#i know not a single one of u cares but i have once again migrated fandoms | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teklarn · 3 years

Note

hi, this is my first ever ask so I'm not sure I'm doing this correctly, if that's the case I'm sorry; I don't know how tumblr works just yet >:')

would it be possible for you to write something about bakugo, pining incredibly hard for fem!reader and initially hating how strongly he feels about her? because they're not even friends, they only exchange few words occasionally and she doesn't even glance at his way whereas he slowly finds himself unable to divert his eyes from her during classes? shes always with damn deku and his friends and doesn't even seem interested in him at all but his heart can't ignore the way she looks at him proudly whenever they spar together, the way she sends him small confident smiles as they fight each other with all they have; so he thinks that maybe, maybe he might have a chance. basically bakugo liking reader so much he's completely lost in self-hatred because he always thought feelings were for weak romantics and not great people like him, but everytime he sees reader doing some badass things (again, like sparring with him and basically matching his skills etc...) he's reminded of how badly he likes reader? but when he finally accepts he's fallen for reader, after ignoring and trying to forget about how she makes him feel, he masters up the courage to confess? and it's a very clumsy confession because he's awkward and has no idea how to deal with those feelings? and he tries so hard to make reader realise he's never been more serious than now? and reader is startled and speechless before rejecting him? and at that point he's just completely humiliated, so he nods and walks away.

it might be a little dramatic but I've always been into unrequited love and one-sided pining. thank you, its okay if you don't want to write about this, i'll understand <33

𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓪𝓵 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾

character(s): katsuki bakugou x fem!reader (my hero academia)

reblogs are greatly appreciated!

a/n: AHHHHH this is so cute <33 honestly this is super exciting for me and this ask made me so happy, lovey. i’m fairly new to tumblr, i’m usually just a reader but i wanted to migrate here from wattpad so this made me so happy. here u are my love <33 i hope this lives up to what u wanted !! :)) a bit lengthy, but i had a lot of fun writing it !!!

summary: bakugou finds he’s rejecting his feelings for you in fear of becoming weak, however he just can’t seem to ignore you.

genre: fluffy, fluffier than the clouds istg, however the clouds are sprinking a little teeny weeny droplet of angst.

warnings: cursing (bakugou, duhh), one-sided pining (on bakugou’s part) second hand embarrassment (on bakugou’s part bc we can all agree he’s a complete idiot when it comes to trying to get someone’s attention), just bakugou being a jackass, i gave the reader a quirk

word count: 3,859

(pls excuse any typos or mistakes, i edited to the best of my ability but i miss some things sometimes !)

- - -

part 2 is here my loves <3

brutal. it was utterly ruthless. he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think right. his hands were already exceptionally sweaty, but gosh when he saw your damn face, he was ready to explode. literally.

what the hell was it about you? was it your stupid smile? or the way you just seemed to carry every battle on your back? was it all the undeniably sweet things you do for others ‘just because’?

it made him angry that he thought about you, but gosh he couldn’t wait to see you every day.

just like any other day, bakugou found himself staring at the large door to the classroom, awaiting the moment you would bounce into his day, skirt shifting around your legs, bag slung loosely around your shoulders.

his leg was bouncing eagerly.

bakugou didn’t know when the feelings came. his cheeks just started flaring up all of a sudden and one day you just looked...different. you hadn’t done anything different to yourself. it was just him. not that he would ever admit that, to you or anybody else.

you were insufferable. you were stupid and obnoxious and so...so damn...

“y/n! come look at this!”

you’d come walking into class just as expected, and as soon as you did, that stupid nerd had called you over.

it didn’t help that deku sat right behind him, either. the two of you had recently gotten closer. bakugou noticed it last month when he yelled at the two of you to shut up about all might and get to work. he’d turned around to find you leaning over deku, hands resting on his shoulders while you peered at his phone.

“sorry, bakugou,” you’d said, barely acknowledging him. you had waved him off like an annoying fly. is that all you were to him? some nuisance that got in the way of your oh-so-entertaining conversations with deku?

all he heard nearly every day was your chipper voice talking to deku. always, “oh my gosh, midoriya, did you see the fight edgeshot was in last night?” or “midoriya! i have something to add to our quirk analysis book!”

that was the one that took the cake. you two dorks shared a notebook, occasionally passed between one another, and filled it with junk about quirks and pro heroes. but no matter how much he tried to tune you out, no matter how he tried to zone off and think about something else, you were always there. it made him want to vomit how much he thought about you.

you were doing an adorable shuffle over to midoriya’s desk and leaned over the table as you usually did while he angled his phone your way. “did you see this hero report?”

deku let you slip the phone out of his grasp to get a better look.

“no,” you breathed. “was this just recent?”

“yeah,” deku said, taking the phone back. “last night.”

“holy—”

“can you guys shut up over there?” bakugou said, his voice quaking.

“sorry, kacchan.” deku scrolled through the article.

dammit, bakugou thought. “i wasn’t talking to you, nerd. i was talking to shitface over here.” he jerked his head towards you. his eyes flared in anger when he saw you were looking down at your phone, now focused in on the article yourself. “i was talking to you, asshat!”

your eyes flicked up to his. you looked around for a moment before slowly pointing to yourself as if to say, “me?”

his face scrunched. “yeah, you. you’re so damn loud.” gosh, he hated how his voice was cracking, how he could feel his ears and cheeks lighting up in a swollen, cherry red. his stomach flipped.

she’s looking at you, gosh i’m sweating. i’m going to throw up. she’s so gorgeous. what the hell? they’re ugly as shit, i don’t think anything of them.

his eyes bore into yours.

“did you...need something?”

your voice broke his trance.

“kacchan, are you okay? you dozed off there for a second. you look like you’re burning up.”

bakugou looked to deku who was currently stretching out of his seat, arm extended. he pressed the back of his hand to bakugou’s forehead. “you’re really warm, kacchan. should we call recovery girl?”

it took him a moment to realize what was happening. his vision got blurry every time he was with you. bakugou smacked deku’s hand away. “i’m fine!” his voice lifted at the end, cracking. “i’m not sick. don’t you think i’d take better care of myself?”

“i don’t doubt you take good care of yourself, kacchan, but everyone gets sick once in a while. there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“i never get sick!” besides, if i got sick, i wouldn’t want you to be the one taking care of me.

he was still pissed. he was always in a bad mood, however, more so right now because you’d gone straight back to your phone and that stupid hero article that was supposedly so damn interesting.

soon enough, the bell rang, and you were seated at your desk. it was jirou’s old spot, however, after much convincing, you two had switched spots so you could be closer to deku. just a few months of getting close to the idiot and you two are suddenly best friends. jirou hadn’t minded one tiny bit, claiming she needed a break from how loud that section of the room was.

late as always, aizawa came trudging into your room. thankfully, his entire body wasn’t obscured by a yellow sleeping bag that smelled of something unwashed and coffee and gasoline. (for some reason, aizawa’s clothes always smelled of it.)

“lucky for you,” he began while shuffling papers on his desk, “all of you are doing training for these first periods.”

the class cheered in perfect unison, followed by their individual chatter. you had erupted with glee along with them, and bakugou was sure he felt his heart clench and then explode. just a tiny bit. but he shoved the feeling down just as quickly as it had come up.

“go out to the field and wait for further instructions. don’t make a sound in the halls otherwise, i’ll expel all of you.”

this shut everyone up in almost a second, the sound draining out just as water does. the first years trailed out into the hall, single-file mimicking the positions baby ducklings would take when following their mother.

bakugou found himself walking faster when he saw you take up your spot in the line, hoping to land his spot right behind you.

unfortunately, this idiot who considered himself bakugou’s friend tugged him back. “bakugou!” a familiar voice rasped.

“shitty hair, let go of me.”

“hey man, chill out. wanna partner up if we’re doing training in pairs?”

bakugou glanced at the line, the spot that should have been reserved for him now taken up by sato.

bakugou tugged his sleeve from kirishima’s hand. “whatever,” he snapped.

“sounds good!” kirishima flashed him a toothy grin and a thumbs-up. the bubbly feeling in bakugou’s chest died down as he stood behind sato, the overwhelming scent of sugar filling his nose, various candies that would go straight to your arteries.

“you smell like ass, damn,” bakugou remarked, squeezing his nostrils together.

luckily, sato was tall enough to not hear the insult, as he towered over bakugou by just another head. the line began moving like a sloppy train down to the change rooms.

bakugou scoffed as he listened to your giggle. he should be making you laugh.

“you’ll be given partners randomly from this box.” aizawa held up a familiar red box. “inside are all your names. i’ll select one, then that person will come up and pick another name from the box. that will be your assigned partner for today. as soon as you have your assigned partner, i want you guys to get straight to work.”

denki raised a hand, speaking before being called on. “sensei, why are we getting random partners? we’re always allowed to choose.”

“in the real world, you’re going to come across different villains every day. you’ll never improve your skills or your quirks if you keep fighting the same person.”

denki sighed, slumping back.

dammit, bakugou thought, gritting his teeth together. there wasn’t any way he wanted to be partners with you. it’s obvious he’d win the fight in the first few seconds.

yes! exactly right! bakugou internally grinned. his fluctuating feelings had finally soothed themselves. you were just another extra, and he had no room for you in his head.

aizawa took a moment to fiddle with the slips of paper inside the box. soon enough, he pulled out a name. “todoroki.”

todoroki walked up, digging his hand into the box when aizawa held it out for him. he pulled out a name, delicately unraveling the slip. “uraraka, you’re my partner.” he deadpanned.

the brunette grinned. “great!”

the two found their own spot on the field, and the class’s attention was once again diverted to their grouchy teacher as he pulled out another name.

“bakugou.”

bakugou strutted up without a worry in his mind. he pulled a name to find...

“y/n,” he said, voice a low growl. instead of the annoying fluttering in his chest, his eyes met yours, and they were filled with a different, new ferocity. he crumpled the paper in one hand, letting it twirl to the ground.

you looked at him, unsmiling. your eyes gave away nothing, and to bakugou’s knowledge, all you saw in him was another opponent.

it took him a moment to realize you had both locked eyes for about a minute. perhaps the two of you would have stayed as you were if aizawa hadn’t snapped at the two of you to get moving as yaomomo’s name was called.

bakugou was on his way to the back of the field, you followed close behind. while there was plenty of room still, he chose a secluded area. while it was still open enough to view everything going on so nobody got hurt, it was often nobody chose to train here. for whatever reason, you weren’t sure.

“wait up, bakugou,” you said. after a bit, you caught up to him.

“if you can’t keep up, then...” then what? he looked at you from the side of his eye. “then don’t keep up...” gosh, here came the embarrassing, disgusting feeling of redness in his cheeks.

you laughed. “what?”

“shut up.”

“you’re an idiot, bakugou.”

“i said shut the hell up!”

“what, so you can call me shitface in front of the entire class but you get all pissed when i call you an idiot?”

so you had heard him!

he tongued his cheek, curling his hands around an invisible ball, explosions sparking in the centers of his palms. “don’t expect me to hold back, dumbass.”

“i wouldn’t dream of it.”

gosh he loved that about you.

bakugou caught his thought in the air.

ahem...gosh he hated that about you.

you both charged in at the same time. his cry was louder than yours, but you struck first.

he admired your quirk. while he’d overhead you explaining all the drawbacks it had, it was strong, and you were strong because you knew how to control it.

purple arrows flew from your arms, going in your desired directions. if you lost focus for one moment, they’d vanish and weaken. if you focused too hard or long, you’d be plagued by a splitting headache.

he’d spent too much time obsessing over your strengths and weaknesses.

your arrows were weightless, however they were solid objects capable of carrying any mass, any thing, and worked as extensions of your body.

the violet arrow had shot out at him, twisting around his right gauntlet and crushing inwards. it’d snaked around him without him noticing, slithering along his back.

bakugou struggled to get the air-light arrow off his wrist, but it was no use. he glared back, only to see your focused, furrowed brows. he’d expected to see your cocky ass smiling. it was nice to see you weren’t.

that was one thing that had also caught his eye. you never underestimate your opponent, but you never underestimate yourself, either.

you conjured a larger arrow. it snaked around your right arm as you hurled bakugou into the air, releasing your grasp on him. you shot your other arrow into the air, and it raced into the sky.

it swerved. bakugou’s eyes went wide as the tip of the arrow came down on his chest. if they weren’t intangible things, he would have been bleeding out.

another drawback: the arrows, while they could solidify, they couldn’t do any actual damage. you had to use your surroundings to inflict harm on your opponent.

he coughed out as the arrow shot him into the ground. he hadn’t even touched you, and here he was, vulnerable and so...so...

you stood over him, hands on your hips.

vulnerable and so lost in that adorable, winning smile.

“get away from me, idiot,” he grunted and turned onto his side, his back crying out in pain.

“i think i won this fight, bakugou,” you chirped, rocking on your heels.

“don’t get arrogant, shithead. you won’t be winning against me anymore.”

you grinned, arrows shooting out behind your back.

the dorms were exceptionally quiet. you were typing away in the common room, bakugou on the couch reading. everyone was off doing something else. it was the weekend, luckily. he’d expected you to go bounding out with everyone else, however you’d stayed back, claiming you had some homework to catch up on.

bakugou being classic bakugou had stayed back. he was excited to have the dorm to himself, but your dumbass was stuck here with him. couldn’t you have done your typing in your room?

you were so aggressive on that poor keyboard.

“oi, quiet down with your shit typing.”

you barely grunted in response.

“don’t ignore me.”

“i heard you, mom.”

“the hell did you call me?”

no response. only your aggressive typing is a bit less aggressive.

“i can still hear it,” bakugou remarked, eyes fixed on your back.

“‘kay,” you said. your typing slowed a tad, and your pressure on the keys lessened.

it was quiet now. bakugou should go back to his book. he shouldn’t still be looking for a reason to talk to you.

the pages crinkled in his fingers. he bit his tongue, keeping his snarky comments in.

“you’re a fucking idiot, you know that? doing your damn homework. it’s due tomorrow.”

you turned, pursing your lips. “and how would you know what i’m working on? are you stalking me?”

“i- what? no. you’re such an idiot, of course i’m not—”

“i’m messing with you,” you breathed, face un-moving.

“o-oh,” bakugou stuttered out. he blinked awkwardly.

“gosh, what’s gotten your panties in a twist?”

“you’re annoying.”

“you’re a jackass.” you returned to your work. bakugou settled with reading in his room. reading consisted of jumping onto his bed just as the stereotypical high school girl would in an eighties movie. he buried his face in his pillow, face burning bright red. he cursed you for making him feel this way, and hated himself even more for how much he enjoyed it.

the next day came swiftly. you’d left early to go train with midoriya. there were many improvements needed to be made, but you weren’t doing too bad.

you propelled yourself forwards with an arrow, and your green-haired friend shot back, lightning flickering around his body.

landing back on the ground, you panted and swiped the sweat from your brow. from the corner of your eye, you could make out both kirishima and bakugou coming to the training grounds.

bakugou stopped in his tracks, frowning at the sight of you.

it was evident he hated you a bit more than everyone else. he was always making his annoying comments, he was always snubbing you. you saw no reason to talk to him, so you didn’t. either way, even if you tried, he would still get angry for no reason.

it’d taken you quite some time to get used to his obnoxious attitude. tuning him out had been the best course of action, in your opinion.

the way you and midoriya had bonded was through bakugou, in a way. the first day of school, bakugou had snapped at you for tripping over your laces and nearly crashing into him. later that day, midoriya had stepped up and apologized for his old friend’s actions.

you two had never been too close until now. the recent incidents going on with the league of villains had snagged your attention, and it seemed you were the only person who didn’t mind listening to him ramble on about heroes.

you were just as passionate and just as dorky, but midoriya could talk your ear off. you never minded, and he always took the hint when you didn’t want to listen.

you brought your leg up, twirling in the air with ease and watched your heel collide with midoriya’s face. he grunted, stumbling back.

you were about to charge in again when a hand landed on your shoulder, big and rough. you turned to see bakugou standing behind you, a scowl on his face.

“fight me again,” he demanded.

“excuse me?”

“don’t act like you didn’t hear me.”

“i’m in the middle of fighting midoriya right now.”

“so?”

“so if you think that i’m just going to ditch my friend because you want to fight, i won’t.”

“you’re being stubborn.”

“i’m being reasonable. back off.”

“y/n?” midoriya rubbed his jaw—right where you had struck him. “what’s going on?” he jogged up to you and bakugou.

“he wants to fight me in the middle of our fight. it’s nothing serious. don’t worry about it, midoriya. let’s just ignore him.”

bakugou made a sound someone would only make if they were choking. “the hell did you just say?”

“we’re ignoring you!” you waved him off and placed your hand on midoriya’s shoulder, wandering away.

it was new to him, not getting what he wanted. and what he wanted right now was to be around you. again, it wasn’t like he would ever admit that to himself.

“dude? you good? i thought you went off to fight y/n. i was so ready to cheer you on, dude,” kirishima’s chipper voice piped in. “she’s not fighting with you? why not?”

“the dumbass was just probably scared of getting her ass beat by me.”

“dude...that sounds really weird.”

“whatever, shitty hair. let’s go.”

the clock ticked. his ears were on fire. again.

gosh, it was happening again. it was all you. his face scrunched up, his voice would surely crack if someone were to ask him what was wrong.

bakugou was once again stuffing his face in his pillow, hiding his expression from no one. why did you have to go train with that shitty nerd? why were you always around deku? deku, of all people. what did he have? why was he so great?

bakugou was a man of many insecurities, but losing to deku? that was possibly his biggest fear.

perhaps he wasn’t the nicest, or the most soft person out there. bakugou could admit that, at least. but he was smarter than deku. he was stronger and he was better and people liked him more. right?

what was so...amazing about deku?

it was often bakugou would find himself obsessing over little, insignificant things such as these.

you were what he was thinking of most of the time. just yesterday, he’d gotten a test returned. he was expecting an eighty at the lowest, but more so expecting a high ninety. it’d come back exactly sixty percent.

sixty. percent.

bakugou vividly remembered staring at your face. he also remembered not being able to focus because of it. his grades were dropping because of you.

you were the only person to be able to do this to him.

his heart grew quiet, but the pounding of his didn’t cease. he lifted his head.

“alright, fine,” he said aloud. “you win, y/n. you win.”

he settled with getting over his feelings the way he’d read them in his collection of romance manga.

bakugou left his room and knocked on your door. (he was banging on it, but it was his nice way of knocking.)

you answered, looking around awkwardly. “yes?”

his hands shook. how was this supposed to go? sure, he’d seen it in romance movies and read it in books but it was always easy to tell whether the guy would get the girl or not.

in this instance, bakugou was clueless. for once in his life, he was clueless. you stood, tapping your foot with a hand on your hip, waiting expectantly for him to tell you why he was here.

“um.” he scratched behind his neck. “you uh- i uh...i’m sorry i called you a, um...a shitface.”

“okay? is that it?”

what? come on! it was already unlike him to apologize. what else did you want from him?

“did you...i’ve been thinking, maybe? maybe we could..train together as...friends?”

“...what?”

gosh dammit, as friends?

“whatever, um...the uh...” oh gosh, what did the boys do in all the books he’d read? right! bakugou stretched out his arm, resting his forearm on the door, leaning to the side.

although he didn’t, really, because like the clumsy jackass he was, bakugou missed completely and nearly toppled to the floor.

this earned a snicker from you.

his stomach flipped and churned, and bakugou found himself unable to reach your eyes. “uh, would you maybe..? okay, um. do you want to go on a date with me? you absolute fucking dumbass.”

your eyes flew wide. “...what?”

“no, that’s not what i— i mean i didn’t mean the last part. um, i meant the first part. the first two parts. the part where i was asking you if you wanted to go on a date with me and then before that when i said maybe because it’s still a maybe until you say yes. or...or no because that’s an option too.”

he swallowed.

you resisted the urge to mock him, just a little bit. “um, bakugou, listen.”

he leaned closer. “yes?”

“it’s going to be a no. i’m sorry, but i’m just not interested in you like that.”

it took him a moment to register everything. his shoulders sagged. gosh that was brutal.

“oh, alright.”

“yeah, uh, sorry about that.” you offered him a weak smile, still a bit shocked yourself. he did his best to return it, and when you closed the door, his face was ready to explode.

it was so damn difficult to deal with these feelings, but maybe it was better this way. knowing where you stood on your end, he knew he wouldn’t miss out on anything.

perhaps it was alright to admire from afar. things could happen in the future, right?

right now, he’d just wait. for a long, long time. bakugou pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his erratic heartbeat. maybe it was alright to not have you right now. perhaps he could better himself for you. just for you.

320 notes · View notes

red-doll-face · 3 years

Note

Here is a request for slashers if they're open. My brain does a thing where I am affectionate w a person but if I get nudged away (even if it's just to readjust the position), it goes "oh no. They don't want u to touch them. Do not touch ever again or they will get mad at u. U disgust them." Even tho touch is my love language & it hurts, I just won't touch. If confronted, I will get confused & panicky cuz "u didn't want me to touch? Im respecting ur wishes? Did I miss something?" Its a mess.

Requests are indeed open, I’m sorry I take foreverrr to do these but i hope u enjoy! I don’t know what to call this tho. For simplicity’s sake I’m calling this nervous reader lmao, idk what else to call these.

Slashers x gn nervous Reader

Jason Voorhees:

Jason can very much relate to the feeling. When he first meets you, he’s sure that you’re frightened. He restrains from being too close to avoid coming off as overbearing, doesn't want to touch you because if you flinch he’ll be so hurt. He just assumes he disgusts you. Based on the reaction all of his other victims have when they see him, he’s sure you’ll probably be the same.

Once Jason is sure that you don't feel that way, he’s a cuddle monster. He wants to be close all of the time, holding hands, letting you sit in his lap, you name it. He’s so starved and quickly decides that touch is his love language too. He’s not even sure how he’s lived this long without it.

The only time I can see Jason maybe gently sort of setting you down elsewhere and walking off is when he senses strangers on the property of what once was Crystal Lake. He’s out the door before he can even see your hurt expression, Which is worse because this might lead you to jump to conclusions.

If you distance yourself from Jason, he immediately is thrown off. He can’t directly ask you if he’s done something wrong and when he tries to initiate affection with you and you don’t reciprocate whole heartedly, he’s at a loss.

He’ll get on one knee while you sulk on the couch and give you a silent plea to tell him what's wrong. You can panic and try and avoid it but he is certain there's something going on and he wants so badly to know what he’s done to put you off. You tell him and he immediately is shaking his head no, he could never be mad at you, never be disgusted with you. You’re the most breathtaking person he’s ever had the pleasure of holding, the first, most likely.

Jason nods because he understands how you feel. In the future, he’s persistent about how you feel when he untangles himself from you, making sure you’re ok.

Michael Myers:

In the later stages of your relationship, Michael is insatiable when it comes to being in contact with you. For a long time, towards the start of your relationship, he didn’t like it. It felt weird. All of the touch he's experienced prior was so clinical and sterile that he doesn’t quite know how good touch is supposed to feel. He’s so touch starved that he’s almost positive he doesn't even need it.

Slowly, he builds a tolerance for it, much like one does with alcohol, constantly checking his boundaries and letting him control the situation and he’s all for movie night, huddled up on the couch, or waking up with his head on your chest. His own personal pillow.

There are, however, moments when his need to make someone tremble with fear and then blodgeon them to death with a can opener from their own kitchen becomes too strong, so he tries to keep away from you. In the past, he might have used you to satisfy similar desires of a sexual nature and may have really hurt you but he knows that it’s not always enjoyable to you.

Then, you stop touching him. Much like Jason, he starts to think you’ve become sick of him. Sick of his coldness, his muteness, his withdrawn demeanor. Maybe you’ve moved on and he tries to tell himself he doesn’t care but he doesn't think he can see himself touching anyone but you now.

It gets to the point where he comes home one day and you look heavily troubled, expressions he’s seen on your face before, only in the event that something terrible has happened. You ask to speak to him and he obliges.

You explain that you don’t think this relationship is working, that you’re pretty sure he’s disgusted with you and how difficult this event is because you didn't even want to talk about it but it's been hurting you for too long.

His response is to stand up very slowly, pick you up and lay down with you over him, simply laying there. Hopefully, knowing you’re the one person he would ever allow to participate in this intimacy is enough to show you that you mean more than you think you do to him.

RZ Michael Myers:

This Michael is more perceptive to your touch than his counterpart, your touch sends little shivers down his spine and as soon as he gets pretty used to it, he’s eager for more. This also takes some time but significantly less. He’s enamored with the idea of returning to a somewhat normal life. Your affection grounds him in that fantasy as much as being a murderer might take him out of it.

As he establishes a relationship with you, he may even be the one to start touching you instead of the other way around. He’s read books and always wondered what it might feel like to have someone genuinely touch him without fear in their eyes. Without malice.

An unsuccessful ‘day at work’ might have Michael feeling a little het up though. He can be moody and more rageful. Neither you nor his hobbies can calm him. He seems colder than usual in these states and can come off as very standoffish.

So when you try and touch him and he shrugs your hand off his shoulder, he can’t or isn't in the state of mind to address your frown and worried look. Michael, instead stomps off somewhere to be alone for a while; maybe take his anger out on something else. Some unsuspecting soul or maybe even a poor animal in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After he’s calmed down some, he returns and almost forgot about that sad little gleam in your eye before he left. Michael remembers when he sees you blankly staring at the TV, pointedly avoiding his gaze even as you utter a weak welcome home. It’s not very welcoming. He sits stiffly beside you, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re closed off from him and he doesn't like it at all.

Migrating towards you slowly, he eases you into a familiar hug, his big bear hugs that are a little tight but inviting all the same. His huge torso and long arms seem to swallow you in his warmth. You hardly reciprocate. You look a little surprised. Though he never addresses it verbally, (which is probably better for you) Michael offers a single glance that communicates everything he needs to say. Don't ever think that again.

Thomas B. Hewitt:

Thomas’ self esteem issues and self image are not good. He honestly doesn’t like to imagine what he looks like to other people unless it can be as a threatening man you don’t fuck with. Meeting you, he realizes that it’s good to protect his family but he’d rather you not see him as someone only capable of harm. Tries his best to get the point across that while Hoyt may be adamant that horrible things happen to you, he’s not going to let them.

Thomas has received affection but always a familial affection. A pat on the back from Monty, proud claps to his shoulders from uncle Charlie, and hugs and kisses from his dear Mother. Nothing so foreign as a strangers touch over his arm or a soft embrace.

Unfortunately, Thomas can get reactive when you attempt to touch him without his mask on. He’s absolutely settled on the false reality that you’ll see his face and immediately decide that you never want to touch him again. Interacting with you with his bare face? That's a no for Thomas.

He puts on his mask that covers the scarred skin over his face and you look dejected. He was preparing for you to pressure him but instead finds himself trying to find out why you won’t touch him now. It’s not his face, is it? You respond with your reasoning. Thomas is so confused. How could you think that you disgust him? That he doesn’t want you to touch him?

He’s quicker than the others and immediately sweeps you up into his arms and holds you as close as humanly possible. Feeling disgusting and like some sort of burden is a feeling he’s so familiar with and if he can take it away from you, he will.

Will aggressively initiate touch with you for the next week or so just to solidify the fact that he cares about you and won't reject you just as you didn’t reject him.

Bubba Sawyer:

Bubba is a great cuddle buddy and partner. Hugs are his favorite and he hugs his brother all the time, lifting both Nubbins and Chop Top into the air for some brotherly love. If you’re smaller than them he’s all about picking you up and perhaps a little rough housing with you. He’s careful though or at least there are attempts made to be careful

Bubba, though he could easily spend the whole day doing nothing and everything with you, has work. Chores, butchering. Cooking, and tending livestock. Plenty to do at the sawyer house and he does most of it. Suffice to say there are times when you want to lather attention all over him yet he has to go back to work.

So caught up in work that he doesn't get what's going on til way later, when you’ve had time to stew in your emotions, firmly telling yourself that Bubba is annoyed by you probably. He’s baffled and confused at your silence, your crossed arms. The little furrow in your brow. He can already tell there’s something upsetting you.

Honestly, Bubba is so affectionate I can’t see him being the kind of person even capable of alluding to the fact he might be disgusted by you. How, if all he wants to do is love you? You may bring it up as a joke that you thought he didn’t like you and he almost seems offended. Not like you?

Bubba can squash any feelings you may have about that and then some. He will not let you drown in insecurities, not on his watch. This man will do everything in his power to make you feel beautiful because you really are.

I’m sorry these are super long but thanks for requesting!

#slasher x reader #michael myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #rz halloween movie #rz michael myers #rz michael myers x reader #jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #friday the 13th #thomas brown hewitt x reader #thomas brown hewitt #thomas hewitt #bubba sawyer x reader #bubba sawyer #leatherface x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #slashers

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loominggaia · 3 years

Text

Sometimes I think about some of the possible futures of Drifter’s Hollow...

I think about Itchy and Ginger growing old together, Itchy’s health going to shit from all the abuse he’s put his body through over the years and his family taking care of him. Like his liver is failing but he’s just like...who cares, I got a great family and did everything I wanted to do in life. He dies fairly young but happy. Ginger chooses not to remarry, knowing she can’t possibly replace such a unique husband, and with the kids out of the house she’s finally able to focus on herself. She joins Olof in helping the community with volunteer work.

Tomato, Frederick, Cinnamon, Azadora, and all the kids grown up and possibly replacing the older Freelance Good Guys as mercenaries.

Tomato always coming up with crazy get-rich-quick schemes like Itchy, but being smarter about it and actually pretty successful, if a little sketchy. Frederick being an overconfident tough guy, acting as Tomato’s muscle as they travel around the region and pull schemes.

Azadora eventually replacing Evan as the leader of the Freelance Good Guys, leading a new generation of moral mercenaries. Actually proves to be a more competent leader than he was and makes Balthazaar very proud.

Cinnamon becoming a magical prodigy, learning spells from Mr. Ocean that allow her to “see” and “hear” using magic. Also plays the lute and uses echomancy to amplify her music, later becoming a sensation in Matuzu Kingdom. Tomato ends up riding her coat tails and mooching off her wealth for the rest of his life.

Evan as a retired, fat old mercenary with heart problems because of what Lendon did to him, married to Lukas and happy regardless. He’s finally learned to slow down and just hangs out on his porch every day with a beer, watching Lukas work their little garden. Still coaches the younger Guys in combat training, can never fully let the mercenary life go. Likes to take vacations with Lukas and always ends up doing some kind of side job when he’s supposed to be relaxing.

Lukas finally coming to terms with his trauma and becoming a nicer, more chilled out person. Still a little crabby and crusty but finally able to love again.

Isaac going feral and living in the woods with the animals, but absolutely thriving as a wild man. Always comes back to the village because he misses his friends, then disappears again for long stretches of time.

Shadow goes missing for a whole month, which scares the shit out of Isaac and worries him sick. But she eventually returns and lays an egg, which hatches into a baby roc. Turns out she migrated back to Serkel just to mate. The baby roc becomes part of the Good Guy family, maybe bonding with Azadora and becoming her mount.

Mr. Ocean slowly dying in Drifter’s Lake from age, fungus, and brain cancer taking over his body. Nothing can really be done for him but he’s at peace with his fate, and he just spends his last remaining years chilling on his dock, teaching Cinnamon magic and playing his sitar. He knows he’ll soon join Solveig in the stars.

Brogan realizing Gwyneth is a toxic bitch and finally leaving her for a nicer woman, one who really loves and appreciates him. Probably leaves the Hollow altogether and never returns. Has some kids with his new wife and the normal, family life he thought he’d never have.

Big Philly settling down in a domestic, asexual relationship with Dr. Che. She convinces him to stop working himself to death and let Tojum take over his clinic so he can retire. He learns to relax and enjoy the present instead of always worrying about the future. He and Philly adopt some kids and Philly gets to raise children to adulthood for once, instead of having them ripped away from her over and over.

Tojum becoming the successful doctor she always wanted to be, finding satisfaction in proving her father wrong.

Jelani...I can see two possible futures for him: A) he settles into his life as king, falls in love with a noblewoman and has a child who will be his heir to the throne. He is kind to this child and breaks the cycle of his family’s abuse. Or B) He abandons the throne and Uekoro altogether to become a mercenary, inspired by his time with Evan. He’s poor but he’s happy, because he realizes he loves adventure more than gold.

Elska eventually leaves the Freelance Good Guys and ends up joining the Folkvar military. She quickly rises through the ranks and becomes the High King’s finest commander, leading a huge army that completely destabilizes Evangeline Kingdom and brings it to its knees, obliterating Kelvingyard and the Evangelite slave trade. She dies a glorious death in this battle and is regarded as one of the greatest heroes in Looming Gaia’s history.

Balthazaar finds joy and fulfillment as a father, but as Azadora grows older and replaces him as a mercenary, he gets lonely and remarries a nice woman who treats him with more respect than Feredil ever did, which helps him come to terms with her death, realizing his relationship with her wasn’t so great all along.

Jeimos and Linde retiring from mercenary work and getting married, possibly moving back to Zhoulcha where Linde can become a dressmaker like she always dreamed. Jeimos makes big money as an arcane engineer, putting all their education to good use at last. They use that money to visit their friends back in Drifter’s Hollow frequently.

Glenvar finally overcomes his alcoholism, buys a seaworthy boat with his former booze money and sails around the world with Alaine. They’ve both grown a lot over the years and they’re finally able to have a functional relationship, but they don’t get married because that’s totally lame. They retire and spend their golden years on that boat together.

Olof decides to remain faithful to Halldora’s spirit, whether she’s alive or not, and remains single. Once Frederick leaves home, he gets to spend more time with friends and finds happiness in helping his community, feeling proud of his son for growing out of a brat and into a responsible man.

Skel somehow reuniting with Jasenia, falling in love with her all over again and getting to spend the rest of his life with her like they both wanted. He doesn’t have a lot of money but he realizes he never needed it anyway.

Javaan’s promiscuity pays off when one of his bastard children ends up marrying a noble, contacts him and wants him in his life. Javaan spends the rest of his life in a Morite palace, living the life of luxury that was always denied to him, and realizes he enjoys being a father after all.

Flora just being Flora, watching the village change and grow as it always has. For whatever reason, she’s going to miss this generation a little more than the ones before it.

I get really emotional about it, you guys ;u;

#looming gaia #funstuff

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cloveroctobers · 4 years

Text

IBRAHIM JARVIS —

IG info/bio: @/OFFICIALRAHIMJARVIS | 130k followers | pro🏌🏿, & yes i was on that dating show...don’t obsess over other people, obsess over water, stay hydrated friends!

22 (23) years old

From Birmingham, England

Pisces sun? + Virgo moon + Cancer rising

Parents are both Afro-Antiguan and Barbudans + migrated to The UK once they were pregnant with their first child

They’ve been married for over 20 years

He gets his height from both of his parents

His mother keeps her hair buzzed short, cooks the best Antiguan food + loves creole seasoning, she’s 5’11, & works as a bank teller

His father is 6’5, works as a substance a*use counselor & does not believe in tough love as a way of showing you care about your children. He learned that the hard way growing up

Ibrahim is a pro golfer & dislikes tiger woods, “he’s a proper arsehole, typical American yeah?”

Got into the craft thanks to his maternal grandfather who was also into golf along with other sports & taught him all he needed to know. At first Ibrahim didn’t like it, found it rather boring & would rather stick to video gaming but his grandfather wanted to break his grandchildren out of staying in the house all the time

It kept him fit and also relieved any anxiety Ibrahim had in life and he had a good amount

He’s got an incredible swing, thanks to his long arms

He’s 6’3

Has three older brothers: Jesse (27) , Keithroy (25), and Reuben (24)

He loves working out and spotting other people, feels likes it’s a team effort & he’s a team player

Drinks gallons of water on a daily and nothing else, it’s even better if he puts fruit in it

Always eating fruit, for breakfast/with or after his dinner. Rather eat fruits than vegetables...yes he’s an adult but he can’t stand broccoli or radishes

Canon: hates seeing other people test their fruit to see if it’s ripe or not. But it’s fine when he does it himself, he just thinks about all the germs that are on other peoples hands when they’re doing so; it physically makes him sick & irritated if he ends up touching the fruit that’s mushy/lumpy

He’s a big fan of comics. Always has been since he’s a kid and has a huge collection of them, his oldest ones are packed away in a couple of crates (in his loft room that he uses as a extra storage room) since he no longer has space in his room. Yes he has no shame (and shouldn’t) of having them on display even tho his oldest brothers clown him for it

Massive fan of black panther & was hyped when it first came to theaters. Saw it three times in one day

Was heartbroken when Chadwick Boseman p*ssed

He’s awkward at expressing himself & sometimes it makes him feel misunderstood & it’s frustrating

Hates people that come up with these ideas of him instead of allowing him to collect his thoughts and speak them the right way

Yet he can be the type of person that wants to ignore issues and hope they go away

He wishes people had enough patience like he did with others in the world

He seeks advice from his dad, since he’s a counselor & everything yet it’s slightly different?

Can be a sweetie & very romantic in relationships

Will do the most (he won’t see it that way) & drop $ on you if he wants to...buying things, trying & failing to DIY, doing wealthy ppl shit, expensive trips— canon: taking his girl to Spain? Was it? Or Italy? I don’t remember... the whole 9

Had 1 gf before the villa. He broke up with her for being too flashy with his things & found that she wouldn’t have liked him if he didn’t have a bit of money

His parents live with him. “They’re basically my roommates until or if they find a house they like.” He didn’t go overboard once he got his first paycheck, he didn’t need a mansion but he did go big enough, industrial style but homey with some minor modern touches for his dream home—he didn’t want it to feel cold or penthouse-like

Isn’t too flashy on the socials but will post something every now & then if he feels the need to show it

Doesn’t post much of his face, mostly what he’s doing in the moment...lots of golfing pics!

Dresses like a dad but it works for him. Loves a good snug polo & plaid trousers/regular that are cut above the ankle, “those are highwaters innit?!” “No mum, it’s the style.” Rolled up jeans, tall white socks & some patterned, baggy sweaters, fancy hats, picks oxfords over sneakers, etc...

Definitely takes the time to iron/steam/press his underwear & socks

Enjoys getting his hair braided, isn’t tender-headed at all (must be nice)

Only grows his hair out during the fall/winter seasons or cuts/gets a shape up

When he posts about his tournaments or time at the golf course, he can always count on Bobby to comment the usual... @/returnofdamckenzie: do you ever have moments where you Reenact troy bolton on the lovely green grass? @/officialrahimjarvis: Idk whether to block u or have a laugh mate, yes i had to look him up!

Dated Jo for about 5 months after the villa until she broke up with him, finding that their lifestyles were too hectic for them to continue, at least that was her public statement to the fans but they really grew apart & the “love” was no longer there

Ibrahim seemed to be more upset about it than Jo in the beginning resulting in snappy replies for awhile, which again stems from him not knowing how to express himself

She checked up on him A LOT, almost as if they never broke up but Ibrahim felt like he needed his space now. They talked it out the best they could over dinner and got closure but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting. He just didn’t think it was needed to be calling each other everyday to see how they were both holding up. If they were done, then that’s what they should be

Jo didn’t see it that way. She still cared for Ibrahim, that didn’t mean that they had to stop talking in her view. She wanted to know how he was coping, and was known for “sticking her foot in her mouth” so that was also a flaw in their relationship

She would say certain things that touched on how she was feeling but didn’t express them at the right times & then there was Ibrahim who didn’t know HOW to say the things he felt which left jo to assume things

Ibrahim was back to the single life and he hated it. He wanted someone he could come back home to, someone that wanted to be with him for the long run. A part of him feels like Jo wasn’t planning to be with him for the long run in the first place and in a way that was okay? Sometimes you don’t know where you’re going in relationships but there should be some sort of goal? Maybe? At least that’s what he thought. Yeah they had fun but he wanted more someday

He was still young he didn’t need to be hung up about it right? Sike. He didn’t know how to take things lightly. That wasn’t how he was built. And to get comments about his ex relationship and have fans dragging him about his choices in the villa A YEAR later!!! Was disheartening

Shannon seemed to be doing well. He thought they would still be friends, at least that’s what she showed before she left the villa. Before he got her dumped. They talked a couple of times since then, jo personally wasn’t a fan of that—Shannon didn’t care but it was clear there was some tension still there

Until he contacted her just to realize she probably had his number blocked but her IG was public and she had a new man & was traveling about

His dad and Reuben were the only ones rooting for them

He had no choice but to be happy for her. Who was he to come in between that? Not that he wanted to but it’s a natural reaction to wonder after a fresh breakup, “what if?”

Talks to Priya every so often now. He seems to find comfort in her, it’s the same for her on her end

His mother has a feeling Priya is the one her son will end up with. Even if she is older...Keithroy also liked her the best

While Jesse seemed to be the only one who supported his relationship with jo

I honestly thought he would have liked Hannah in the beginning but idk if it was him or Gary that said she was too unrealistic when it came to love? I think they both said something along those lines which is odd since it seems Ibrahim has no problem treating his girl like a princess

Probably only has one special dish that he can cook the best & it’s gumbo. otherwise hes out of the kitchen or having his personal chef cook for the family

Goes live on twitch—when he has time, playing many games with the boys from the villa, which pleases the fans

Talks to them all as much as he can

Noah seems to be the first to always text back since Bobby is the one who’ll start off responding in minutes then forget to text back cause he’s off doing handstands or booping people on the nose or some shit, Gary always ends up busy doing something with his nan or for Lottie—but Noah’s always around

They seem to be the closest outside the villa, they mesh well & hang out the most when they can

he likes having his sound on & LOUD when he texts! There’s something so satisfying about hearing the clicking of texting to him

Watches a lot of sports on the Telly, it doesn’t have to be just golf. Usually watching that sport sends him right to sleep while the others keep him active/vocal...yes he’s a tv yeller

Holds sports parties at his home & invites all of his family & mates, he HATES having to clean up afterwards. If it wasn’t for his mum he would save the cleaning until the next day yet he doesn’t mind cleaning his car twice a week

Continues to make his violet man drink & wouldn’t be opposed to someone giving him a endorsement deal for it

Is the “I love everybody!” Drunk

Enjoys yard work over cleaning the house

Has his own customized golf cart that he keeps in his garage

He likes driving that more than his Buick suv tbh

Wants kids some day, not too many, not too little just right— he’ll probably have two but for rn his Doberman pinscher is his bby

Either ends up with Priya with slight insecurities that she’s too good for him or he falls in love with a tennis player, either way I’m fine with both

Crushes/his type? : Jojo Levesque, SERENA WILLIAMS, China McClain, Brie Larson, Victoria Pedretti, Nathalie Emmanuel, & Keke Palmer

Listens to: Aminé, Big Sean, Frank Ocean, Brent Faiyaz, Pink $weats, B Young, Ali Gatie, Russ, Raveena, Jessie Reyez, Rayana Jay, Cosima, TianaMajor9 etc...

Anthem = Lucky Daye, “Buying Time”

#litg #litg2 #litg s2 #litg ibrahim #litg jo #litg shannon #litg priya #litg au #litg headcanon #litg headcanons #litg Bobby #litg noah #litg rahim

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johobi · 5 years

Text

The Devil In His Details

Word count: 9.2k

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, drug mentions, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), assplay, prostate milking, edging

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686617

A/N: So this was supposed to be 1k words long for an anon that requested bad boy!Jimin in a drabble prompt game. Clearly that didn’t happen. I hope you enjoy it more than I did editing lkfjwalkjf.

Evil comes in many forms. In this instance, it’s a 5′8″ pretty-boy with an even prettier dick. And you’re the form you want him to come in.

Park Jimin.

A slender, regal nose. Two sly eyes that mellow with laughter. A white smile with just the one, imperfect tooth. Cheeks you'd find on a cherub's face, but a jawline hewn with the devil's input.

Everything about his face is an infuriating dichotomy of soft and sharp. And, God, his lips. Full, unfairly alluring, and begging to be kissed. But this is not a man who does much of that. Begging, that is. Kissing? Oh, he does a lot of that. It doesn't extend to you, though, no matter how much you wish it did.

Jimin is the object of your latest fixation. Well. You may say latest, but in reality you've been harbouring something hot and nasty for this guy for most of the academic year. To the faces of your friends, you blame the heartbreak inflicted by your ex-boyfriend. The thing is, you've been over him for months. Without that as a plausible explanation for your misguided crush, though, you have little to offer in substitution. Jimin isn't the type of guy any sensible, law-abiding girl should be cranking her Rabbit up for. Sure, he's so beautiful that his face can cleanse troubled minds. But he’s flying so many red flags it's like swimming in shark-infested waters.

He manspreads across from you in the campus square, leather jacket and black jeans lacquering his body and a cigarette dwindling limply between his lips. A smile occupies his mouth and eyes, the latter until they're mere, charming slits. You find yourself smiling, too. Oh, God. Get yourself together, ____. Fucking infatuated idiot.

You should know better. Jimin is aposematic with his lurid, magenta hair. He's a beacon of rebellion amidst the drab of campus conformation. And, yeah, maybe he looks cool because of that.

But he’s nothing but trouble.

A criminal.

You don't know the extent of his many and varied illegal activities, but you do know that you'd be an idiot to ever involve yourself with him. The lesser of his crimes begin with him not even being enrolled at the very university he utilises as his base of operations. And nor is he shooed away for his overt disregard for campus rules - and, generally, the law - because security lives snugly in his weed-stuffed back pocket. Yep, he's a dealer. Street racer. Brawler. You don't know how many times you've been torn from sleep by his gang's maniacal laughter as they rough up a rival, less attractive one.

He's also a heartbreaker.

And as ridiculous as it is, that's the thing that gives you most reason for pause. Not the drug-peddling, not the violence, but because you're in so deep you want to be sharkbitten. Consumed, bone for bone.

But he never looks your way. Ever. You're not so much a Plain Jane, you don't think, but desperately shy. Especially where your heart's involved. It forgets its function when confronted with someone you like. You take care of your appearance. You've had a few, long-term boyfriends. But whenever you're dumped back at Square One: Single, you're as hopeless in romance as you are in cooking. And all the cuisine you can conjure involves a microwave.

Scenarios of seduction circulate your mind as you ogle him from afar, your thoroughly bitten lip again between your teeth. If only you possessed the confidence your best friend insisted lay latent within you. It would be nothing to strut up to him now and toss your phone into his lap, arms crossed and an expectant smirk curling your mouth. "Gonna give me your number, or what?" you'd sigh - exasperated for the sake of drama - his beautiful face wiped clean of its cocksure facade.

Yeah, that'd be real cool.

But you're still sitting here, legs bobbing out of habit. Jimin is still there, smug and sexy, imparting something hilarious enough, apparently, to wind the comparably attractive guys with him. It's then that your phone purrs between your hands, clutched and previously forgotten.

It's Jisoo, said best friend.

[13:56] slut #1: heyyyy

[13:56] slut #1: guess what

It'll be one of two things. Either she needs your notes because she slept-in in lieu of doing the set reading, or—

[13:56] slut# 1: our floor's having a party tonight

Party.

[13:56] slut #1: come or ill break your legs

The severity of her threat comes down to your repeatedly declining her invitations. It's not that you don't enjoy parties, because you do. In fact, there’s rarely a time you feel more alive than getting smashed and exorcising your anxiety for those few hours. It's more the fact that it takes a month's worth of mental energy to prevent you flaking out in the lead-up.

Today, though, you're game. Your introversion has been well and truly catered to these last, barren weeks. You're at full charge.

[13:58] yeah, why not

Dots dance across the screen.

[13:58] slut #1: serious???? holy shit that was easy for once

[13:58] slut #1: come to my room at 9

[13:59] the party's in your room?

[13:59] slut #1: no dumbass it's like the whole floor, idek whose party it is but u gotta meet me somewhere right

[14:00] kk. see you then

However unlikely, a feeble hope tugs at your fragile, besotted heart. Maybe he'll go? The organ stutters in your chest when you raise your eyes to where Jimin sits. But he's gone. Suddenly, it all seems like a terrible idea. It's just not meant to be. The universe is communicating it to you as gently as it can.

I need a firm slap. Irked by your nonsensical infatuation, you shoot to your feet and make off in a storm, bag not so much slung but catapulted onto your back. I need to get the fuck over this.

The campus square is a sizeable, open space with the central fountain being its only obstacle. However, by how solid the object is that you suddenly collide with, it seems to have sprouted another.

"Shit!" you gasp, nose flattened sharply, painfully, against something immovable. As you rub it, brows sharp in offense, you peer up into eyes of the thing you've blindly marched into.

Fuck.

Jungkook.

One of Jimin's lackeys.

Before you can locate his magenta-headed leader, however, Jungkook fills the entirety of your field of view. His narrow lips draw tighter; eyes, too. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“U-Uh—”

“Uh?” the musclehead mimics, stooping into your personal space. By instinct, you shrink. At odds with his adorably prominent front teeth, the sneer he wears is nasty. “Anything else?”

An errant glance over Jungkook’s shoulder finds you Jimin. He hangs back, hands in pockets, nonplussed by the confrontation. It’s likely pretty tame in comparison to their usual run-ins. But it frustrates you, nonetheless, that the boy won’t look at you, even now, when the spotlight is searing you.

Jungkook snaps his fingers at the end of your nose and you’re back in the room. “Well?”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You hack for breath when he exhales a plume of cigarette smoke directly into your face. “I-It won’t happen again.”

The other one with them - Seokjin, the half-ass in your business studies class - claps a hand on Jungkook’s seam-straining shoulder. “‘Roid rage. Sorry, sweetheart. You’re a finance major too, right?”

Before you can even process the unexpected civility of his question, Jungkook rounds on him in ire. “The fuck? You know I don’t take steroids.” His cigarette flares at the corner of his mouth. Like a showboating pidgeon, he puffs out his muscular chest. “This is all hard work.”

Seokjin is clearly unmoved. He blinks an unnecessary amount of times, like it’s a tic of his. His glasses ride up as he crinkles his nose. Then: “Okay. Didn’t know you were too stupid to get a joke though. ‘Roids must be shrinking your brain as well as your dick.”

“What—”

An Off-White jacket streaks across your vision.

“—the fuck—”

A white t-shirt follows it soon after.

“—did you just say?”

Jungkook ripples, shirtless, with such unabated fury he distorts the air surrounding. Or maybe it’s the heatwave.

It’s then, beholding this sudden, aggressive display, that your fear finally surfaces. “Oh my God, what the fuck is happening?” you whisper exclusively to yourself, because to attract attention is to court an ass-beating.

And it’s then, of course, that Jimin finally takes heed of your existence. With a quirk of his head, he stares you down. Well, not so much stare. What he does expresses far less effort. His eyes meander the length of you in their own, good time, before landing on your blanching face. The laziest of smirks possess his lips.

Your heart sprouts wings.

His smirk widens.

Fuck, your heart’s airborne. It’s gonna launch itself out your mouth.

Seokjin dispels Jimin’s sorcery with another, unwisely provocative comment. “Your dick’s shrivelled? Or your brain? I don’t know which one offended you.”

Jungkook pounds his chest once, like an oversexed silverback. “Why you always gotta do me like this, bro? Is it ‘cause I fucked your mom that one time? I thought you were over tha—”

“Fuck you!”

Just when you’d established Seokjin as the pacifist of the group, he begins throttling Jungkook double-handed. The pair slip into an awkward grapple while Jimin looks on.

Looks at you.

Doesn’t even spare a glance for the groups of hurried, whispering students migrating across campus.

Guttural grunts float up from the ground as Jungkook and Seokjin’s scuffle escalates, but their leader pays them no mind in that moment. It’s your opportunity to say something more, but you don’t. Your vocal chords never pull together.

Moment missed.

Jimin sweeps a lock of magenta from his eyes, finally animate. A testy sigh siphons from him. “Get up. You’re making me look bad. Put your fucking shirt on, Jungkook.” His voice, usually soft, strikes like a serpent. Venom coats his tongue. “You represent me, dickheads. Plus, you’re scaring this girl.”

The absurdity of the situation, the apprehension you feel, is muffled for a moment. All you can hear is the rush of blood and Jimin’s vocal acknowledgement of your existence ricocheting in your mind. Girl. You.

It’s stupid. Demeaning, even, snapping up these scraps like a slobbering mongrel.

But exciting.

Having captured Jimin’s attention, you bow to him the gratitude you can’t vocalise. The plan, as you rise, is to hit him with a seductive smile, but you're certain your mouth only stretches awkwardly. Nevertheless, his pretty lips purse for a moment before pulling up, too. “I’m going.” He addresses them, but his eyes are on you.

Jimin takes his leave without further ado. As he passes you his gaze lingers too long, demanding he turn his face. His body ghosts past without contact, but a chilly thrill descends upon you like he's drifting right through your bones. And then he struts away like he owns the place, because he does.

And, God, he owns you, too.

His in-fighting entourage scrabble to catch up with him. Jungkook's hastily gathered clothes scrape the floor as he runs, their expense forgotten. “‘Min-hyung! Wait! We’re sorry!”

"Bye then," you comment, quiet, to their retreating backs. It wasn't quite the first encounter you'd prophesied, but considering Jimin's reputation, it should've been.

Anyway.

Your eyes fall to your phone and this evening's plans.

Party.

---

Jisoo's generously highlighted features bob before you in the muted light. Parts of her face are so illuminescent it looks like scaffolding. "Anyway, I'll be back soon. Get some drinks, loosen up. I need to find Namjoon."

"Okay, but are you actually gonna come back?" Your first beaker of jungle juice is already souring your lips. "'Cause if you're gonna find Namjoon, I don't think you're gonna come back."

Her eyes are everywhere but on you, glossy mouth twisting. “I'll really try! But I also really wanna see him, now I know he's here." Suddenly, your free hand is in her meticulously manicured clutches. "I'm not saying I will disappear, but I might. Please understand! I need dick so bad. Please." And now her eyes are on yours, black as night and just as dangerous. Jisoo is never more serious than when cock is at stake.

You shake yourself free of her flimsy grasp and flimsier promises. "Do what you want, but I don't know anyone in your dorm. If you don't come back in an hour, I'm gonna go."

That was an hour ago.

Within that hour, you consumed three cups of awful booze, lingered awkwardly by the party lights, and recovered zero Jisoos. The only noteworthy happening was some plastered guy insisting you were his boyfriend. So insistent, in fact, that you doubted your own identity by the last of the 15 minutes he spent calling you Yoongi. He lamented endlessly about how difficult it would be to survive the evening without getting in your tight little ass. The only thing that convinced him of the truth to your identity was said, tight-assed man appearing and dragging the lightweight away. Yoongi did have a nice ass, you observed, as they fell back into the throng.

Oh.

And Jimin was here.

Skulking the fuchsia shadows like a perfect predator. Thing is, he's already top of the food chain. No hunting required. Very much evidenced by the girls that swarmed him all night like a shoal of pilotfish. The music was too loud and the light too dim, but for every instance he opened his mouth, his accompanying partygoers exploded into laughter. This seems a skill of his. He has dominion over men and women both.

And you're no exception.

Whenever he was in sight, he drew your eyes. When he was dancing, he drew them lower. And there they remained, never straying from his swivelling hips and straining thighs. The girls danced in circles around him like they were worshipping a pagan idol. Understandable. You coveted him, too, from afar.

But now he's gone. Your cup is empty. Jisoo is getting Namjoon'd.

It's been an hour. You're going home.

There’s enough trash at your feet and liquor loosening your morals that you feel no guilt in dropping your beaker onto the pile. Polished, black shoes with pointed toes enter view and crumple that which you’ve littered. You look up.

“Juh—”

Jimin. It’s Jimin. Neither your mouth nor brain can co-ordinate sufficiently enough to identify him verbally, though. Instead, you gawp, inches from his breathtaking face, bathed in romantic light. “Littering, huh? Kinda rude, don’t you think?” He taunts, tongue between teeth. When you don’t rebut him, he slides an arm up the wall behind you. Sinks closer, until your eyes meet on an intimate level. “What are you doing here, campus girl? Didn’t think this was your kind of thing.”

Righteous indignation roils in you. As for why, it’s unclear. As are most things when relatively tipsy. “How would you know what my kind of thing is? You don’t know me. Also, don’t call me campus girl.” At this proximity, you’re acutely aware of the alcohol on your breath. You dial it down a bit. Turn your head and snort. “That’s rude.”

The alcohol, apparently, has also robbed you of your self-preservation skills. Because never in the light of a sober day would you be slighting a delinquent like this. And not the one you’re besotted with, either. That, then, dawns on you. As does his closeness, and the sweet smell of his own poison of choice.

“Well, I don’t know your name, do I?” Charm inhabits his tone, his smile. God, it’s flustering. Jimin toys with you, thwarting your attempts to evade his eyes. His face follows yours, until it’s all you can do but stop and stare. Fall fully and deeply into him. “‘Cause you’re shy, aren’t you?” He wets his lips then, unfairly. They’re dewy and full and even rosier in this light.

“Let me suck your dick,” you blurt, hypothesizing it being just as juicy. Just as tasty. Your inhibitions are low, but not enough that this is a mistake. Jisoo is right. There’s confidence in you, somewhere. You tap it when you tap a keg.

Jimin looks scandalised. His eyebrows vanish into his hairline. Giddy laughter streams from him. “Pardon?”

“I said, let me suck your dick.” Power floods your bloodstream. Liquid courage mingles with. “I’m pretty good at it, and I really want to. Like, so bad. I think about it a lot.”

If he says no, you no longer have to wonder.

If he says no, you never have to look at him again.

If he says no, you can chase someone wholesome and virtuous.

If he says yes, you get to suck his dick.

“Yeah?” Interest kindles in Jimin’s keen, black eyes. He’s close enough, now, that his body heat feels akin to weight against you. His voice drops below the bass of the music. “What did you think about?”

Are you gonna dirty talk in public?

A quick glance around and they aren’t so much the public anymore as parading monkeys, high on lust and low on decency. Just over from you, there’s a girl getting the least discreet fingerbanging of her life.

So, yeah. You lose a little of your rigidity and tip back your head. Lick your lips with a deliberate tongue. “How pretty your cock probably is. How it’d feel on my tongue, in my throat.” Unconscious or not, Jimin’s pressing to your hip. The subject of your conversation starts soft in his pants, but stiffens with your salacious description. Fuck, you’re tingling, too. “How you’d taste, coming down my throat—”

“Are you for real, campus girl?” Jimin interrupts, breathy. Disbelieving. He almost sounds distressed. Like a donkey that doesn’t wanna walk miles for a dangling carrot. Jimin doesn’t seem to get it, though. He’s the carrot, and dear God you wanna chomp down.

“I told you not to call me that. Guess you’re not interested,” you bluff, because not only are you provocative on booze, you’re also an absolute fucking idiot. There’s a significant chance he’ll tire of your tsundere bullshit and find another open mouth. However, as you turn to leave, fate smiles on you. As does he, when he sandwiches you to the wall, his chest to your back and his mouth a ghost on the nape of your neck.

Chills.

Chills spread where his breath is hot and wet. But still, his lips don’t touch. You can, however, hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell me your name.”

The stutter sabotages you somewhat. You’re breathless. “I-It’s ____.”

"____," Jimin repeats with a flick of his tongue, wetting your nape with the slightest of saliva. "Are you for real, ____? Or are you drunk?"

His fingers spread like wildfire across the tops of your thighs, testing the give of your flesh. You exhale as if he's squeezing the soul from you. "I'm for real. I'm not drunk, I've just had enough to realise that if I don't say this now, I never will. How often do you talk to me, after all?"

Jimin's throat rumbles as he contemplates. His lips part by your ear, vocal fry caressing each, careful syllable. "How often do you talk to me?" he poses. The steady, rigid throbbing against your ass suggests that this could've happened sooner.

Reluctant as you are to disturb your clinch, you’re not here to stare at the plastering. It would be a crime to deny yourself the chance to ogle his beauty close-up. With this in mind, you twist against his body, bringing your fronts flush together. God, he throbs all the more potently like this, pressed to the crotch of your dress. Jimin's still smiling, of course, all illegal charm and zero reserve.

A nervous lick of lips. "You're terrifying. Especially when you're surrounded by those guys all the time. That's why I don't talk to you." It’s a half-truth. The other half is your incompetence in flirting.

"And here I was, thinking you were shy," is Jimin’s riposte. "But, clearly, I'm wrong." Those plush, pink lips descend on you before you can blink away the unreality of it. They're softer than any piss-poor imitation of a man's mouth that's come before them. Softer than silk, even. And when they open, syrupy. A mire of heat and wet tongue, caressing away all your prior fears, even if they're legit. It really doesn't matter. Not when you're tasting this sublime man. Not when he suckles at your mouth so sensually, so gently. He can't be that horrific a person when he's holding you with such careful attention. It's too soon when he unties your tongues. "You don't need to be afraid of me," Jimin murmurs thickly to your lips. The lop-sided smile he wears says otherwise. It's a little too close to a sneer. "Well, ____—" he steps back. Lures you with him. "Wanna make this a reality?"

You're giddy as fuck. So much so your legs feel like a Newton's cradle. "Y-Yeah. Take me somewhere—" to speak his name is to make it real— "Jimin."

People blur, merge shapelessly around you as he weaves through their mass, leading you by one, dainty hand. It's not the drink. You're dizzy - high, even - with anticipation so intense it renders all outside his svelte figure indistinct. All there is is him, and what you're about to do. It doesn't even feel like you're tripping up the stairs when you do. You're floating, actually, because he's pulling you up and smirking so salaciously that you're weightless. The only weight is the one nestled deep in your abdomen, punching at your cunt like it knows well what that smug mouth could do.

The two of you stagger into an unoccupied bathroom. It's as grim and grotty as you'd expect of student lodgings, but that matters very little right now. Even though you're painfully germaphobic. The priority is realising you're about to suck off Park fucking Jimin. It hits you so powerfully that, for a very long second, you want to reconsider. After all, he likely has expectations. Confidence flees from you.

"Okay, then. On your knees, ____."

And then it floods back. As does desire.

Jimin perches atop the toilet with poise, its seat flat beneath him. You briefly speculate its cleanliness, but he’s already slinking the denim down his legs and over his knees. They cling in a pool at his ankles, likely impossible to get any further. His visibly wilting cock lounges against the crotch of his CKs, waiting for your intervention. It'll have to wait a little longer, though, because there's nothing on God's awful earth that will hinder your leering at this visual feast. His muscle-strapped thighs are somehow all the thicker hugging the bowl of the toilet. And the tiny, toned waist they taper to is all the confirmation you require to understand that this man is way out of your league. Like, forget international league. You're 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. "Fuck."

The curse is all he needs to understand. Whether it's for the sake of wanking his ego or to titillate you further, Jimin tenses his quads until they're as hard and smooth as varnished oak. All you want is to ride them like a fucking rocking horse. "You making me wait?"

Hell no. Before he can even finish his taunt you're at his feet and kneading his thighs like dense dough. Jimin feels fit. He isn't pliable like lovers gone. He's zero body fat, all thew, all sex. He's everything.

And you're nothing to him.

Tonight, though, you’ll become something.

Your fingers continue upward. And as they do, inward. Where he's slightly fleshier, and by the twitch of his covered dick, more sensitive. "How do you like it?"

"I'm as predictable as any other guy," Jimin half-shrugs, reclining against the cistern. His fingers curl into your hair, though not in any pushy, possessive way. It's almost as though he's simply appreciating its texture. The curve of your scalp. Tingles spring from his touch and arrest your body. "Deep as possible. Don't neglect the shaft. Play with my balls a little," he reels off his litany shamelessly. "If you can take it, lemme fuck your face?"

Each of his suggestions make both your mouth and cunt salivate. You want all of those things and more. That other thing. "We'll see," you say as much to yourself as you do to him. "Let's see what we're working with." You lunge for his waistband with both hands, eager to steal them from his body. Jimin halts you once you peek pubes.

"I'm not sitting my bare ass on this toilet." The grunt he makes is indignant. Adamant.

But you have plans. And so you whip a towel from its rail and coax it beneath him, the makeshift mat feeling dubiously damp. "If you want me to do it good, let me have you without your underwear."

Jimin complies, shifting his weight. Then, with danger perverting his tone: "Then you better do it good, ____."

You perform well under pressure. The pressure that comes with academic deadlines and 10th grade theatre, at least. However, it doesn't extend to sucking the cock of, arguably, the most intimidating, most captivating man you've gawped at from afar. Your previous lovers were diffident and easy to please. It's only through your own, bored invention that you delved deeper into the art of oral with them. You hope it serves you well tonight. "I'll try my best," you challenge, brow cocked, Jimin's boxers successfully purloined. The front of them are tacky to the touch, and this alone incites you. God, you can taste his salt already.

To your dismay, he doesn't resume his careful caressing of your scalp. No, once his bottom half is nude, he splays his thighs obscenely and leans back, fingers curling around the towel-covered toilet seat. From here he peers down his nose at you, a smirk all the while. His torso is one rigid, smooth slope, and you wish selfishy to see it exposed. Asking for that, too, though, might be too much.

And now that your gaze plummets, it doesn't matter. His cock is enough. You'd think it impossible for such an awkward looking appendage to ever earn the term pretty. But, uniform with the rest of him, his is. What he lacks in length he makes up for generously in girth. His cock is chubby and blushing, and, yes, pretty. God, so pretty.

Yes, you'll let him face-fuck you.

The tinkle of Jimin's earrings disrupt your awed silence. He projects impatience: Chewed lips, raised eyebrows, a slight, inquisitive tilt to his head. "This your first time or something?" Magenta falls across his eyes as his focus slips down his own body. He cages his cock inside a delicate fist, nurturing it to its full, thickened capacity. As it grows, so does his filthy smile. "You don't need to lie to me. I can go easy on you."

"This isn't my first time." Your resentment is palpable. Apparently, he enjoys it. As he pumps himself harder, his tongue probes disrespectfully at the corner of his upturned mouth. That only inflames you. "Is it your first time? Are all the rumours false?" Your comeback is risky, but the mood suggests banter is welcome. Perhaps all this big, bad wolf wants is a little, red-faced riding hood to provoke him.

The dare pays off. With one last, long stroke, he lets loose his erection, the concrete appendage slapping his stomach with an admirable thud. Resting back on one hand, he gestures to his waiting cock with the other. "Totally. I'm a good boy, ____. Now stop talking and fucking spit on it."

Your clit jumps. As do you, right into action. With your palms canvassing his inner thighs, you take one last, unenlightened breath before you dive face-first into his musk, pulling aside his cock to nuzzle at its base. To fully savour his scent and warmth. Jimin fills your hand to the extent you're unable to form anything close to a closed fist. Your thoughts are possessed only by your imagination and how wide he could stretch you. How full he could make you. A fucking stampede thuds through your pussy. "Mm, you have such a nice cock," you murmur around the root of him. It's not so much meant as a compliment, but a statement of pure fact that must be expressed. You're sure he's heard such professions many times.

Yep. "I know, sweetheart." The timbre of his voice is a little heavier. Breathier. As your tongue flicks lazily under the round of his balls, it quivers, too. Nevertheless, he maintains his stoicism. "Why you teasing me down there? You know what I want."

When you pull one of his testicles into your mouth, however, he emits a quiet noise. One that sounds a little like it's something he wants. "Yes, daddy," you mouth around him, full irony. Jimin reacts to it, though. Pushes into your slack grip, looking for friction you're not about to give. It's almost enough to make you roll your eyes. Still, you don't know where the limit to his patience lies. And so you relent and pull your mouth upwards, dragging his sac with your reluctant lips. Jimin tenses when finally you free him, wet, sticky, and back to hanging. And then you're ascending his fat, veiny shaft, lathering the underside with your tongue. Ekeing from him the most delicious gasps of air. His hands go back into your hair, though with far less care this time, grasping at your roots as though to earth him.

"Yeah, that's it, ____. Keep going." Jimin's encouragement is sweeter to the ears than any lauded music. And so is the stifled whine that streams from him when you glaze the tip of his cock with saliva, enough to dribble down its entire length. Once he’s sufficiently spat on, you follow with your mouth. Fuck, it’s a strain to accommodate him. A feat not to scrape him with your teeth. He's so thick you must look vulgar stuffing him between your lips like this. A wayward glance tells you he's enjoying the lewd visual, though. His mouth is parted and breath puffs quickly from him. His eyes, normally sharp with wit, are dull. Fully blown. Jimin devours the sight of your struggle, as you do his uncomfortably chubby dick. His nails imprint crescents of self-restraint into the skin of your scalp. "F-Fuck. Yeah. Suck me."

You do. More fervently than you have any mouth-watering candy. Your lips work the head of his cock with measured pressure, back-and-forth, to the tune of his increasingly whiny vocalisations. Instinct takes him, sometimes, and he jerks without thought into you. Your teeth graze him, then, but it seems like an ineffective deterrence. No, sometimes he moans when you catch him, and for that you reward him with tongue on his frenulum.

That gets him the most.

His thighs ripple, his back bends. His head of magenta hair falls back.

"You—mmmmh—like that?" is your an attempt at a taunt, dulled by the cock wedged in your cheek.

"You suck dick like a fucking slut." Jimin is panting now, a sheen of perspiration oiling his face. Fuck, he looks dewy and downright dirty. The crotch of your panties is saturated with want for him. "You pretend you're all innocent and shit, but, Jesus, you're a dirty bitch."

With an enthusiastic flex of his thighs, he struggles free from the jeans binding him and props up a foot, knee bent and accentuating just how shapely his calves are. Spread like this, he's sordid. Wanton. He's getting desperate, and, against all expectations, unafraid to show it. Men with his level of machismo are typically reserved. It turns you on, dials you into overdrive, just how unabashed his enjoyment is. "Deeper. Can you take it deeper, ____? P-Please," Jimin whimpers on cue, resolve thready.

Briefly, you alight from his cock. He whimpers about that, too. This man is the terror of your college campus. And now he’s a needy, sex-swollen mess. "Depends. Can I edge you?" You're actually decently sober at this point, but bravado still brews in you nevertheless.

Jimin, no longer basking, purses his lips. Glares with the fury of a thousand blue-balled men. "Don't you fucking dare. Try it and I'll take over. I’ll come all over your smug little face."

The threat, in actuality, is more a solemn hope of yours. "Okay, okay. I won't edge you." Your hands keep busy while your overtaxed mouth relishes its moment of emptiness. You funnel your energy, instead, into keeping his cock stiff, five fingers twisting along its lubed-up length. With the other hand, you return to your earlier fixation and palm tenderly at his distended balls. A delicate quivering radiates from his core muscles. "But I really wouldn't mind you coming all over my face."

Everything about him tenses, then releases. His eyelids, low, bear the weight of arousal. "For real?"

"Might as well, my knees are already gross. You can get me dirtier if you like, Jimin." And then you're pulling down the straps of your dress until your breasts spill out, already pebbled and desperate for a fondling they won't get tonight. "Or here. Or everywhere. Just go to town."

Jimin gulps down stuffy, humid air. Concentrates a little too hard on your uncovered tits. Rocks a little too enthusiastically into your undulating grip. "God, yeah. I wanna come all over you. Spit in your fucking mouth." Suddenly it's not just your sole fist grasping him. He's clutching you, clutching him. Squeezing your knuckles until they're white and his cock is very, very red. "I'll bend you over the bathtub and fuck you 'til I break your hips. 'Til your pussy's dripping cum."

“Jesus—”

You’re so luststruck by his vulgar fantasies that it’s almost too late when you come to your senses. Jimin fucks your hands so ferociously it’s clear that the beast has taken him. You snatch away your hands before he wastes himself all over them. His come away, too, hovering in the air and demanding answers.

"Okay, well you just edged yourself." A giggle slips out while you watch him heave breath like he's nearing death. In a way, it's cute. Jimin's cheeks are full and flushed, eyes rounder than moons. He himself seems taken aback by his lapse into unadultered lust. "Don't take away the only reason I came here."

Despite Jimin's earlier, emphatic disapproval of being edged, he sure seems appreciative now. He basks in the near-rush, mellower than before. Gently - perhaps affectionately? - he cradles the back of your head and draws you in, a thumb pressing caresses to your cheek. This sudden sweetness, it's abnormal. Harmful. You don't want it. You don't want to see his good side, nor fall for it.

But here he comes, eyes searching, lips begging.

"Then deepthroat me like I asked."

Nevermind.

The pompous smirk is back. He reclines, his one leg up like an ode to Michaelangelo, dick tall and looking just as self-important. You're decided. It's time to make him squeal. "Okay. No edging. But let me make it feel even better?"

Jimin drips scepticism. "How?"

Fully anticipating rejection, you're direct. "Lemme stick a finger up your ass."

Again, he surprises you. Insomuch that revulsion doesn’t immediately sour him. "The fuck?" A husky chuckle rattles in his chest, instead. "Is that your secret technique?"

"Kinda." Your shoulders draw inward as self-consciousness consumes you. "I totally get it if you don't want to. But the other guys I've been with enjoyed it."

"Then do it, whatever. Don't let me go soft, though, ____," Jimin warns with pouty lips. His cock leans demonstratively forward, threatening flaccidity. "I'm feeling neglected."

"Tragic," you coo, feigning empathy. Looking as petulant as he, you suckle softly around the head of his dick, enkindling his passion before it fades. Your tongue does work around its bulbous ridge, teasing where it makes him squirm most. Then, with his demands in mind, your mouth descends over his modest stretch of shaft, worshipping each, precious inch as you go.

“Yes, baby. That’s it, that’s it.”

You dip and rise, tug and suck in a tantalising advance toward his base, wringing the precum from him. It's salty and sticky and you love it on your tongue, love smearing him with his own mess. Want to smear him with your mess.

“Fuck, yeah. K-Keep—unh!—going!”

The more of him you gobble, the more erratic his body behaves. Beneath your hands, his sweat-tacked thighs are tremulous, tensing without rhyme or reason. Jimin has little control over any of his extremities. His hands are uncomfortable fists in the back of your hair, like he's reining in a wilful mare. And then there's his beautiful, unstopped moaning, so sinful your clit thumps like a bass drum between your legs. You moan, too, slurping the end of his leaking cock to the back of your throat so he can better feel it. The reverberations must reach him, because Jimin bucks, then, wildly enough to trigger a gag. "Ugh, y-yes, fuck!"

You can't so much as master Savasana in yoga, but what you are adept at is gag control. And though you cough a little, slaver a little, nothing but sudden death will stop you now. Nose-deep in Jimin’s considerately trimmed pubic hair, you trap him momentarily there, the whole of his cock nestled deep in your throat's constraints.

Jimin looks half-way gone. His hands hover above your shoulders, fingers curling and twitching peculiarly, like he’s about to astral project. Indeed, all you can see through the sliver in his lightly-closed lids is the white of his eyes. Every so often Jimin rolls his pelvis towards you, but you stymy his attempts to face-fuck you until you're ready to see him over the finish line. Grasping his hips, your thumbs take the liberty of feeling the lines of his obliques, and, God, you've never hated an item of clothing more than the t-shirt he's wearing.

"More," he splutters, then, swivelling against your hold like he's compelled. "More, give me more. I'm so close, I—I wanna fucking drown you in cum—" an ungodly groan bursts forth as he whips himself into a frenzy of his own making— "Fuck, you suck cock so good—so good, baby."

Of all things, baby is what heats your cheeks. The endearment feels like long-coveted validation. "Bear with me," is what you try to communicate, but considering the weight of his cock is pinning your tongue, it comes out garbled. Jimin doesn't even notice, so rapt is he in your mouth's luxury. Occasionally, he rewards your efforts with globs of pre-ejaculate that slide smooth down your throat.

Not wanting to interrupt his well-earned crawl to orgasm, you bob on his cock hands-free, employing them instead to locate one of the condoms populating your purse. Keeping pace is difficult enough that it's not long before Jimin, unsteady on his perch, growls in caution.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," he grunts through gritted teeth, scrutinising your every, unrelated move. When he sees what it was you sought, the growl becomes a snarl. The disdain his eyes convey is almost comical. "Don't make me come in that. I'm not coming in that," he snorts, placated momentarily by your refocused efforts on his plump little dick. As you tear open the wrapper, you tongue his cock hole like a striking snake. "Oh, sh-shit!—H-Hey, if you don't want me to come on you I won't, but—"

Slobber splatters the towel in your haste to cut him off. "It's not for you."

Rather than court more questions, you demonstrate. Hastily, you unroll the condom over your longest finger. Then, with his unerring attention, you squat back on your heels and hike up your dress, allowing him a view onto your panty-wrapped cunt. Jimin doesn't even notice that your mouth is gone from him while he’s leching. It’s just long enough an opportunity to dip your rubber-sheathed digit deep into the wetness of your pussy. He makes noises as you do, quiet ones, ones that stress how much he wants to be inside it. When you withdraw, your lips lock back onto him, kissing his cock where it's most swollen and sensitive. "Try and relax, okay? It'll feel good quicker if you do," you offer in advice, your cunt-slick finger bypassing his balls and slithering along his perineum. Already he's reacting, even from this slight, external stimulation.

"I'm relaxed as fuck," Jimin puffs defiantly, despite his initial recoil. "Show me what you're all about, ____."

"Alright then." Ever so carefully, you wheedle the tip of your finger past his asshole, stopping when his body tells you to. "Jimin, if you can’t handle it—"

They're unextraordinary words, but, apparently, the magic ones. Immediately he loosens around you. "I can. Shut up."

You do. By engulfing his erection without warning. Drawing on it like you would a drinking straw, enough to fluster him into distraction. The result is an easy, sailing entry into his ass, right up to your knuckle. It's not difficult to locate his prostate from there, as deliciously swollen as it is. With a cursory couple of taps, Jimin's body responds in new, mesmerizing ways.

"W-What the fuck—ah!" he cries through his confusion, the unfamiliar feeling prying his eyes wide. Jimin can only watch, overwhelmed, as you manipulate him from within, his back arching clean from the cistern. He's suspended by sensation, a wobbling tension keeping him upright. As you slurp mercilessly at his cock, you fix him with a look. Jimin's not there to receive it, though. His expression says his brain short-circuited the moment you started stroking him internally. And then, with a choked gasp, he returns to the corporeal, yanking at your hair like a man possessed. Only, he's pulling you away. "Stop, oh fuck, I'm gonna piss in your mouth." Distress and arousal fight for his features. The latter is winning, if the stutter of his hips is anything to go by. He's caught between two worlds of pleasure; bookended by penetration and your softly nursing mouth. All he can do is thrust from one to the other.

You come away with his hands, just briefly. Kitten-lick his purpling cockhead. "It's okay. You won't pee, it's meant to feel like that. Just go with it, unless you don't like it."

The blush dusting his cheeks deepens. You can't imagine it's because he's embarrassed, but for a moment he looks vulnerable. Human. Beautiful. Your heart trips. "Whatever," he attempts nonchalance, but his needy fragility is fooling no-one. "I like it, so don't stop. As long as you're sure i won't piss in your mouth. I mean, I don't care if I do, but you might—ungh!"

Swallowing a man's cock is as good as gagging them. Jimin falls quieter than night when you welcome him back into your warmth, working his shaft as well as your aching jaw will allow. Your tongue, too, is tiring, and yet you only twist around him all the more ravenously. It's not just his body that’s contorting when you pound at his prostate, now. His mouth hangs open unchecked, all thought for appearances gone. Within, his tongue writhes, articulating nothing but bodiless sounds.

You rub harder. Suck harder. More insistent. Jimin's eyebrows knit so tightly his nose crinkles. And when he does, a flood of runny, salty liquid squirts into your mouth, catching you off guard and in-between breaths. It's a wonder you don't drown when it keeps coming, this thin, bountiful expulsion. "F-Fuck, God—what is that—" he whines between milkings. As it seeps from your stuffed mouth, Jimin is enraptured. With his focus on you, you regurgitate it noisily over his cock, dousing him in his own fluids. "Fuck, i-it feels so good. I want more." His hands are either side of your face, fingers at your temples, palms pressuring your cheeks. "More." With a grunt, he hoists his previously dangling leg onto the toilet seat with the other. He squats, open and obscene, the picture of aroused anguish. "More. Harder," he jerks, marionette-like, to fuck himself on your finger, to propel his cock further down your throat. You're prepared for this onslaught now, mouth wide and tongue laying dormant as he rams his tip to your tonsils. Each thrust pushes more of his leakage from your mouth until you're drooling like a starving dog. And he's transfixed by it, teeth grinding, gripped by a terrifying hunger. "Fuck. Take it, take me, oh, shit—t-ta—"

Nothing much else comes from Jimin but discharge, his face contorting as his body does, locked and straining. The motion of his hips slows until it ceases. There, he floats, with unseeing eyes, his orgasm approaching in an unavoidable swell. The throbbing that radiates from his buried cock is the final tell you chance before you cough him from your mouth, kneeling tall before him, breasts and face a blank canvas. You don't push him that last step so much as hammer him, battering his prostate until his mouth twists in devastation. Jimin's eyes are so wide it's like you're fucking the fear of God into him. He rises from his squat, millimetre by millimetre, as you slap your palm to his taint; his bloated balls. "C-Coming, I'm coming—" is all he can rasp as his soul departs and streaks your face once, twice—your eyelids fall closed as thick, viscous white weights down your lashes. Robbed of your sight, his groans hit louder, deeper. They resonate with agony, almost. And still he paints you, your throat, your neglected tits. "Oh my God, I—"

“That’s it, Jimin. Empty yourself on me.”

As the deluge dies away, you wipe your eyes free of cum and slide yourself from his spasming asshole. You expect to see him sat there, clutching his softening cock, but instead he’s sat back, hands-free and seeing constellations on the ceiling. "You came without touching your dick? Damn. That's restraint," you chuckle, your mouth feeling oddly loose. Too big. Too empty. When Jimin doesn't respond: "You okay?"

He stirs briefly from catatonia, though he continues to stare spaceward. "I'm good. I'm good. I think." A laugh comes out, but it's like he's forgotten what they should sound like. "Well, that was fucking awesome." A few, dumbstruck seconds later, Jimin returns to earth with a shaky sigh and that damn smirk. Finally, he looks at you. "Whoa. I got you messy as fuck."

A deadpan blink is all you can spare him when most of your body is protesting some type of pain. Your jaw, particularly, feels unhinged. "Yeah. You didn't notice that before?" You slip the latex from your finger and lob it at the trashcan. You miss.

"I did, but I was, like, coming my brains out. I didn't know what the fuck I was seeing, other than it was good." With an unsteady hand, he flattens back his soaked bangs and stares at you, eyelids heavy. His cheeks are stained pink with exertion. "You look so hot like that. Fuck." And though his body must be leaden after satiation, he pulls you up to your knees, until your torsos nearly touch. Stops just short of smearing himself with his own ejaculate. Instead, he cups one of your soiled breasts with a small, soft hand, thumbing his cum across the nipple. Being touched here, now, after such deprivation, it's like a kiss of life to your cunt. It roars back to life with a bitter vengeance. But Jimin remains modest in his touches. Doesn't stray much from your one, sticky breast. No, he's more focused on you. Your face. Studying all there is to know about its shapes. And he's inscrutable as he does it. It makes you nervous. "Well." It's scarcely more than a whisper. "Thank you," he mumbles, soft and awkward, like he's never before expressed appreciation for anything. And then he kisses you again, though it feels like it's for the first time. It's slow, intimate, with lazy tongue and spent breaths in between. It makes your heart race for several, terrifying reasons. You break apart, then. "Can I do anything for you?"

"N-No, that's okay." The proposition is unexpected. And with the way you're feeling, dangerous. "I got what I came for. I had fun. Thank you, too." You rise to standing, weathering the crack of your joints as you go. "I'll just clean up quickly."

Jimin is already towelling down his own, comparatively unscathed body. He stands, too, though with far more grace. As he feeds himself back into his too-tight jeans, he extends the towel to you. "If you're sure." A tinge of something colours his tone. Disappointment? "Maybe next time."

Next time?

Jimin's semen begins to crust on your chin. The towel twists in your hands. "What?"

There's an indifference to his body language that doesn’t quite ring true. He shrugs on his jacket. "Yeah. Next time, right?"

For several seconds you both stand there, locked in an unsaid exchange. The air is pregnant with meaning.

The door flies open.

"There you are!" In Jungkook strolls, bleary-eyed and with no clear bearing on his surroundings. "Someone said they saw you come in here." His gaze is hazy as it lands on you and your poorly shielded tits. And then it’s on your face again, where Jimin's spunk is heaviest. "Holy shit."

What feels like a century of shame passes, but it's no more than a microsecond before Jimin is slamming the point of his boot into Jungkook's abdomen. "Get the fuck out!" He bellows, octaves deeper than all this past half hour. Masculinity oozes from his squared shoulders and jutted jaw. The hardness is in his eyes, too. They're like steel as they cut Jungkook down, unchanging even as the younger man claws at his gut and stumbles back. "Don't fucking barge in on me again. This ain’t for you to see."

"I-I'm sorry, 'min-hyung." Jungkook slurs his words past comprehension. "C-Call me wh-when yuh wha-wanna split."

Jimin folds his arms. Tucks balled fists inside. "Yeah, now go."

Unfortunately for Jungkook, the gang-leader catches that last, errant look at your naked breasts. And for that he is rewarded with another swift kick; to his retreating backside, this time. Though you can't see him behind the door, you hear the impact of his fall to all-fours and grimace. Jimin's line of sight tracks low. Jungkook must be crawling away. "Go and sober up, you stupid piece of shit. We're going soon."

The door slots back into its frame. Jimin lingers there a little longer than necessary, his head bowed to the panelling. "Uh." Again, he's different. Transformed. Someone more timid stands in Jimin's place. Ruffles the back of his well-tousled hair. "Sorry. He's a dipshit."

"It's okay," you laugh. You have to, because the entire scenario is astounding. "You didn't have to kick him, though. Twice."

Arms criss-crossing his chest, Jimin watches as you wipe away his residue. For some reason, you’re more self-conscious now than when he put it there. "He deserved it. He's an idiot. Idiots don't learn unless you kick them in the ass. I didn't kick him in the balls, at least. And for that, he should be thanking me."

Clearly, your views on appropriate punishment diverge. Jimin inhabits a different world to yours. It's unnerving. And a little exciting, even though it shouldn’t be. "I'll defer to your judgment in his case." Your straps come up and over your shoulders. On inspection, suspicious white stains dot your dress despite your attempts to prevent that. Hopefully everyone is so smashed by this point that they can’t distinguish it from any of their other surroundings. "Okay, I'm gonna go. My dorm's just across from this one."

"I'll walk you. It's not safe." There's a certainty to Jimin's words that speaks of his experience. Ironically, it's probably safer out there while he's tied up in here. "Lots of scumbags out there that will target girls who are alone."

Fully covered, now, you clutch your purse in front of the worst of the splattering. You want to say something, so you do. You feel like you've earned it. "Not you?"

So self-assured, Jimin is. For a moment, though, he isn't. His smile flickers. "Never. I'm not about that. And I'll thrash anyone who is."

The answer pleases you. Diminishes his other activities somewhat. Somewhat. Just enough that you can go home and fuck yourself into a guiltless coma. "Okay. Well, it was fun. Don't worry about walking me. It's literally just across from here and there are still people around. I gotta find my friend first, anyway.”

Another shrug. Then, with the same nonchalance, he offers up his phone to you. "'Kay."

Eyes on him rather than the device, you take it from him. "What's this?" The screen displays a newly created contact. The phone number is blank. The contact name, though?

Litterbug.

It's hard to scoff at it when you love it so much. "What the hell? That's me?"

"Yeah. Gimme your number?" Jimin grins, brazen-faced. The temptation to kiss him is almost insurmountable. "I wanna see you again, litterbug."

You smile, too. Until you don't. "I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea. I didn't plan on anything past this."

If Jimin's shaken by the snub, he hides it masterfully. His smile isn't quite so burnished, though. "Neither did I, but then this happened, and I want it to happen again, ____. Let me show you just what I can do for you."

God, it's tempting. A bite of that apple is worth being cast from Eden. But your heart is weak and liable to entwine far too easily. And he's not the type of man that should occupy space outside of your depraved fantasies. "How many girls with cute pseudonyms do you have on there?" you deflect, knowing well the answer. Hearing it might temper your hopes somewhat.

"I don't give out my actual number to anyone." Jimin doesn't miss a beat of breath. "Only those that matter to me. Or might do," he adds, quieter, losing his bullishness altogether. "But, do what you want." His palm lays flat in expectation of receiving his phone back empty, but you hesitate. Look down at the vacant space. You could fill that.

You want to.

"Okay, there I am." With a flourish of thumbs and a final tap, your name is input and the contract sealed.

The Devil smiles. "Cool." His fingers linger on yours when you return the device. They're soft like charmeuse, and just as expensive. Because this will cost you everything, you're sure. "Can I see you tomorrow? So you can explain to me exactly what it is you just did to my ass?"

Tomorrow? Jimin’s keen. And you’re smiling again. “Sure. I’ll give you a practical demonstration.”

#park jimin #jimin #jimin smut #park jimin smut #jimin scenarios #park jimin scenarios #bts smut #bts scenarios #the devil in his details

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dreamcatcherfication · 4 years

Text

We Were Only Enemies Before We Truly Met

Anon asked: Could you please do a fic of the queens now a days where Anne has a panic attack (it doesn’t have to be that bad if u don’t want it to be) and maybe one of the queens helping? U can decide where!

Hopefully this is what you wanted anon, and I hope y’all enjoy. Asks are always open, and comments are gladly accepted. Apologies for any spelling/grammatical errors. Also, yes, this is a Halloween fic written in the middle of March, I figured we could all use a little spoopy holiday spirit.

Writing Masterpost

Trigger Warnings: Panic attack, bad Halloween costumes, one (1) rabid Kat.

Anne Boleyn did not like to appear weak or helpless, and that was something she had lived by in both this life and her past life. She was known for making jokes about her beheading with the other queens, and she never let any of history’s words deter her from being herself. Anne Boleyn was strong and smart and brave. But she was also human.

It started out simple enough, Anne had gone out to get another pair of heelys after her last pair broke, walking out on some of the more empty streets. She had a light skip in her step as her eyes shined at the prospect of being returned to her gold chariot of turning wheels. It wasn’t quite evening yet, but the sun had started to set and pedestrians started to thin out as they headed home to their families. It was Halloween time and the majority of people she passed were carrying bags of store bought candy, occasionally followed by a whining child begging for sugar. Anne had texted the others where she was going (at least she hoped so, her mind was off on Cloud 9 imagining being reunited with her heelys again), but otherwise she was practically all alone.

Turning the corner of a particularly long street, Anne came up next to an alleyway by a Halloween shop. It was one of those single dollar type stores that popped up for a month and then disappeared, it’s flickering sign more spooky than the actual decorations. Moving past the Halloween shop, Anne suddenly jerked back in surprise when a bloodcurdling scream came from the alley, followed by the sound effect of something being sliced. Someone came stumbling out of the dark corner and when Anne could finally make them out, she had to choke back a scream of terror in her throat. The person was holding their bloody head in their hands, the neck a severed prop above them. The hands holding the head and the neck were obviously cheap plastic, and the paint posing as blood was chipping, but the damage had already been done.

All air had left Anne’s throat as she stared at the costumed person. They had started laughing after seeing Anne’s shock, but the voice faded out in a blur of white noise as Anne’s chest started to clench. Forcibly pulled back in time, Anne could almost feel the executioner’s blade on her neck, burning away at her skin. Grabbing her neck in pain, Anne started to claw at her choker. Vaguely, she could see her aggressor grow concerned and take a step forward, and that was all Anne needed to regain her senses. Instantly hyper aware of everything around her, Anne took off in a sprint, her body taking over her mind.

As she ran, her surroundings morphed into memories that (no matter how fast she tried) she couldn’t outrun. She saw young Elizabeth asking for her, she saw Henry ordering her execution, she saw the crowds of people cheering for her death. It was a miracle her body was getting enough oxygen to function, much less run from the Halloween shop back to the queen’s house. But the next thing she knew, Anne was ripping open the front door and bolting up to the attic, locking the door behind her. Collapsing onto the floor, Anne curled into a ball as her muscles tensed and spasmed. She barely heard the surprised voices of the other queens over her panic, and they faded into a dull roar.

Every breath was painful, as if it went in her mouth and out her neck, never reaching her lungs. She was stuck in the final moment of her death, her scar burning with the most unimaginable pain. So many reminders of the trauma she had endured came boiling to the forefront of her mind, trampling any positive thoughts that may have been able to soothe her.

“Anne? Anne, can you hear me?” It was undoubtedly one of the queens, but in Anne’s state of panic, she couldn’t identify the voice. “Anne, please open the door so I can help you.”

It took a moment for Anne’s mind to process the request, and then another for her to get her body to respond. With shaky movements, Anne’s hand moved up to the door knob and pulled on it weakly, just enough so that the door would open a sliver. Without a second of hesitation, in stepped Catherine of Aragon, a concerned look upon her face. “Anne…” but she trailed off, unsure of what to say to the distressed queen before her. Quickly making a decision, Aragon got down on her knees and pulled Anne into a hug. At first Anne resisted, pushing at the arms, but eventually she relaxed into them and allowed herself to be held.

“Breathe with me,” Aragon said quietly. With her mind in a haze, Anne could only instinctually do as Aragon asked, copying the rising and falling of the other woman’s chest. They stayed like that for a while, both silently breathing and letting the tension of the room dissipate slowly.

As she came back to her senses, Anne couldn’t help but feel ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she told Aragon.

Furrowing her eyebrows, the Spanish princess asked, “What for? It’s okay to have troubles.”

“No it’s not,” Anne shot back. “I’m Anne Boleyn, the jokester. I’m not weak. I can’t be weak.”

Rubbing her hand up and down Anne’s arm in an attempt to be soothing, Aragon struggled to find the right words. For so long she had resented Anne, but seeing her like this made it impossible for Aragon to hold onto her negative feelings. Anne was just as hurt as she was, likely more, and in all honesty, Aragon couldn’t bring herself to hate Anne like she had in the past. “Having emotions is not weak. We all have our traumas. Do you think Kat or Jane are weak?”

“No.”

Smiling, Aragon explained, “And neither are you, Anne Boleyn. Everybody has emotions and you don’t have to suppress them all the time.”

Shrugging, the beheaded queen stood up and moved across the room to her bed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. “I shouldn’t have freaked out the way I did. It was only some kid playing a joke.”

Aragon stood up as well, but she didn’t step forward. “What did they do?”

“They jumped out at me wearing a cheap Halloween costume. Fake blood and a severed head. I panicked and I -” much to Anne’s frustration, she choked up once again. Thinking back to it sent fear that she couldn’t control through her entire body.

“A costume in poor taste I’m sure,” Aragon grumbled. “Anne, please don’t blame yourself for panicking. I mean, remember when Kat nearly punched Anna in the face when she -”

“When she brought that giant dog home without warning. Kat was freaked, but then she refused to let the poor thing go,” Anne smiled fondly at the memory.

“Even the smallest of things can trigger bad memories.” Aragon’s eyes were hopeful, praying that she had gotten through to Anne.

There was a moment of silence as Anne contemplated Aragon’s words. She let her eyes slowly wander upwards until she and Aragon were making eye contact. The Spanish princess’s eyes were nothing if not welcoming, a sight Anne wasn’t expecting. “Why are you helping me of all people?”

Opening her mouth and then closing it, Aragon floundered for a proper answer. Migrating over to Anne’s bed, Aragon sighed and sat down next to the younger queen. “You know Anne… I never truly hated you as much as I thought I did. We’ve had a bad past but… we’ve been reincarnated for some reason, and to keep resenting you for something that happened so long ago is selfish. There’s no reason why I can’t help you, so I will. It might seem hard to believe, but I do care about your wellbeing Anne Boleyn.”

Her words were not what Anne expected to hear. Perhaps something like helping the beheaded queen because it would make her look better, not because she genuinely wanted to. Fiddling with her hands, Anne shyly offered, “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry what happened, happened. I didn’t mean for it all to get so out of hand.”

“The past is the past,” the Spanish princess said. “Right now, I’m here for you Anne. As long as you need me.”

In a moment of impulse, Anne launched herself into Aragon’s arms and hugged her tight. The older queen was surprised at first, but she sunk into the hug. “Thank you Catherine. Just… thank you.”

Aragon said nothing, but she held Anne tightly to her chest. “If anything like this ever happens again, I’m here for you Anne. We’re all here for you. We love you Anne.”

Pausing and pulling back from the hug, Aragon was met with Anne’s trademark mischievous smirk. There were still tear tracks on her face, but the familiar light had returned to Anne’s eyes. “You loooove me?”

Rolling her eyes, Aragon played along with the cheeky queen. “Now now, I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d get all full of yourself.”

Dramatically, Anne pretended to be hurt by Aragon’s words. “How you wound me, Princess Catalina. First a proclamation of love and now an insult to my worldly honor?!” Aragon lightly slapped Anne’s arm, causing the two of them to start giggling like children. Eyes going wide, Anne groaned in annoyance. “Dammit, I forgot my heelys!” She smacked her forehead and made an array of frustrated sounds. “Now I have to wait until tomorrow to get them back. What am I supposed to do without them? I can’t keep walking around like a peasant.”

Slowly, Anne turned her head towards Aragon, a curious glint in her eyes. “No Anne, I’m not going to carry you on my back until you can get your heelys.”

“But you do it with Kitty!” Anne complained.

“Yes, because she’s at least twenty pounds lighter than you and a teenager.” Grumbling good naturedly, Anne shot the older queen a fake glare. But soon enough a grin grew back on her face, revealing her true feelings. “Are you ready to head back down with the others?” Aragon asked with a small smile, a warm and inviting expression Anne would have never imagined seeing before today.

Nodding, the younger queen stood up from the bed. “If I don’t go down there now, who’s going to eat all the chocolates?”

“Anne that’s not what I said -”

“But it’s what I heard ~” Anne replied in a sing-song voice. First wiping the tear tracks from her face, the beheaded queen happily exited the room followed by Aragon. Anne made her way down the stairs, practically taking two at a time. Reaching the bottom of the steps she spread her arms and announced, “Boleyn has returned!”

This was immediately followed by a loud, “Annie!” from Kat across the room. Before she could even register it, Kat had slammed full force into Anne, knocking her back until they were a heap on the floor. Aragon was staring at the cousins in utter shock whilst Jane looked concerned for their safety and Anna simply stifled a laugh.

Grinning broadly, Anne embraced her cousin as they lay on the floor together surrounded by the other queens. Cathy came into Anne’s line of sight, standing over her with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book under her arm. She quirked an eyebrow up and stated, “I guess it isn’t a family reunion without someone almost getting hurt. I’m glad you’re okay, Anne.”

All the Boleyn girl did in response was shoot Cathy a wink.

#six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfiction #six fanfic #anne boleyn #catherine of aragon #katherine howard #she's a minor character but #I should probably tag her still #panic attacks #anon ask #oh yeah i forgot to add #its Halloween #in the middle of March #whoops

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lavenderprose · 6 years

Note

Hello! I was wondering if you have anymore cisflip ficlets/headcanons in mind? Your writing is amazing and I still go back to read Firebird all the time!

AHH! I’m glad you like it so much!

Here’s part of something that might become bigger or might stand alone, the working title of which is “U-Haul: Moving Made Gayer”

In another world, in another time, Yuri Katsukiperhaps would have had a very different reaction to Viktoria Nikiforovastanding in front of her bedroom door, asking to have a sleepover. Viktoria isthe twenty-seven-year-old reigning figure skating champion for half a decade andshe’s wearing a designer camisole over a pair of silk sleeping shorts, but she’salso wearing poodle slippers that Yuuri is pretty sure you can buy online fortwelve dollars. Her make-up is gone and her face has lost some of its angles,some of its allure, but she smells like vanilla and there is a faint sheen ofwhat must be lipbalm on her mouth. She is a grown woman, graceful and refined,but there is something childlike about her standing there, clutching her pillowwith Makkachin at her feet.

Yuri Katsuki might have turned her down,because she’s intimidating. She represents everything Yuri wants to be andmight not ever achieve.

But Yuri is also a woman who loves woman, andshe loves Viktoria—she has for halfher life—and something about Viktoria, underneath that charm and lipstick andheight, feels a little broken. Feels a little bit like it needs the kind of careand reassurance that can only come from another woman, even just a friend.Perhaps especially a friend.

So she looks Viktoria up and down for amoment, from hair in a French plait against the side of her head to the eyes ofthe poodle slippers, then opens the door to her room.

“Alright,” she whispers then, standing back tolet Viktoria come in. She’s still a little nervous about this whole thing, andmaybe a little afraid of Viktoria in a way. But there is a fullness in herheart that can only be happiness, andshe knows herself well enough to understand that she wants Viktoria close to her.“It’s not very big, but—”

“That’s alright!” Viktoria, almostpathologically cheerful, slips past Yuri in a furtive movement like she’safraid Yuri will change her mind and slam the door in her face instead. Once inside,she drops her pillow onto the floor and sits down, folding her legs underherself and plopping onto the floor in one seamless movement. She glances aroundat the freshly-bare walls. The room feels at once bigger and smaller with theabsence of the posters now living underneath Yuri’s bed.

“You’re not going to sleep on the floor,”says Yuri, whose mother would personally set her adrift in the Sea of Japan ifshe thought Yuri was letting guests sleep on the floor. “I’ll get you a futon.Or you can sleep on my bed—”

“Alright,” Viktoria agrees, slightly tooeasily, and hurls her pillow atop the mattress.

“Okay,” Yuri says, nodding to herself. “Alright,good, I’m gonna—” she makes to open the door, but she grabs for the handleblind because Viktoria is rising now, more or less the same way she sat down,all of her limbs unfolding at once. Yuri’s fingers brush the doorjamb and notmuch else.

“Where are you going?” Viktoria asks,settling herself on the edge of Yuuri’s bed. Her legs are so long. She crossesthem and the toes of her upper leg almost brush the hardwood. It’s an elegantmovement that makes Yuri want to physically erupt.

“To get a futon,” says Yuri, gesturing ineffectuallyat the floor.

“For me?”

“For me,”says Yuri, still pawing around for the door handle. It has, apparently,migrated from the spot it has been occupying for twenty-three years, and Yurican no longer find it. “So that I can sleep—on the—” Her tongue twists in onitself as she watches Viktoria lay down lengthwise on her bed, feet curled up behindher thighs. She’s settled her pillow and head at the opposite end of the bed fromwhere Yuri typically does. “Fluh. Flurr. Floor.”

“Why?” Viktoria asks. “We can share your bed,right? I don’t want to kick you out.” She reaches out and Yuri, for some reasonunknown even to herself, steps away from the door and gives Viktoria her hand. Herfingers are long and slim, strong, and they tighten around Yuuri’s palm andpull her down until she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, settled in the regionof Viktoria’s hips. Viktoria Nikiforova is in her bed smelling like vanilla anddesigner fragrance, and Yuuri is wearing a T-shirt she stole from Phichit and apair of Pikachu pajama pants someone gave her in middle school, and a very oldpair of black cotton panties. She hasn’t washed her hair in three days.

This is not how she thought this would go inthose fantasies.

There’s also a dog here. Yuri isn’t surewhere dogs figured in. She always figured there would be one, but probably not watching.

“Are you sure?” Yuri asks, feeling condescendingand needy all at once. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable—”

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” Viktoriaseems to genuinely not understand Yuri’s concern, and Yuri thinks it must be a languagebarrier thing, or perhaps a culture clash thing, but even with being aware of itshe isn’t sure how to explain that, usually, two people who have just met don’tshare a tiny single bed unless under the most dire of circumstances.

Not that Yuri hasn’t had fantasies that involvethose circumstances, of course.

There’sa scheduling mistake at the Olympics and Viktoria Nikiforova and I have toshare a single bed in the Olympic village. Oops! Viktoria Nikiforova has broughtonly lingerie to wear. Viktoria Nikiforova braids my hair and I eat her out.

ViktoriaNikiforova and I somehow-it’s-not-important are trapped in a mountain cabinwhere there is only one bed and we must cuddle to conserve warmth! ViktoriaNikiforova braids my hair and I eat her out.

ViktoriaNikiforova and I are passengers on one of those old-timey sleeper cars going fromone side of Russia to the other SHUT UP PHICHIT IT’S A FANTASY and we have toshare one of those combination seat-and-bed things and by the time we get offthe train in Vladivostok, Viktoria Nikiforova has asked me to run away withher. Also, Viktoria Nikiforova braids my hair and I eat her out.

“Because you’re used to sleeping alone?” Yuriventures, and knows even as it’s exiting her mouth that she is fucking up. Assumingthat Viktoria usually sleeps alone, not to mention that even if she does it’s probably not something shewants to be reminded of, is so deeplyfucking tone-deaf that Yuuri briefly thinks she’s going to die right then andthere and some coroner is going to have to put foot obstructed airway leading to suffocation on her death certificate.

Viktoria, though, snorts delicately out ofher nose, leans her chin on hear hand and through a pout says, “That’s nottrue. Makkachin sleeps with me every night.”

Summoned by his name, Makkachin hops onto thebed and curls up behind Viktoria’s knees, where he is much too large to fit.His entire tail and one of his legs is draped across Viktoria’s belly. The bedcreaks alarmingly. It’s as old as Yuri and has never been expected to bear thiskind of weight.

“Oh, of course,” Yuri responds, and hearsherself saying it as though from a distance. Why can’t I be you, she’s busy asking Makkachin in her head, as shewatches him nose underneath Viktoria’s shirt and settle his head on her naval.

Then Viktoria reaches out to wrap a strand ofYuri’s hair around her finger, and Yuri can’t quite bring herself to think anything except some vague, amorphousscream in the back of her head.

“Can I braid your hair?”

Somehow, through sheer and unadulteratedpower of will, Yuri keeps herself from screeching. Instead, she stands up andbows deeply, mostly because she’s forsaken all motor control to the panicrising up within her but also because she feels like she should be thankingsomething, anything, for what is happening to her on this night.

“Yes, of course!” she says, too loudly. “I’llgo get my hairbrush!”

In the bathroom, she crouches down next tothe sink and shrieks into her own knees.

Viktoria does Yuri’s hair up into two tightplaits that each run down one side of her hair and onto her shoulders, thenfalls asleep clutching her pillow in one arm and Makkachin in the other. They don’ttalk very much, because braiding hair apparently takes a great deal of concentration,but Viktoria tells Yuri that she’s happy to be able to braid someone’s hairagain, because her only friend with long hair recently cut it, and her own hairis too short for it to be really satisfying to braid. She also, slow andcareful as she’s tying off the second of the two braids, admits that she doesn’thave a lot of female companionship.

“The other girls are all much younger,” Viktoriatells her, through the pink hairtie in her mouth. “Or have retired, and goneoff to get married and start families. It’s been a long time since I’ve had agirlfriend.”

Yuri doesn’t know what definition of the termgirlfriend Viktoria is using there.She isn’t sure it matters.

What does matter is that, as she’s fallingasleep, Viktoria stirs at the other side of the bed and touches Yuri’s leg.

“Yuri?” Viktoria murmurs.

“Huh?” Yuri asks, feigning drowsiness but infact startlingly, poignantly awake.

“Can we—do you—” Her hand tightens on Yuri’sankle. “Could we cuddle?”

Yuri sits up and looks at Viktoria, who lookschildlike again sitting amongst the flower-patterned sheets on Yuri’s childhoodbed, clutching her dog and a pillow, eyes huge as they try to suck up any lightin the dark room. For a moment, she isn’t five-time-champion ViktoriaNikiforova or even Yuri’s-longtime-crush Viktoria Nikiforova. She is a womanwho needs the love and reassurance that can only come from another woman.

“Yes,” Yuri says, patting the mattress besideherself. “We can cuddle.”

It’s a tight fit, with Yuri clinging to theedge of the mattress and Viktoria smooshed against the wall. The one who getsthe most area is probably Makkachin, sprawls out on his back and refuses to bemoved.

“He’s spoiled,” Viktoria chuckles, pattingthe curls on his belly. “We have such a big bed at home.”

Doyou want someone to share it with, Yuri doesn’tsay.

In the morning, Yuri tells Phichit that sheslept with Viktoria Nikiforova, and Phichit doesn’t even do her the decency of lookingsurprised.

“I mean, not slept with,” Yuri says quickly, overcorrecting because she thinksmaybe Phichit has gone catatonic with that announcement.

“Oh,” he says, now sounding disappointed of all the damned things. “Well,I guess I didn’t expect it to happen thatquickly.”

“Thatquickly?” Yuri demands. “What do you mean, thatquickly.”

“Yuri,” Phichit sighs, and Yuri sees him leanhis head on his hand. “I love you very much. But I know you as a person.”

“Are you saying I’m easy?”

“No, and I’m insulted that you would thinkthat’s what I was saying.” Phichit frowns at her, betrayed. “I’m just worriedabout you, is all, because I know how you feel about her and I’m worried about—aboutwhat that might make you do.”

Yuri thinks about denying it, but Phichit hasknown her for five very formative years of her life.

“I’m not saying it’s bad,” Phichit assuresher, waving a hand. “I’m not, I promise.I think it’s great. And Viktoria Nikiforova might be the kind of person whoneeds someone to love them like that. But I don’t know her, or what she mightdo to your heart.”

“I’ll be careful,” Yuri says, completelyunsure if it’s a promise she can keep—or, in fact, one that she hasn’t alreadybroken.

Phichit makes a face like there’s a lot he wantsto say to that, but in the end he just says, “Alright.”

#Maggie's Fic #Yuri on Ice #Victuuri #cisflip #Viktor Nikiforov #Yuuri Katsuki #Anonymous

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sunnybimbo · 6 years

Text

!! Happy birthday Rey!!!! @narwhalsarefalling

I wrote this for u and i hope u like it

Galra!Hunk where Hunk freaks out and Keith surprisingly isn’t freaking out that much at all?

/dab/ its also for u on ao3 too

Keith heaved a heavy yawn, and a pair of fuzzy ears tickled under his nose. He snuffed, laying his hand atop Hunk’s head as he blinked the remaining wisps of sleep from his eyes.

The bed was hard under his legs and he grumbled under his breath— until he remembered that the two of them were snuggled up in the Red Lion, instead of in a comfortable, soft bed.

A thin, thermal blanket was cuddled around them, thankfully big enough to fit both at the same time. Hunk was curled around his side, out like a light and snoring like a lawnmower. His face was firmly pressed in the crook of Keith’s neck, and he wasn’t sure if it was slobber or sweat that he was feeling soak into his undersuit.

Keith squinted his eyes in the dark, faintly making out the messages that popped up on Red’s dashboard. She was quiet in the back of his mind, probably just as tired as Hunk and Keith were. They’d been in empty space for nearly two days, but they couldn’t come back until they found a cure for Hunk.

Keith passed his hand across Hunk’s ears again. The fuzzy ones atop his head, that were large and hung so heavy that they swooped low enough to brush across his shoulders if he wanted to.

None of them could figure out how, but… something had happened, and Hunk had been injected with druid magic. And then he transformed into this.

Purple and Galra and more than a little freaked out.

A mission was promptly sorted to find out all they could about what had happened, and they were heading towards an old Galra outpost to meet up with the Blade of Marmora, to figure out what had happened to Hunk. If he could actually be cured.

Keith sighed heavily, knocking his head back against the wall. It hurt more than he’d expected, and his helmet rolled against his knee as if chiding him for not wearing it at all times.

On the surface, he was confused as to why it was him that Hunk chose to go with him on such an important mission to him personally, but on another level— deeper than his mind allowed him to consciously think about— he knew it was because of the quiet moments they shared like this. The trust they shared may not be obvious to most but was still a tangible dependence between the two paladins.

Keith slid from beneath Hunk, allowing him to flop onto his side against the floor. The blanket was tucked around his shoulders, flush against his neck, and Keith allowed himself to pause and drift his fingers to untangle tufts of fur from Hunk’s cheeks.

Red began to prod insistently at the back of his mind, breaking him out of his lovesick revelry, and he pulled back with only a little bit of regret.

He had a job to do.

——————

Keith could remember vividly what had happened when Hunk had transformed into a Galra. They were getting ready for bed. Keith was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, and Hunk was changing into his Altean-brand pajamas when he shrieked from the bedroom. Keith had nearly choked on his toothbrush in his rush to see what had happened, to fight off a hidden assassin in the shadows— hell, even to kill whatever space bugs Hunk seemed deathly afraid of finding in the forgotten corners of the castle.

Instead, he saw Hunk tangled in his nightshirt, with a quickly spreading purple clawing across his belly and up to his chest until it disappeared behind the fabric caught on his shoulders.

Hunk had whirled around, and one of his eyes was midway through its transformation from beautiful brown to frightened yellow. “Keith.”

And he had sounded so terrified.

Keith leaned back in his seat, running his hands along the smooth armrests. Red purred, as if she were curled up in his lap and receiving the petting physically instead of mentally.

That expression burned itself in his retinas, and his heart still stopped when he closed his eyes and saw it again.

Keith glanced back over his shoulder, but Hunk was still a comfortably crumpled pile of thermal fabric and paladin underarmor.

They were a few minutes away from the meetup point, maybe ten or twenty given that he had to find the base once they arrived in its general vicinity. But that was just ten or twenty minutes of him sitting there with a restless feeling in his chest and Hunk’s shallow breathing in the background.

That last part wasn’t worrying at all, since Hunk had explained to him (after Keith had frantically shaken him awake in the middle of a night once, terrified that he was about to keel over in his sleep) that he had mild sleep apnea. He’d been so tired that he’d stumbled over his words so much he had to restart over and over again, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand. He’d apologized for scaring Keith and pressed a sloppy, wet kiss against his forehead before he collapsed back on the bed, on his side this time, and passed out again.

Keith vaguely remembered cuddling up to him not a few minutes after, burying his face against Hunk’s chest and holding him tight. But that honestly could have been any other night since then, he’d done it so much. He liked the way Hunk felt in his hold: soft and firm and real— and all for him.

Keith always did feel a little selfish being able to steal Hunk’s hugs all for his own in the middle of the night, away from prying eyes and nosy Lances, but he wouldn’t give them up for the world. And a little fur and big, floppy ears wouldn’t make him give them up, either. Even if they became a permanent fixture to Hunk’s person.

———

The night before their excursion, after Hunk had calmed down to where he was no longer outwardly freaking out but rather in shock, the two of them sat in uncomfortable silence in their shared room. It was actually Keith’s room, but Hunk had migrated there after they started… ‘dating’? (They’d never put a label on it, now that Keith was thinking about it. Those were always his best relationships.)

Hunk was furled up on the opposite end, tense and shying away from Keith every time he so much as twitched in his direction.

He wasn’t wearing his pajama top, because the fabric caught on every single hair in its path, but he’d squeezed into the bottoms for decency’s sake.

And Keith wasn’t the best at words but… being the ‘resident Galra’ that he was, he couldn’t just let his… ‘significant other’ (and, more than that: his friend) sit there and feel bad about himself, right?

So, he slid closer, crowding into Hunk’s space, and leaned against his shoulder. He’d patted along Hunk’s leg until he found clawed fingers that tried to hide themselves between his thighs, and he tangled them together with his.

“We’re gonna get you fixed up, Hunk.” He promised.

Hunk sniffed wetly at that, and a startled laugh nearly jarred Keith from his shoulder. When Keith glanced up, though, he couldn’t see any tears. He wasn’t sure if that was because they’d gotten soaked into the floor or not, but Hunk was probably crying on the inside nonetheless.

“It’s scary, Keith.” He had admitted. Then, softer, “I’m sorry for poking fun. When we found out you were Galra.”

Keith rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “It’s so unfair that you turned purple before I did.” He teased, pulling Hunk close and plummeting backwards against the mattress, pulling him down with him.

Hunk had smiled, then. Shiny, sharp teeth and all, and Keith knew he did something right, atleast.

—————

Hunk woke up five minutes later, and had crawled over to Keith to offer him a water pouch. Keith had been so deep in thought that Hunk had to poke him in the mouth with the straw, as if he were a baby.

He definitely did not pout at the treatment.

“Are we almost there?” Hunk asked around his drink, and he sounded as tired as he looked.

“Almost.”

Hunk huffed through his nose, and began to stretch knots out of his back. “They really need to add side-seats to these Lions.”

“‘They’.” Keith repeated, and the two snorted out a laugh. Who knows? Maybe with enough fiddling with his bayard, Red would sprout an entire four-seater in her cockpit.

They fell in a comfortable silence, with Hunk prodding around Red’s cockpit and Keith focusing on the destination. He needed to focus or he’d probably go insane just waiting.

They arrived soon, though. In between one star system and the next, in a forgotten part of space that surely would have been full of dust bunnies if dust bunnies could survive in space.

“How are you doing?” Keith asked, out of the blue.

Hunk looked startled. “Uh… good, how are you?”

They stared at one another, confusion swirling around the two until Keith shook his head. “No, I mean… How are you holding up?” An amused smile grew across his lips, and Hunk smacked himself on the forehead.

“Oh— I was wondering why you… nevermind. I’m… good.” He finished lamely.

Keith heaved a fond sigh and turned back to focus on landing Red on the fragile meteor. It’s outer shell was deteriorated, and he had to be careful unless he wanted them to fall straight through and destroy whatever evidence they’d find on the abandoned outpost.

“We’re gonna get you through this, big guy.” Keith said, and Hunk took a step closer behind his seat. “No matter what.”

Hunk laughed humorlessly. “You make it sound like we’ll never come back from this mission.” He clutched his stomach with one hand, as if that thought had soured his gut. “I’m just scared of how my moms will react if I have to go back like this.”

Keith chanced looked at him, and Hunk looked downright miserable. And Keith was only just now realizing that the reason why he looked so different wasn’t because of the purple, but because he’d forgone his signature headband. It was such an integral part of his look, but Keith could figure why he didn’t feel up to wearing it.

Red landed without a hitch, and Keith turned to face him fully. “Your moms love you, Hunk. They’ll just be happy that you came back safe and sound.”

“I think coming back with fur means I’m not exactly ‘sound’.” Hunk said, but a smile played at his lips. “But I guess you’re right.”

The two began to dress in their armor as Keith ran the right protocols and hacked into the right systems in order to get in touch with the small band of Marmora agents Kolivan had scrounged up for them on such short notice.

Hunk had trouble getting his ears in the helmet again, and Keith had to sit him down to tie them back atop his head with the headband he had stuffed in a corner of the ship. It was crumbled and wrinkled, but the material was still as soft as ever as Keith ran his thumb across the stitches. He tied up the floppy ears comfortably, and even pressed a kiss against the crown of Hunk’s head before he helped him fit the helmet on over them.

They both may have flushed a bit red at that.

Red opened her mouth and let down the ramp with a faint purr in the back of his mind; words of encouragement to his mission and a promise to cut through the entire base to get to him, if need be. As she always did.

He offered his hand to help Hunk down the ramp completely, but mostly just to hold his hand. He’d promised he was going to fix this, and that’s what they were there to do. If that meant that they came up with nothing on their excursion, he’d still fight tooth and nail to make Hunk not miserable anymore. Whatever it takes.

Hunk smiled at him, nervous and bright all at once, and Keith nudged him with his elbow as they walked towards the meetup. He’d never brought it up before, but he loved Hunk. Maybe after this was all over, he’d have to say it with words.

“Hey, so… does this make me a furry?” Hunk asked, and Keith almost pulled off his helmet to pinch the bridge of his nose. Whatever it takes.

“Or does that make you the furry, for kissing me and stuff?”

Keith prayed that they found a cure soon.

#heith #galra!hunk #narwhalsarefalling #HAPPY BIRTHDAY REY #voltron #jam writes #whew sorry this is a little late #i meant to finish it last night and passed tf out bc i took some medicine #BUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABE #LOVE YA LOTS HOPE YOU EAT A LOT OF CAKE AND CANDY AND #YEET YOURSELF STRAIGHT INTO THE SUN LIKE YOU ALWAYS DREAMED

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