to get a drink. That’s what they said anyway, but you knew they only wanted to meet the tea shop owner, Min Yoongi. The mysterious, timid man that always seemed to make your regular drink taste different each time. You hoped today would be the day he allowed you to watch him make a couple of drinks.

Stepping out of the apartment with a pep in your step, you join two of the other tenants at the elevator doors. One of them who you despised.

“Y/N! I see you’ve crawled out of bed like the spider thing you are.”

“Seokjin. Your insults are worsening by the day. Perhaps your old age is getting to you.”

Kim Seokjin was your ex-boyfriend. The relationship dwindled into nothing but the two of you becoming enemies. He was too selfish and you were too stubborn to realize it was happening. So here you were--throwing petty jabs at one another to hide your pining.

At least that’s what you called it.

“Ah, how you wound me.”

The elevator doors opened and the three of you stepped in. The other person made it a point to stand as far from the two of you as possible.

“Where are you heading off to? You’re never up this early on a weekend.”

“I decided to get some errands done today and I read that it’s best to get it done early. How about you?”

“Ah, the 2nd district is having a problem with their taxi systems. The taxis are taking them into different districts. Highly illegal, and I have to fix it.”

There were twenty districts in all, and it was illegal for any of them to cross-over without proper paper works. Population control was an all-important cause in the day and age. The 2nd district was the largest of the districts and if any of them were passing over, it would cause a commotion. Most jobs in your district didn’t require the need to travel to the other districts, but Seokjin had been chosen to be a system repairman. He had wanted to be an actor and model. Alas, the system found that his skills would be more reliable in repairs, and it paid well above what you were making too.

“Good luck. I heard the 2nd district has the worst hospitality.”

“With this face, the meanest person would show me grand hospitality.”

The elevator dinged as it opened the doors. Rolling your eyes at his vain statement, you step out of the elevator and breathe in the morning dew air. It was the perfect day to walk through the district.

Blue skies, fluffy clouds, and the smell of pastries wafting in the air. Your stomach growled, making you practically run to the tea shop.

The bell alerted Yoongi to another customer’s presence. It was the day before Valentine’s Day, and the orders were gradually becoming more than he could handle alone. Thankfully, his cousin Jungkook had managed to find a break between streaming and could help later. Yoongi only had to survive for three more hours---if he didn’t start crying before then.

Usually, he could handle three hundred orders a day, but people from the other districts had somehow found out about his shop and were requesting deliveries. He didn’t even know how they expected him to do that! There was no way he could get a license to deliver in a mere day.

Suppressing a groan, he made his way into the dining room. It was empty except for the few customers who were waiting for their daily boba. And you.

Yoongi enjoyed your company, and would normally have your drink prepared and ready. However, today was different and he didn’t think he would be able to do it.

“Y/N! Happy to see you.”

“Yoongi! I’m happy to see you as well. Busy?”

“Actually, yes. I have about five hundred orders to do before closing. Everyone decided to order last minute. Completely unexpected,” Yoongi sighed, the exasperation beginning to show on his face.

Yoongi watched as you put your bag in a nearby chair and glanced at him. “How many have you done so far?”

“Pfft, so far, I would say one hundred. Had to come at three am to get started.”

Watching as you teetered on your legs in deep thought, Yoongi began to draw himself back into the kitchen. He couldn’t waste time talking--or flirting-- with you as much as he would like.

“What if I helped?”

Yoongi spun around almost losing his footing. You had been so quiet asking that he almost hadn’t heard you. But he did.

“I would love that, but I have a friend coming in a couple of hours. I think I’ll be able to manage in the meantime.”

“Yoongi, it’s almost ten in the morning. You’ve only made one hundred drinks in seven hours. I’m helping you. Give me an apron and recipes and I’ll do my best.”

Yoongi muttered under his breath, something about calling him out, and went into his back room to fetch an apron for you. He knew he needed your help, but your presence could possibly distract him. He’d had a crush on you since the first time he opened. You had been new to boba and had no idea what to get and after a moment of getting to know a few of your likes and dislikes, he had made a drink he thought was perfect. It was now your usual, and he took deep pride in it.

“Under district law, I’m going to have to pay you.”

“Sweet. Let’s get started.”

Yoongi already had the ingredients laid out in the kitchen. All you had to do was follow the recipes he had written in his book. There were no measurements.

Tutting, you resist fretting at the lack of teaspoons and cups in the recipe book and mime Yoongi. It wasn’t as easy as you’d thought it would be. The brown-haired man made it a point to throw in tiny bits or large bits of the ingredients.

By the time he had made it through three, you had only just begun to finish one drink. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, this isn’t the most efficient thing to do. I suck at making these. Is there anything else I could do?” You turned towards the man, huffing a little from your frustration.

Yoongi did the same, mimicking your huff as well.

“If you have a car and a license to go to the other districts, then yes. But otherwise, no.”

“You need deliveries done?”

Yoongi nodded as he finished off another drink and placed it into a drink carrier that was already filled with three other drinks.

“I honestly don’t even know why I confirmed all of these. Well, I thought the addresses were from this district until I looked at a map,” he paused, “after I confirmed them.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. The poor man had doomed himself by accident.

“You’re lucky I have both. I can definitely do everything that needs to be.”

He smiled at you, a full-on gummy smile that made your cheeks heat.

“I could never thank you enough.”

“I mean,” you roll eyes nonchalantly, “You could give me free bobas from now on. Just a thought.”

“I can make that happen,” he giggled.

By the time, Jungkook had come in to help, you had already delivered most of the orders that Yoongi had finished. Most of them were in the second district and the traffic there was atrocious. Seokjin was already finished with the taxi system update and everyone was running to prepare last-minute Valentine’s outings. You had seen a couple of men running out of the superstore with giant teddy bears during one delivery.

It made you a little jealous if you were honest. You were as single as a pringle--thanks to Seokjin breaking up with you only two years ago. No one had really been interested enough to date, and none of them had been intimate enough to have more than a one-night stand.

No one besides Yoongi, but he had never shown interest in you, and your lack of flirtation to him obviously didn’t help. Yoongi was everything you wanted.

His physique showed that he was a strong man, probably from carrying huge baskets of strawberries to and from his kitchen. His eyes were dark brown, and every time he would make eye contact, you would melt. And his smile--when he truly smiled and not one of the timid ones he would give other customers-- could always brighten your day.

However, he was only a dream. The man was married to his shop and craft.

Opening the door to the shop, you can see Jungkook, a friend of Yoongi’s, jamming to something that was playing in his headphones. He didn’t pay attention to you coming in.

Yoongi was nowhere to be seen. You hoped he was taking a break.

“Jungkook!” Nothing. You walked in front of him and waved in front of his face. “Jungkook!”

He practically threw off his headphones, his doe eyes bulging. “Oh. Hi! Y/N! You’re back already.”

“Yeah. A bunch of the houses was close together. I’m assuming they all recommended the tea shop to each other.”

“It is the best in all of the districts,” he bragged.

“True. Where’s Yoongi?”

“I think he went to go and get some rest in the backroom. We’re actually almost done. I think we have about one hundred more to go.”

“Wow, seriously?”

“Yeup!”He popped the “p” at the end. “A bunch of the orders cancelled for some reason. Shame. Or not shame, but that would’ve been really good money for Yoongi.”

“It would’ve. I wonder what happened.”

“Break-ups. Got something else. Couldn’t afford it...Who knows?” He put his headphones back on and started playing his music again, signaling the end of the conversation.

You left Jungkook to his music and went to seek out Yoongi. He was slumped over his laptop desk, a light snore coming from him. You almost didn’t want to wake him. He was the most relaxed you’d seen him all day, and he couldn’t have gotten a ton of sleep since he had to wake up earlier than usual. It was by pure chance that nearly three hundred orders had cancelled. You knew it had been good for business, and the people who cancelled could go to hell, but you were thankful for the chance to watch Yoongi nap. As weird as it sounded.

“Y/N?”

Jumping out of your thoughts, you see that Yoongi had woken up from his catnap and was standing up.

Your cheeks warmed and you looked away in embarrassment. “Oh, um, hi. Uh, I just got back from the delivery, and Jungkook told me I could find you in here, but you were napping and I was going to walk out, but I kind of zoned out, and uh, yeah.” The rambling stutter came out too quickly and you were unsure if Yoongi had even understood you.

He smiled. The gummy smile and a rosy blush was creeping into his cheeks.

“Y/N, you’re cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yes, cute. I was actually working on something back here before I fell asleep so I’m happy you came in.”

Peering at him in curiosity, you gasp when he takes your hand and leads you further into the room where a heart-shaped cake and your favorite tea sat on a table decorated in a red tablecloth.

Turning to look at Yoongi, eyes wide in surprise, you see he has the biggest smile on his face, but his eyes were filled with nervousness.

“I know it’s a whole day before Valentine’s, but I’m going to be swamped tomorrow with orders from couples who want to spend their day out and about.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now--ever since you came tumbling into the tea shop. You were so pretty with your naivety of bobas. It was such an honor to me to get to know you and make a tea special for you and only you. I don’t do that for a lot of customers. And that’s the thing. You were never a customer to me, but someone I wanted to get to know further. Of course, I was a chicken and didn’t ask you out then.

“So I’d thought I’d do it now. Especially after you helped me get rid of a ton of stress. I had Jungkook bake the cake while you were gone. But I made the tea as usual because I want to be your usual. Will you allow me to take you on a date?“

Grinning at the cheesy line, you take in his words. They were corny, but they melted your heart all the same. It was almost a marriage proposal, and, honestly, you wouldn’t have minded if he had asked.

Your answer would’ve been the same because your feelings for him were steady.

With all the elation and exultation you could muster, you answer, “Yes.”

#secretadmirers21 #hyunglinenetwork #btswritingcafe #kwritersworldnet #networkbangtan #yoongi #min yoongi #bts fluff #min yoongi x reader #jungkook #min yoongi fluff #yoongi fluff #valentine's day #bts fic #tea shop troubles #seokjin #seokjin x reader

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poptod · 4 years

Note

hello! can i request something romantic with either ahk or snafu or really any rami character where y/n has round dark brown doe eyes? like so dark brown they look black if you’re not looking at them in sunlight? and he’s just flirting with them and he says something nice about their eyes? i have round dark brown eyes and i’m kinda insecure about them cuz they’re so common, and it’s been one shit-show if a week for me and i really just need to feel good about myself

notes: damn, i can totally do that for you. hope your weekend is much better than your week :) thank u for requesting and i hope you enjoy it !

WC: 2k

Life never worked naturally to your advantage. You were born average looking – nothing special on either side of the spectrum, with average hands and common dark brown eyes. You grew up poor and worked your ass off to get into a good college on a scholarship, eventually getting kicked out for something you didn't even do. You auditioned to be part of an orchestra, but there were too many violinists already, and you just 'didn't fit the profile'. You tried to be an artist, but no one liked your creations. You tried to pick up another instrument, but you couldn't afford a good one, and the last time you tried to buy a cheap guitar, the neck broke on the third use.

Because of these many happenstances (and the many more, less mentionable ones), you considered yourself unlucky. It was a fact of life for you as much as the sun's existence in other peoples lives, or that the superbowl was too long. Or guacamole wasn't good. Fortunately, the years of nothing ever coming naturally had made you into a fantastic worker, and by some rare stroke of luck, you found you were rather good at physical labor jobs. You weren't strong by any standards – in fact rather weak – but your attention to detail made you the janitor of a prestigious museum you visited twice as a child.

It wasn't a fantastic job, and the poor pay led to having five roommates, but you enjoyed yourself. You tried to do that in every aspect of life; finding the joy in menial tasks, or solace in duty. After all, you got to see wonderful recreations of history in the still wax figures, and learn heaps of knowledge from the many information panels you came across when making your way through the museum. The only truly unfortunate part of your job was the time – right after closing, but you had to finish quickly, as you weren't allowed inside at night. A stupid rule, but the night guard and Dr. McPhee were insistent on it.

They thought you didn't know about the exhibits.

They were, obviously, wrong. You knew, and you adored the magic behind it all. While you hadn't actually ever seen any of the exhibits come to life, you watched the news on an evening where the exhibits broke out, and with your knowledge of the Tablet curse, you pieced the mystery together.

You hadn't meant to take this long. McPhee was already pissed at you for 'accidentally' skipping over the men's restroom yesterday, and taking too long at your job would land you on thin ice, something you couldn't afford. With a hurried pace you finished sweeping the floors in the last room, storing the broom away and moving on to mopping. Checking your watch once more, you noted the time, mentally checking if you would be able to finish before closing hours.

Mopping the Egyptian room usually takes five to ten minutes, and closing is in two, you thought, despair settling in your stomach. What would you do if you 'found out' about the tablet? What would McPhee do if he found out you knew? He wouldn't fire you, would he?

You truly didn't know. He was a bit of a loose cannon when it came to those things.

As fast as you tried to move, the hours of night came faster than you could mop, and the tablet began to glow behind you. Bewildered you turned, watching with your mouth slightly parted as the glow grew to the radiance of the sun. You knew the tablet brought the magic, but you didn't know about the glow – now that you were witnessing it yourself, the only thing you could feel in your pounding heart was fear. A fear that only grew worse when the Pharaoh's sarcophagus began to rattle.

You'd thought about the wax figures coming to life. You thought about the dinosaur. You, however, did not think about the 4,000 year old mummy.

Needless to say, you bolted. Leaving behind your supplies, you ran as fast as you could, wind pounding past your ears as the sound of a lion's roar came from the neighboring hall. You grit your teeth and made for the main entrance, but by the time you got there many of the exhibits had adjoined in the main room. Pressing yourself against the locked door, you watched with wide eyes as the Teddy Roosevelt statue began to talk to Attila, and in that moment you realized that perhaps magic was not always good. Not when you were spiralling into a panic at least.

It took a couple hours of you staring into space before anyone actually noticed you. To your surprise, it wasn't the night guard, or even McPhee – it was a Pharaoh, skin and everything intact. His crown remained polished upon his head, a stark difference from the crowns on exhibit, whose colors and carvings had faded long ago.

"Hello," he said with a pleasant, polite smile as he knelt, matching the height of your seated position on the floor. "Are you a new exhibit?"

You looked down at your clothes. Janitor clothes.

"No," you said, and instantly his demeanor changed.

"Oh dear," he said, and though you agreed with that statement, you certainly did not agree with him grabbing your wrist and dragging you into the crowd.

"I don't really want to be doing this," you said in a shaky voice, but he did not answer.

As he dragged you through the crowd you kept your eyes closed, wary of overstimulation of both ears and eyes. He eventually stopped at the top of the stairs, where you opened your eyes to find the night guard, Larry.

"What are you still doing here?" Larry asked almost frantically, looking between the dancers below and you.

"In my defense I didn't want to be here, I knew about the magic and I don't – I didn't ever want to actually see it," you half-lied.

"How the hell did you know?!"

"You don't do a very good job of covering it up, Larry," you said flatly, your voice still cracking from nerves.

You didn't have very many friends. Your roommates didn't talk to you much, and the life you had outside of work consisted mostly of quiet, indoor hobbies you could do just about anywhere. So, once the whole of the situation was sorted out (with input from McPhee), you took your drawing pads and notebooks to the museum with you, working for the first few hours and drawing into the hours of night while watching history come to life.

Despite your original discomfort of being in the presence of a 100% authentic, come-to-life mummy, you became rather good friends with him. Not fantastic, and he didn't know very much about you, but he was kind and handsome. You hated to admit it, but he held your avid interest. Another one of those unlucky things in your life – of course you had to fall in love with an immortal, reanimated mummy who only came to life at night.

"Why don't you ever come dance with us?" Ahkmenrah (his name, apparently) said as he sat down beside you on the loft, the only barrier between you and a fifteen-foot fall being a stone rail.

"I'm afraid I'm not all that good of a dancer," you said, not bothering to look up from your sketchbook. You couldn't ever bear to look at him that long anyway.

"Neither am I," he laughed. "That's the point."

Instinctively you looked up at him, holding eye contact with his grey eyes for only a second before you looked away, a blush already making its way to your cheeks. He had the opposite of your life – lucky beyond belief. The favorite of his parents, completely immortal, completely beautiful, almost too wealthy, and many, many friends, including yourself.

What got you the most however was his eyes. Cold eyes were already praised in modern society – people loved grey, they loved blue and green. But in Ahkmenrah's society, the one that existed thousands of years ago, blue eyes hardly existed. The mutation for the new color was one in a billion back then, making him one of the (probably) three people on the planet with blue eyes. And now that lucky mutation stood before you in its purest, oldest form, and you couldn't bear to look at them for any longer than a solitary moment.

For some reason, it hurt you. Maybe because you were boring. Dull. Brown in a brown society. Sure, they looked beautiful in sunlight – you knew that. They turned into swirling gold and the taste of chocolate, but Ahk couldn't see them in the sunlight. That made you dull.

Now, Ahkmenrah was not a man to point things out about people. If they were being a dickhead, yes, but most of the time he noted things and dismissed them. But you'd been doing this for so long that he grew weary of the dance.

"Why don't you ever look at me?" He asked, a question that had your eyes widening and your back straightening, alarm bells ringing all over your brain.

"I look at you plenty," you said while avoiding his gaze like a 15th century doctor avoids respecting women.

"No, you don't," he said softly. "Not even now. I wish you would – you've got such beautiful eyes."

Your sketching stopped at his words. At your silence he placed his hand on your jaw, tilting so you looked at him. Instead of meeting his gaze you looked to the floor.

"They're very common," you got out weakly, still unable to make eye contact, but he kept you where you were, in the easy sight of him. "They only look good in the sun."

He shifted closer, keeping his hand on your jaw in hopes of you changing your mind and meeting his eye.

"Even in darkness they're beautiful, voids as empty and long as night," he hummed, drawing closer yet till you could feel the heat off his body on your still fingers. "I've noted them quite a lot. Eyes are a beautiful thing, aren't they?"

"Yours are," you mumbled, barely catching the meaning and insinuation of your words before they came out.

"As are yours. Remember when we snuck into McPhee's office? The lamplight bounced off of them and they practically glittered like the embers and smoke of a fire," he said with a small smile. "And the bright lights in the hallways –"

Florescent, you thought.

"– and the candle lights that Nick brought, those flicker with that same spark within you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

You couldn't move, stuck in place and stuck in your own head.

"The golden fireplace, Christmas lights – and the light of the moon, a dim, faraway light that can only be admired from a distance... like you," he murmured.

Sometimes you forgot his people were poets and admirers of nature.

"You have blue eyes," you whispered through the knot in your throat. He listened carefully. "And... I can see reflections in them. They're soft, like velvet. Despite everything, they.. you seem... happy. You always seem happy, and your eyes give it away."

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" He asked quietly, and in that moment you realized his nose was almost touching yours.

"No," you answered honestly. Another unlucky aspect of you.

"Neither have I," he said before he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a tender embrace you weren't at all expecting.

From both the view of the first kiss and of a Pharaoh's kiss, you weren't prepared, but the plush of his pink lips against yours sent sparks of delight into your heart. He moved slow, taking his time to map out your aspects just as you began to trail your hands over his open palm, memorizing the creases. You were reluctant to part, but he ran his hand through your hair and your brain short-circuited into placitude.

"You have the softest lips," he murmured, hand coming to cup your cheek once more.

You never applied aquaphor or did anything to make your lips soft.

Maybe it was luck.

Didn't really matter to you, because he kissed you again, and your eyes fluttered shut as everything in the world but him faded away.

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character

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lovelytsumu · 4 years

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‧₊˚✧ ཻུ۪۪ ᵕ̈ ART

chapter 2 — “sunflowers„

sakusa kiyoomi x reader | mlist

is having a soulmate necessary? — a bunch of connected stories.

Soulmate AU; if you write something on your skin it will appear on your soulmate skin too.

wc: 1,3k | no trigger warning

Some days have passed since the first drawings on his arm and the small conversation with his soulmate. Still, he didn’t know where she was, but, if he didn’t want to have a girlfriend, why did he have to worry?

He was staring at his volleyball yellow and green uniform, hanging from a hook on the wall, thinking about the incoming game of tomorrow.

Should he had to tell his soulmate to not draw on her arms? Or it wasn’t that important?

“Hello” he wrote down on his left wrist “Tomorrow can you not draw big flowers on your arms, please?” trying to be as polite as possible.

“Uh, okay, if I can ask you, why?” she asked a little time after.

“I have a volleyball match tomorrow, and I prefer to not have drawings all over me...”

“Is it a coincidence that I’ll go to a volleyball game tomorrow, too? Anyway, don’t worry, I’ll keep my pens and colours down” then she added a smiling emoji, sign that she didn’t mind stopping drawing for an evening.

Sakusa didn’t reply, hoping his soulmate would be quiet during the whole game. He didn’t mind her. Also if he started to properly write to her just a little time ago.

On the other hand, also ___ was enjoying it. She didn’t expect to find someone who gave her compliments for a sunflower drawing. The girl thought a way to thank him in a better way, and despite she promised to keep her pens down for that evening, she couldn’t help it. She was an artist, after all.

— 🌻 — some time before the game starts

Sakusa was patiently waiting near the lockers room, wearing his usual mask and the team uniform. He also had his jacket on, hands stuffed in the pockets. Iizuna came out of the door with some of his other teammates, “The game’s starting”.

___ walked through the hall, there weren’t too many people, maybe the game had already started. Maybe her soulmate had already noticed what she did, maybe not. Pulling her hoodie up, she walked towards the stairs.

Luckily, the game hadn’t begun yet, but noticing the only few seats left, she knew that would be an interesting game.

Honestly, she didn’t know that much about volleyball, it was just fun and entertaining. The year before, when she was in another school, one of her few friends took her to a volleyball game, mainly because her boyfriend was in the team. She didn’t care about it and ignored her almost every time she shouted “Nice kill!” to him.

Also if she had changed school, her habits were difficult to change. She still had the habit of spending some time alone in the art room after the lessons, going to volleyball matches, sitting in a less crowded place during lunch... some little actions that reminded her life was beautiful, also in its bad things.

___ sat in an empty seat, one of the nearest to the corner, most of people had already took the best seats, but she didn’t mind. She wasn’t rooting for anyone in particular, of course, she would have been a little bit happy if her school’s team won.

Itachiyama was literally a powerhouse school in Tokyo prefecture, only a couple of other schools could be considered “a big problem” by the members of the team.

“Is this seat taken?” a girl asked ___, pointing to the seat near her. She has gorgeous black, straight hair, dark eyes and round eyeglasses. She was cute. “No, you can sit if you want” the other girl replied.

“Thanks! I’m Mayu, second year at Itachiyama” she said, smiling. “I’m ___, also a second year at Itachiyama” “Really? I think I’ve never seen you around” “I think it’s because I’m new, I’ve changed school last year” she explained.

“I hope you’re feeling good here!” Mayu smiled. Her personality reminded a sunflower. The sunflower ___ wanted to be. A sweet, caring, smiley girl. “Yeah, I love being at Itachiyama”. The black haired girl couldn’t reply, since the match was about to begin.

“Itachiyama and Fukurodani! This will be an interesting match!” announced the girl next to her. “Do you know anyone who’s in our volleyball team?” asked ___, trying to get some information about those boys. “Well, Iizuna is the setter and the captain, but I don’t know much about him... Then there’s Komori, the libero. He’s ranked as the top libero in high school, and would probably be ranked as one of the best friends a person could have. The ace is Sakusa, I don’t know much about him too, he’s a very reserved person, I heard he hates crowds and being touched. Anyway, he’s one of the top three aces in the nation, so...”

“I heard Fukurodani’s captain is in that top too, but he is in the top five” ___ said, looking at her new friend. “Yep! He is! This will be a very good game. Anyway, did you know that Sakusa has a soulmate?” asked the girl beside her. She just stared at her in the first moment. “Are you his soulmate?” joked then. “Nope, but someone said his sweet half is an artist! Don’t you think that is great? I mean, a talented artist and a skilled volleyball player!”

There was no way that she was Sakusa’s soulmate. Hearing what they said about him, he probably wasn’t the best matching for a person like her. While Mayu was watching the game, where Itachiyama was in the lead for a couple of points, she raised her left sleeve, to reveal a new sunflower.

This time it wasn’t an outline, it was directly painted with the professional colours she uses for art class. It wasn’t big or detailed, but she added a “Good luck” under it. Also if she had broken a promise, she hoped her soulmate didn’t mind it.

During the first time out, while he was taking his water bottle, Sakusa noticed the thing that appeared on his wrist. Another bunch of paint on his skin. He would probably had freaked out, but something stopped him.

“Good luck”.

Maybe, for this time.

“Sakusa? Is that another sunflower on your wrist?” asked Komori, taking his bottle, pointing at his cousin’s hand. “Don’t point at me. It’s rude.” “I see your soulmate really likes drawing on you”

“Yes, I think so too.” “Don’t you hate the fact that someone you have never seen in your life is ruining your skin?” the libero asked again. Honestly, Sakusa has never thought about it. He was expecting that, in a certain point of his life, he had to be paired with someone he didn’t even know existed. The only unexpected thing was his soulmate’s character.

It was strange, the girl the fate paired him with wasn’t one of those exroverted and dyinamic, neither one of the emo-type, if that was a decent term of comparison. She was quiet, but you could notice her. She didn’t write that much, but she drew. A lot. And that was enough.

For this time, he accepted the little gift.

Sunflowers have always been recognised as the flowers of loyalty, fortune and vitality. They’re always staring at the sun, and that’s why they never see shadows.

Point after point, spike after spike, the teams were at the last set of the game. Mayu and ___ were watching and cheering for their school’s team, until Iizuna touched the ball, placing a set for their ace. Sakusa spiked it perfectly.

Itachiyama won the match.

[to be continued]

sorry for not updating this fic, a lot of things happened recently.

🌻 Taglist : @itsmattsunshinehere @dinonerdsimp @mintgrumpy @yams046 @macaronnv

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #hq imagines #hq x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #haikyuuwritersnet #hq sakusa #kiyoomi sakusa #haikyuu sakusa #haikyuu!!#kiyoomi sakusa x reader #sakusa x reader

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firesfelt · 3 years

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hi hello ! i’m pace ( she/her ) and i have really horrible timing, as i need to go to bed like asap and also have a packed day tomorrow so can’t be on then either ( rip ) but i rlly wanted to get at least one thing posted before i go ! i’m in the gmt, and am just realising now while i think about intros that all my fcs ( for the moment ) have names beginning with ‘a’ ? inch resting. but i’ll hopefully be able to get intros up for my gals too asap & i rlly wanna do the tasks for everyone and get writing and just have a Hoot. this is the exact environment i need, u know ? exciting !!! anyway, lemme introduce my first character before i end up writing some rambled essay about,,, literally nothing.

( asami zdrenka, 26, demigirl, she/her/they/them ) EMIKA BLAKE was seen listening to HEARTBEAT BY SCOUTING FOR GIRLS on their way to TATTOO ARTIST. EM is known to be CREATIVE & STANDOFFISH.

➜ i always find emika’s personality hard to describe, but i think the best way to begin is ‘misunderstood’ ? she has good intentions, and a kind soul, but the social skills of a wet trout. she’s quiet, and reserved, and has a serious case of resting-grump-face, and it very much leads people to get the wrong sort of impression of her, through no fault of their own. the sarcasm doesn’t help, either. she’s very much a loner ( and therefore a pain in the arse to plot with ) but i always enjoy developing relationships of any kind with her and seeing how things unfold.

➜ obviously, her job has a very social side, and that’s the one thing she can manage. she has no problems communicating in a consultation, getting ideas out there, easing the nerves of an anxious first-timer, expressing herself and what could be best, but that’s often because she knows exactly what to do. she does it day in, day out, and can almost follow a script in a way. sit the same person she had the consult with down for six hours to actually have the tattoo done, and unless they make the effort to keep the conversation going, em has nothing. it’s not even that she doesn’t want to talk, either, she just struggles. and then when she does think of something to say, it can come out abrupt or abrasive, so it’s often best to just keep her mouth shut.

➜ is it obvious yet that emika’s autistic ? she has no idea of this, herself, but it’s canon, just undiagnosed. and it was, admittedly, unintentional. i’ve revamped em from a character from long ago, and the first time i played her, i didn’t set out for her to have autism, and then when i realised that she’s definitely, definitely autistic, everything made sense. it just never got picked up on at school for her, and her mother never paid enough attention to notice or care to do anything in terms of getting a diagnosis or trying to help, so it’s gone undetected. thus far, anyway, who knows ? that could be interesting.

➜ speaking of her mum, let’s talk upbringing. emika was actually born in brighton, england, to her mother, mayumi, and father, stephen. on account of him being a cheating bastard, their relationship fell apart when em was seven. stephen made an attempt with his daughter, but he was in and out of her life for the following five years. at aged twelve, she realised that he really wasn’t worth the effort it took to force a relationship with him, and told him where to stick it. three years later, mayumi would want to uproot to huntsville to follow the latest in a long line of boyfriends --- and stephen didn’t so much as protest. the relationship between mayumi and her canadian lover didn’t last ( here is where em would bitterly mutter ‘they never do’ ) but they never went home.

➜ growing up, she had two escapes: art, and books. she’d always been creative, and always been trouble. think drawing on the hallway walls in crayon at four, getting paint on the living room carpet while creating a ‘masterpiece’ at seven. aka, not trouble, just a kid being a kid, but w/e. try telling her mum that. it was easy to get lost in a drawing or a painting, and she found comfort in reading, too. she’s still a bookworm now, despite not having much free time.

➜ em works too hard. she adores her job, and doesn’t take a single day of it for granted, but she works too hard. there’s nothing she’d rather be doing, and it’s by her own choice, but her time isn’t filled with much else. she specialises in neotrad, but likes to dabble a little and expand her styles when she can. she’s so unbelievably grateful to be doing what she does, especially as it very easily could never have happened for her.

➜ with a home life that was rocky at best, em definitely struggled. as a teenager, she turned to alcohol, and long before she was even legally allowed to drink, she developed a dependency on it. even now, she’d never say she was an alcoholic, but she’d definitely admit that it was a problem, and steers clear from the stuff now. wanting nothing more than to become a tattoo artist was the motivation she needed to get sober, and she knows it very easily could’ve gone in the opposite direction. she got an apprenticeship in the end, and the rest is history.

➜ but ! she’s still young !!!! like super young !! i always like to pick a fc a couple of years younger than however old i’m playing her, because it’s kind of a thing that emika looks even younger than she is. but where a lot of asami’s resources are from a couple of years ago, i thought a year’s difference would do ! but em knows she’s young and still has so much room to learn, and she’s eager to. she just wants to get better and better.

➜ so as an individual who speaks to her mum as little as possible, has no other family in canada, and has very few friends ( if any ? ) who keeps emika company, i hear you ask ? why, it’s her two goldfish and her chinese softshell turtle, of course. named fred, george, and dobby, respectively. she loves her tank full of friends far more than she’d ever care to admit. ideally, she’d love a dog, but doesn’t have the time to dedicate to caring for one, nor does she have the space. emika moved out at eighteen, the second she could scrape enough money together to do so, and moved into the tiniest box of an apartment, and hasn’t moved since. despite its size, she truly loves her little flat ---- and hates change.

➜ going forward, i’m open to,,, anything. with all three of my goblins, i’m really open to absolutely anything. including just vibing and seeing what happens, but i’m coming in really open and just wanting to Explore. i have an idea for a wc for em, which should be super interesting, but other than that, it’s all just vibes and goin with the flow !!

➜ i hate to wrap things up abruptly, but i really gotta go to bed lmao ( i should’ve written my intros out earlier, rip. isn’t hindsight amazing ? ) so just some things to note: when it comes to gender, em mostly idenifies as ‘ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ‘ and really just doesn’t think about it. she’s probably never talked to anyone about it, either, not properly/in depth. she doesn’t really think about it, and it doesn’t really,,,, matter ?? to her ?? it just sort of,,, Is. she/her absolutely flies with her, they/them is also appreciated, she really just,,, doesn’t mind. sexuality is one she did have a big crisis over ( and is it still ongoing ? kinda ) but eventually just decided that bi was the label that fit best so that’s what she goes with. she still,,, has no idea. and doesn’t know if it even matters. she split her life between brighton and huntsville, so it was never like she’d never be accepted, but it was all a big Internal Yikes for her.

➜ tldr: dog loving, artistic book enthusiast, who has more coffee in her system than blood and loves her job and her fish more than anything. a total pain in the arse, but a hard worker and bringer of sarcasm. and bitterness. but also bad jokes and gossip --- it’s easy to forget she’s there when she’s so quiet; she hears all kinds of shit.

➜ ooh ! one thing to note ! while em is obviously covered in tattoos, she doesn’t actually share any of asami’s irl ones, so pls keep that in mind ! and ignore in photos/gifs ! will have more details when i do her stats/first task, but for now i really have to go bed !! i’m v excited to be here though, ty for having me and i’ll be here properly soon <3

#about ➜ emika.#intro ➜ emika.#sero.intro #alcohol tw

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daesungfmd · 3 years

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𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆.

solo 3 / wc: 1,399

december 31st, 2020. #1: enjoy the year. smile.

it’s the same resolution that daesung always starts his list with. one that every close friend and past lover who had been lucky enough to read his resolutions as he wrote them had laughed at the cheesiness of. fair enough ― he knows it sounds ridiculous. better yet, it’s not something that will ever see tangible results, but it’s a matter of mentality. a reminder to stop and smell the roses, no matter how fast time passes; god knows it’s been passing faster and faster lately.

so despite his hand’s hesitance to write those same old tired words, he forces himself to. “another year...” he whispers to himself, mind moving a mile a minute. he’s so busy with thinking about what he’ll write next that he almost forgets to finish his verbal thought, so the second part comes delayed. (not that it matters. for once, there’s no one around to hear it, anyway). “... spent smiling. i can do that.”

he inhales deeply, exhales slow. something about putting this list together always feels so serious to him ― like if he doesn’t write it down, it won’t happen. and if it does, then somehow it can’t be counted in the scoresheet of his life. it’s dumb. he knows it is, but a man like him has to have something that he takes seriously. so what if it’s a piece of loose-leaf paper?

#2: organize... or move.

truthfully, this one holds no weight. even as daesung writes it, he already knows that neither will happen (at least... until his frantic dedication to resolutions kicks in halfway through the year). but he has a tradition of sharing his resolutions with his fans and asking for them to share their own with him in return; maybe if he makes them think that something’s going to change, they’ll stop writing “see daesung live better” on the lists that they send him.

he laughs under his breath as he writes it, and then again as he re-reads it. it shouldn’t sound as far-fetched as it does, he knows. but he likes the chaos that he lives in ― and, besides, he owns so much shit that even when his apartment is at its tidiest, it still feels messy. he thinks it’s just another part of his charm. his fans think it’s something to worry about.

( maybe they’re both right. )

#3: act! act! act! act!

he writes it four times because this is the fourth year acting has made it onto his list. so far, it hasn’t been accomplished, but that doesn’t mean that daesung has lost hope. he’s still been taking acting classes just as diligently as he had as a trainee ― nine years of practicing and he thinks that sooner or later, the higher-ups will either get tired of saying no or acknowledge his talent and help him find some roles.

2021 is his year. he can feel it in his bones.

( every year is his year, though, isn’t it? maybe his fourth resolution should be to stop getting his hopes up. )

#4: spend more time with family.

but it isn’t. in fact, the fourth resolution seems to be yet another product of high, high hopes. he already spends quite a lot of time with his mother, but it always feels superficial or hollow ― sometimes both, but hardly ever neither. what he really wants is to spend meaningful time with her; to reconnect. to get back to how things were so many years ago, but every year that passes make it feel less realistic.

he pulls his lips into a tight line because, somehow, just writing down this resolution makes it feel like they’re going to sink into a heavy frown. after twenty seconds of silence and stillness, he sighs. “it’s not that serious, daesung,” he reminds, talking to himself without thinking. a symptom of long-term loneliness, undoubtedly; he almost writes find the cure to loneliness as number five, but reminds himself that he’s a public figure and these will be public resolutions. he doesn’t need to scare his fans with a momentary wave of melancholy.

#5: adopt another dog to keep genie company.

he’s been thinking about it for a while, but surprises himself when he writes it down. he only has three pets, but usually finds himself feeling like his hands are full. then again, half of the responsibility comes from genie’s constant need for attention and now that he’s thinking about loneliness, he’s worried about her. as much as daesung loves her, sometimes he thinks that she’s an awful lot like tinkerbell: withering away when she goes five minutes unaddressed. perhaps if there were another dog in the house, the pleas for attention would be split between him and the new canine. that, he could handle.

“yeah, right,” he scoffs, fondness decorating words that might otherwise be mistaken as annoyance. if anything, genie would just teach her friend all her best tricks to get daesung’s attention. still, he keeps the resolution in mind. it’s down in pen now, anyway, and he can trust his fans to pester him about it a few months in the future.

#6: make more friends!

genie isn’t the only one who needs company, after all. and while daesung has plenty of surface-level friendships, the ones that feel unmistakably genuine are few and far between. that’s what fuels his loneliness most of the time ― the knowledge that he has countless numbers in his phone, but only two or three would pick up without a second thought if he called. he can admit that it’s his own fault ( and he does admit it silently as he stares at his messy handwriting ), but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. loneliness is loneliness, no matter the cause.

“this is my year,” he whispers, verbalizing the thought he’d had in relation to acting. it applies perfectly here, as well. 2021 is the year that he solidifies his place in peoples’ lives, the year that he makes his strongest ambitions come true, the year that brings him more happiness than any year before it. it has to be. he needs it to be.

#7: love inpulses more and more.

not that he honestly needs to love them any more than he already does. in fact, his closest friends who have seen his social media dms will argue that he already loves his fans far too much; if he expresses it any more clearly, he’ll be on the edge of a scandal. but as someone who measures love in time spent together, affectionate pats on the back and deep conversations, he still feels like his fans are too distant. he wants to sit with them like an old friend, get to know them on a level that he knows he’ll never really be able to.

overall, this resolution acts as nothing more than fanservice. he means it with every ounce of his being, and it’ll be a nice thing for them to read, but nothing’s going to change. he’s already as close to them as he can reasonably get. he knows it. they know it. the most that he can do is update his social media pages more often, give them new content to coo over. let them love him from a distance, make them smile through a screen.

he has other wishes for 2021, but some of them are too personal to share and others have slipped his mind for the time being, so he decides to leave it at seven, rather than the traditional twelve that he usually shares. he’s already accomplished a lot, anyway, so it’s harder to dream now; most things he wants are easy to attain. he supposes that’s something to be thankful for.

as a finishing touch, he draws a couple hearts and smiley-faces as a border around the list, then writes “let’s have a good year!” as a header in big, bold characters. after taking a picture with his phone, he folds the paper delicately and tucks it between his phone and phonecase for safe-keeping. just until he goes back home ( even though he’ll likely forget about it between now and then ). with his list made, he decides to get ready for the party. he’s sure it’ll be starting soon, and he might as well welcome the new year with enthusiasm.

#𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆. solo.#fmdfantasycruise #for anyone who reads this and might b curious...... no his goal of acting will not be accomplished <3 ever <3 #he needs to let it go #anyway he usually has more resolutions and they're usually more serious but he's tired of disappointment so he's keepin it real this year <3 #he's just gonna appreciate what 2021 brings him and try not to think about his resolutions as much as he usually does

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pollylynn · 4 years

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Just About, Chapters 1–5 (Loosely linked Caskett Rabbles, Set in Season 1)

A/N: I started this “series” (if one can call it that) a while ago—very short things set in Season 1. It had been sitting at four chapters for a while. I wrote the fifth tonight. I’m just going to post them all here, with separators, because they’re so short.

Title: Just About, Chapter 1: Everything and Nothing WC: 300

A/N: I don’t know. I need a palate cleanser after finishing Season 8, and I was “inspired” by an Elvis Costello song. So 300 words here, and plans for a few more of these, most likely all set in season 1.

She smells like heaven. Well. Not really. She doesn't even wear perfume. She smells like drugstore shampoo and coffee. But it's heaven to him. Legitimately the stuff of dreams. Or it would be, if he slept. But he can't sleep, because she smells like heaven.

Because her cheek blushed when he kissed it, and the warmth still lingers on his lips. The silk-smooth feel of her skin stays with him, and he absolutely cannot sleep.

It's ridiculous, really. He asked, near enough.

Why? So I can be another one of your conquests?

Or I could be one of yours.

He put it out there, and she turned him down. Shot him down, if he's honest with himself, and that's that as far as the possibility of any after-hours "research" between the two of them goes. That's that.

But she smells like heaven, and he can't decide if she's adorable or dead sexy or both at once. He can't decide if it's her legs he's into or her eyes or the fact that she's a complete bad ass. Or maybe it's how smart she is. Book and street and everything in between, and then there’s the mouth on her. She’s funny. Cutting, but not quite mean. Not quite, and she’s not the least bit impressed by him.

Not the least bit, and can’t be that, can it?

It might be that, because he hasn’t worked like this for anything in ages. For anyone. He hasn’t had to. Hasn’t wanted to, and what the hell is it about her?

Maybe it's everything. She catches him, flat-footed and tongue-tied all the time, and maybe it’s every damned thing about her.

Maybe whatever it is, he needs to get over it.

He asked. She shot him down. And that's that.

********************************************

Title: Just About, Chapter 2—Seemingly WC: 400

A/N: More palate cleansing.

He was supposed to be bored by now. Long before now. She'd have bet on it. She has bet on it, in a manner of speaking. She's been confident. She's brushed off innuendo and anted up to Lanie and Espo and Montgomery. Anted up to everyone brave or dumb enough to give her so much as a sidelong glance about it. About him and their "arrangement."

A week, tops . . .

A couple . . .

A few . . .

But they've barreled past a couple, and if she's honest, a few is already disappearing in the rear-view mirror, and he doesn't seem bored.

He seems a lot of things: Callous, immature, smug, vain, obtuse, reckless, and oh-so-very annoying. He seems hell bent on really playing out whatever this is. Ego, maybe?

But that doesn't fit. Not exactly.

She thinks back to the street. To what she'd meant to be her parting shot and the moment right before.

Or I could be one of yours . . .

She thinks of what he seemed then. Boyish, delighted, smitten. Shy, or something very near to it.

She thinks of all the other things he's seemed since. The not-so-terrible things she isn't always big enough to admit: Curious, astute, invested, feeling.

It's the last one that gets her. It interests her, or it would if she'd let it.

Because for all his antics, she's seen him somber, too. Gut-punched when he does the math on how many I'm so sorry for your loss calls she must've made over the years. Coldly furious at a foul-mouthed prep school punk, who's used to getting away with everything, and that doesn't seem new at all. It doesn't seem recent, and she wonders about it.

She'd wonder if she'd let herself, but she won't. She bites her tongue to keep from asking and tries remember what she knows about Richard Castle, best-selling novelist. What's known about him out in the wide world, because that's where he exists. On billboards and book jackets and slick studio sets. At rooftop book parties and on the mayor's speed dial.

That's where he exists, and she'd do well to remember that, whatever he seems, now and again. Whatever it is he's determined to play out.

It's ego, she decides, and it doesn't pay to wonder. He'll be bored soon enough.

A month, tops . . .

A couple . . .

A few . . .

(But he doesn't seem bored.)

*********************************************

Title: Just About, Chapter 3—Just a Little WC: 500 A/N: A continuation of this Drabble series, because, for the moment, they keep coming.

Sometimes he thinks she likes him just a little.

Most of the time he's absolutely sure she doesn’t. She yells a lot, and she’s prone to violence. Not the fun kind, either. She pokes. Hard. And she has this thing about twisting his ear like he's some Dickensian street urchin. At any given moment, he’s pretty sure she doesn’t like him one bit.

But every once in a while, he catches her staring straight ahead with the corners of her mouth turned down hard. Every once in a while, he spies a wicked glint in her eye, and he's pretty sure she trying not to smile. He racks his brain every time. He drives himself up the wall, trying to remember what he just said or did. What he didn’t do that she thought he’d been thinking about doing . . .

It’s stupid. Insane, really, because what does it matter whether she likes him or not? He’s in. One strategic phone call and absolutely everything he’d wanted has fallen into place. Absolutely everything.

He’s writing like a fiend. He’s up nights willing his fingers to keep up with his brain. He’s scrawling down details every waking moment on every scrap of paper that comes to hand. His mind hums along, four levels deep, while they work. While they bicker and joke and turn each other inside out to get the job done. His and hers.

It’s everything he’d wanted all those miserable months with his marriage unraveling and the words gone. Every last thing, so what does it matter? Smile or no smile. Whether she likes him a little or a lot or not a bit. What does it matter?

There’s the obvious answer. The obvious conclusion that everyone's jumped to. His mother. The whole damned precinct. Alexis. That bothers him more than he'd like.

You always say you have to love your characters . . .

The glint of cynicism bothers him. The flash of fresh scars from all the upheaval with Gina. The divorce. Before and after. Everything up until these last few weeks, and it bothers him that even his kid thinks it's obvious that Kate Beckett is the shiny new thing. That "research" is code for business as usual.

It bothers him, because it's ridiculous. And because it's kind of a fair cop. It has been, historically, but he’s done with that. Mixing business with pleasure. A lousy metaphor for him and Gina, anyway, which is why he's done with anything that even looks like a relationship.

You always say you have to love your characters . . .

It's ridiculous. He doesn’t have to. And he definitely doesn’t . . .

And so what if he did? So what if he mentally goes to tape and draws up freaking battle plans to see if he can leave her fighting off a smile?

So what if he loves Nikki Heat? Kate Beckett is definitely not Nikki Heat, and she doesn't even like him.

Except every once in a while, it seems like she does. Just a little.

A/N: 500 words this time. The first and second were 300 and 400, respectively. I'm not going to lock into that pattern, I don't think, but each came out close, and so I decided to challenge myself to shape them into an even hundred.

******************************************

Title: Just About, Chapter 4—Kind of WC: 600

A/N: Another 600 Words

He’s kind of a dork.

She’s trying to process that. Still trying to process it. She’s been sitting with it a while, and a lot has happened. Nothing at all and a lot.

She’d told him. About her mom. About her dad. About her, more or less. Maybe a little less, but more than most people know. Quite a bit more than anyone but Lanie, maybe. More altogether than Ryan or Espo or even the Captain, though they know her in bits and pieces. They know her from guarded revelations over the occasional beer. From gossip that never quite gets stale. Never quite.

But she’d told him. Castle, who is a thorn in her side. Who is the nosiest, interfering-est, most emotionally tone deaf person she’s ever met when he’s caught up in one of his parlor trick cold readings. Castle, who loves to run roughshod over everyone and everything, especially her.

Castle, who’s kind of a dork.

She’d told him.

She can’t figure it out. He’d been happy enough with his own story.

I noticed your watch. It’s your dad’s, right?

He’d been more than happy enough, and she’d like to think it was about knocking him down a peg. She’d like to think telling him was about wiping some self-satisfied look off his face, but there wasn’t any. Not by then. Not after White Plains and an eerily calm conversation about fathers and daughters and getting away with murder, and even that’s not it. Sudden, absolute confidence that he could’ve kept the secret. That he would have if she’d asked him to.

And even that’s not why she’d told him. Not entirely.

Because she’d started telling him well before that. She’d started the minute she let her feet carry her to his doorstep for some unfathomable reason. She’d started telling him before he even opened the door. She’d started telling him as she lingered in his hallway, stalling long enough that she was suffocating in her winter coat. Feeling wordlessly stupid for being there and finally screwing up the courage to knock.

She’d started telling him the minute the door opened on that bizarre scene. Violent green mud masks and his hair standing straight up. She’d gone there for words—for an ending to Melanie Cavanaugh’s story—and wound up in the moment that hasn’t quite ended yet, even though she’s been home a while. She’d wound up pouring her heart out and leaving him there at her desk like the fixture he’s become.

It isn’t because of who he is, though she sees now that’s what had brought her there. She sees now that she’d gone to see her favorite author. The man whose words have given her the only kind of closure she’s known for a decade, but that’s not who she’d found when the door swung open.

That’s not who’d perched tentatively on the desk next to her, self-consciously trying to smooth down his hair. Really, really wanting to switch off the storyboard with its skeletal outline. Really, really wanting to explain that he’s not usually home of an evening playing laser tag with his kid. Really, really wanting to point out that his mother lives with him, he doesn’t live with her. Really, really wanting to slip back into the skin of who he pretends to be a lot of the time, but not letting himself.

She’d knocked on the door of her favorite author and found him instead. She’d told him her life story. The bits it’s been boiled down to. She’d told him. Because he’s kind of a dork.

A/N: This one is set just after A Chill Goes Through Her Veins (1 x 05). The others are more loosely woven throughout S1, but this episode has always felt like an important turning point to me.

*********************************************************

Title: Just About, Chapter 5—Turns Out WC: 700

A/N: Finally, the new stuff.

It's good to have her here again.

Again

He's a little too giddy about that particular pair of syllables. Giddy enough that he's definitely compensating—scrambling on the inside, overdoing it on the outside. He’s pitched his voice somewhere in the vicinity of just-north-of-Barry-White pitch, and he’s flicking a heavy-lidded gaze across the desk at her as he lets the words roll around in his mouth.

Bare

Glistening

Breasts

Oh, he’s definitely compensating. Then and now–on the page and in real time—but he doesn’t really see many alternatives.

She's here. Again. And that's good, even if she doesn't look one bit like she agrees. Even if the look she's shooting back at him makes his bedroom voice crack—even if he did sort of trick her into it this time—it’s still definitely good, because there's a this time, and that implies that there was a last time, and there was no trickery there.

And there's the giddy again, when he thinks about her backlit in the hallway, head cocked and brow furrowed at the strange picture they must have made: He and Alexis and his mother, in for the night and up to their typical shenanigans, and then, suddenly, her at the door. And as stunned as he was to see her—as back-of-the-mind perplexed as he was, because how does she even know where he lives?—he still remembers thinking, Finally.

Finally. That was unquestionably the word looming largest in his mind when Kate Beckett showed up on his doorstep.

It’s troubling. It’s as troubling as the giddy feeling that comes with Again, because it's not as though he'd been waiting for her. He hadn’t been, hasn’t been, isn’t waiting for anyone. He’s so very not waiting for anyone that he’d wrecked the bedroom with his ex-wife just that morning.

And that helpful point of information his brain offers up, just as she is on the absolute verge of leaving, is the opposite of helpful. That point of information is something that he discovers in the moment he actually hates the hell out of, and he doesn’t have time to sift through the why. He’s taken the Bare. Glistening. Breasts. gag to the absolute edge of too far and she’s leaving.

And he doesn’t want her to leave.

And he doesn’t want Meredith to come back.

And those two facts are unquestionably intertwined in ways that he suspects are quite complicated.

Because it’s not merely that he does not want Meredith back in New York—although he certainly does not want Meredith back in New York. It’s not that his crush on, attraction to, infatuation with Kate Beckett was any kind of proof against taking the path of least resistance when Meredith dropped her bags, her fur, and her dress in short order.

But having Kate Beckett here in his home—again—makes it blindingly clear that she is the kind of woman he wants in his home. And Meredith is most definitely not. He wants her intelligence and her empathy and her work ethic. He wants her curious mind and the challenge she presents to him in every possible way. He wants a good woman in his own life, and as if these sudden revelations weren’t complicated enough, in his daughter’s life, too.

It’s another shocking turn of events—and another thing it turns out he was somehow expecting. She brings up Alexis—Kate does—and he’s simultaneously furious and abashed, because Alexis doesn’t, by and large, miss her mother. And no one thinks it would be a good idea to have her back in town. Absolutely no one thinks that, and he’s ashamed.

So he hits out. He goes on the defensive. And she hits out in kind. She goes for the jugular. They yell back and forth about deep-fried Twinkie sex, about how shallow he is. She looks gratified that he’s living down to her expectations at last, and he aims to please.

He wishes he could stop himself. He wishes he could stop the conversation cold and just tell her how glad he is. He’s simply glad that she is here. Again. A/N: Here, too, for some reason the episode itself—Always Buy Retail (1 x 06)—got chatty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 1 #Castle: A Chill Goes Through Her Veins #Castle: Always Buy Retail #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Meredith Castle #Fic #Fanfic #Fanficiton #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Drabbles

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